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The Strand Magazine.

Vol. xviii.

JULY, 1899.

No. 103.

Stories of the Sanctuary Club.

I 3 y L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace. Told by Paul Cato.

INTRODUCTION.

AM a man of day-dreams, and
a doctor by profession. It was
my lot when about forty years
of age to inherit a large fortune,
and I immediately set to work
putting a design which had
long occupied my mind into execution. I
resolved to leave the thorny and struggling
path, where I had often felt myself in my
brother practitioners’ way, and, buying a large
site of ground in the vicinity of Hampstead,
proceeded to build upon it a goodly mansion.

When the house was completed and the
grounds laid out to the best advantage I took
possession, and now unfolded my scheme to
a brother doctor whom I had long respected
and loved. He and I agreed to go into
partnership, and, with the aid of some of our
younger brothers of the medical profession, to
open what we were pleased to call the Sanc¬
tuary Club. This was in the spring of 1890.

The rules of the club were as follows : It
was to be opened to men and women of all
ages and classes who chose to fulfil the
necessary conditions. These were an en¬
trance fee of ^50, a yearly subscription of
;£io, and the still more important fact that
the person, man or woman, who intended to
become a member, was the victim of disease
in one of its many forms. The primary object
of the club was to cure maladies that were
in any way curable without sending the
patients from England.

This great institution, of which I had
dreamed so long, was for the treatment of all
sorts of disease on a hitherto unattempted
scale. Here my friend Chetwynd and I
could put into execution the boldest and most
recent theories that other medical men, either
from lack of means or courage, could not
carry out. One of the chief features of the
place was to be a special department where
the latest and most up-to-date scientific
theories could be realized, one in especial

Vol. xviii.—1.

being an attempt at the production of
artificial climates.

I had often been struck by the pertinacity
with which my brother doctors had ordered
patients to seek health resorts, either at home
or abroad, when they were far too weak to
travel. Thus some patients were sent to the
sea, others to the neighbourhood of pine
forests, others to high altitudes in order to
enjoy the benefits of mountain air; others
again to warm, others to cold or dry, climates.
At the Sanctuary Club we had, by virtue of our
modern scientific knowledge, the means of
producing such conditions artificially. Heat,
cold, humidity, dryness, even barometric pres¬
sure, or any other required constituent of the
air, were mere matters of mechanical or
chemical detail. Mineral waters of the exact
composition of those at the springs of home
or Continental spas could be reproduced in
our laboratory. Every appliance that science
or art could suggest for the alleviation of
suffering humanity would be worked by an
efficient and well-qualified staff.

This had been my dream for years, and
now, with the aid of my friend Henry
Chetwynd, it was about to be realized. From
the first our scheme proved attractive to
those unfortunate members of the community
who, suffering as they were, were only too
keen to try a new thing. Our club opened
with a hundred members, and before a year
had expired we had nearly three hundred
resident patients in the house.

Those members of the Sanctuary Club
who only suffered from slight maladies could
come occasionally for consultation, and at
any time enjoy the benefit of our large reading
and refreshment rooms, and our carefully-
laid-out and luxurious grounds. But it was
the indoor members, those who lived under
our roof, who excited my keenest, strongest,
and most life-long interest.

Strange cases came to my knowledge,

4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

stories of the most thrilling and absorbing
interest fell to my lot to listen to and
sympathize with. There were cases, and
not a few, when it was my privilege and also
my bounden duty to act not only as doctor
but as personal friend. From time to time
my brother doctor and I had to face adven¬
tures the most thrilling and dangers of so
hair-breadth a character, that even now my
pulse quickens when I think of them.

The following stories relate some of our
most vivid experiences :—

I.

THE DEATH CHAIR.

ADY HELEN TREVOR was
one of the earliest members of
the club. She was a beautiful
and distinguished-looking young
woman of about thirty years of
age. She herself belonged to the noble
house of Hampton, but she had married a
commoner of apparently colossal wealth.
She was the Earl of Hampton’s only daughter,
but she had several brothers, and also two
children of her own. The good things
of life seemed to have fallen abundantly
to her share — beauty, riches, and the
devoted love of an excellent
husband—but nevertheless she
was a victim. She suffered
from an extraordinary kind
of nervousness, which, without
ever approaching the border¬
land of the insane, caused
her sleepless nights and days
of apprehension and misery.

When the first prospectus
of the Sanctuary Club reached
her, she eagerly availed herself
of this chance of cure, and
was speedily installed in the
most comfortable suite of
rooms in the house. Lady
Helen was too courteous and
kind-hearted to inflict her own
sufferings on others ; she was
full of tact and sympathy, and
soon became a vast favourite
in the house. She could sing
beautifully, could lead the
games, make dull people
bright and sad people merry,
and in particular attracted the
attention of another member
of the club, a certain Senor
Don Santos, who had also
come to the Sanctuary seeking
health and cure.

Don Santos lived in a large mansion called
Roe House in the neighbourhood of
Wimbledon Common, and was said to be not
only very rich, but was also known to possess
one of the finest private collections of art
treasures in England. Don Santos and Lady
Helen soon became great friends -they had
many tastes in common, and used to spend
hours talking about those gems of art, those
priceless possessions, which, handed down
from father to son, are the heirlooms of many
families.

Don Santos, however, had not the same
power of dissimulating his misery as Lady
Helen had—Chetwynd believed him to be
suffering from incipient insanity, and there
were times when his moody eye and fierce
and yet abstracted manner seemed abundantly
to carry out this suggestion.

“ I do not like the man,” said Chetwynd;
“he is either insane or he is a devil in¬
carnate. I wish Lady Helen were not so
friendly with him.”

“You have taken a prejudice, Chetwynd,”
I said, looking at my friend.

Chetwynd gave me one of his quick
glances. His was a curious personality, and
it is impossible to continue these stories

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

5

without saying a few words about him. He
was a little man, with a slightly deformed
body, a plain face, and large head. But he
had that sparkle and depth of meaning in
his clear, golden brown eyes which often
seem to be an accompaniment of physical
deformity. It was in his power to express
volumes by a single glance, and I often
observed that he had more power over his
patients than I ever hoped to possess. He
was a man of few words, but his devotion to
duty was unflinching and his indifference
to danger almost stoical. There was little
doubt that he was deeply imbued with the
principles of some fine philosophy or faith.
Also beneath his sphinx-like gravity there
lurked a vein of rich humour, which made
him, when he chose to exert himself, the
best of companions.

Now, as he spoke of Don Santos he rose
and paced up and down his room.

“ I am sorry that the man has taken a
liking to Lady Helen Trevor,” he said, “ but
I am still more disturbed at his friendship
for my own special protege, John Ingram.”

“ Ah ! you are devoted to Ingram ; you
almost spoil the lad,” I could not help saying.

“No one could spoil one so simple-
minded,” answered my brother physician;
“ he is one of the best fellows I know, and
his devotion to his mother is beyond all
praise.”

“ What of his health ? ” I said.

“ He is deriving benefit from our treat¬
ment,” said Chetwynd, in a cheerful voice.
“The paroxysms of neuralgic agony are
much less frequent than of old—he will
quite recover if he stays here long enough.”

“ By the way,” I said, after a moment’s
pause, “ you paid his entrance fee here, did
you not ? ”

“ What if I did ? ” was the somewhat
vague answer.

Just then the step of a patient was heard
in the corridor, and I could not pursue the
subject further.

That evening Lady Helen Trevor and
Senor Don Santos had an eager conversation
over an old casket, called the Catalini Casket,
which had been for years in the Hampton
family, and which Don Santos honestly said
he would give the world to possess. Ingram
joined in the talk, and I also was interested
by the lady’s description of the matchless
casket, made of an enormous onyx stone,
and richly incrusted with diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, and emeralds.

A few days later these three members of
the club took their departure, all sounding

its praises and promising to visit it again.
Lady Helen returned to her husband and
children; Senor Don Santos to resume the
control of his magnificent museum ; and
John Ingram, who was a commission agent
in the City, to his usual employment.

The Sanctuary Club was opened in the
early spring of 1890, and it was in the late
autumn of that same year that I next saw
Ingram. One afternoon, between five and
six o’clock, he burst unceremoniously into
my consulting-room.

“ You must forgive me,” he cried. “ Chet¬
wynd is out, or I would have seen him, but
I cannot rest until I confide in someone,
and you will tell Chetwynd, I know. The
most splendid luck has fallen in my way.
I can scarcely believe in my own good
fortune.”

“ Sit down, Ingram,” I said. “ Why, how
excited you look ; what can have happened ? ”

“ You know that we are poor, Dr. Cato,
and that but for Chetwynd’s generosity I
could never have afforded to join the club.
What don’t I owe to the Sanctuary Club—
not only my recovery to health, but also the
acquaintanceship of” — he hesitated and
dropped his voice—“ of those who will make
my fortune. But there, I am under a
promise not to mention names. Chetwynd
may have told you how my mother looks to
me for support—it is one of my day-dreams
to have her to live with me. Well, I am in
a fair way to have that day-dream realized.
I am just about to receive a commission—
5 per cent, on ^7,000. That means ^350,
all earned in one day. Think of that for a
novice ! ”

“ But how have you done it ? ” I asked.

“Ah ! that I cannot explain—I am bound
to secrecy, but what I tell you is true. I will
call again to-morrow, and if you like, will
show' you the cheque. Yes, I am a made
man, for other commissions will doubtless
follow from the same source. But I cannot
stay another instant. Tell Chetwynd, and
wish me luck, Dr. Cato.”

I did so heartily—I liked the bright-eyed,
happy-looking young fellow, and could not
but rejoice in his unlooked-for prosperity.
When Chetwynd returned I mentioned
Ingram’s visit. To my astonishment the
little doctor looked grave and disturbed.

“ I wish I had been at home,” he said.
“I don’t like this a bit. Of course, it
means-”

“ What ? ” I interrupted.

“ The Spaniard has a finger in this pie—I
don’t like it, Cato.”

6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“Now, what do you mean ? ” I asked.

“ Sehor Don* Santos was far too friendly
with Ingram when they were both here. I
distrust the man thoroughly. There is no
doubt that on some points he is insane—he
is also unscrupulous, and to attain his ends
would stop at nothing.”

“ Oh! you are over-suspicious,” was my
answer. “ There is no use in labelling any
man scoundrel until he has proved himself
one, and what the Spaniard has to do with
Ingram beats my comprehension.”

“ Why, Paul, are you blind ? Who else
would give Ingram a commission of that
magnitude ? Doubtless, when he left here,
he was going to Wimbledon. I don’t like it
at all; what is more, I have a good mind to
follow him.”

To this remark I made no reply. I knew
that in certain moods my friend Chetwynd
would brook no interference. If he chose
to follow Ingram on a wild-goose chase, it
was his own affair. I thought little more of
the circumstance during that evening, being
much engaged with some anxious cases.
Little did I guess the next news which was
to reach me. About ten o’clock the follow¬
ing morning Chetwynd burst into my room.

CHETWYND BURST INTO MY ROOM,"

His face was white, and his big, queer-looking
eyes were shining with a curious expression.
He spoke very quietly, however.

“ 1 was right in my conjectures,” he said,
and he dropped into a chair.

“ What do you mean ? ” 1 cried.

“ Ingram is dead.”

“What?” 1 answered, springing to my
feet.

“ Yes—he was found dead this morning on
Wimbledon Common. The following are the
details.” Chetwynd spoke in an almost
monotonous voice, but I knew with what an
effort he was keeping himself under control.

“ You remember my words of last night ?
When I went to bed I could not sleep.
Each moment I felt more fearful and uncom¬
fortable. Finally I resolved to go to
Wimbledon as soon as the day broke. I
cycled over, and went in the direction of the
Spaniard’s place, Roe House. When I got
within three hundred yards of the house I
saw a crowd collected. I went up to them.
They were clustered round John Ingram’s
dead body. The poor fellow had been
found by one of the rangers. He was lying
about three hundred yards from one of the
main roads, beside a clump of gorse bushes.

The man gave the
alarm, and the police,
when they arrived,
said that he must
have wandered or
been decoyed off the
road and murdered.
But the point which
astonishes and horri¬
fies everyone is the
merciless and brutal
character of the
murder. The assail¬
ant must have been
possessed of super¬
human strength, for
Ingram had evidently
been hurled to the
ground with the
utmost violence.
Indeed, his injuries
were so extensive
and his fractures so
numerous, that it
seems almost impos¬
sible that the murder
was the work of any
one human being.
Another strange thing
is that there are no
marks round the spot

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

7

to give evidence of a struggle. It is all most
horrible. I cannot understand it.”

“ Do you still hold to your queer opinions
with regard to Don Santos ? ” I asked, when I
could find my voice.

“ I do and I don’t. The whole thing is
inexplicable : unless he threw the poor fellow
from a balloon, I have not the slightest idea
how he killed him. Well, Ingram is dead
past recall. I pity his poor mother. I wish
to God I had gone to Wimbledon last night.”

I started up.

“ I will go to Wimbledon myself,” I said.
“ I cannot rest until I know more.”

Chetwynd said nothing to dissuade me—he
looked queer and unlike himself. I took the
next train to town, and arrived at the scene
of the murder in the course of the morn¬
ing. Poor Ingram’s body had been re¬
moved, in preparation for the coroner’s in¬
quest, to the nearest inn. I was admitted
to see him, and heard the opinions of
many experts who had been called in. One
and all denied that the murder was the work
of a human being, though they frankly
admitted that they could offer no suggestion
as an alternative argument. I personally
could give no information except a report of
Ingram’s last words to me on the previous
day. Suddenly it flashed through my mind
that I would call upon Senor Don Santos
and tell him the whole story. He had been
interested in Ingram. If Chetwynd’s surmise
was right, he had something to do with the
large commission which the poor fellow was
to earn. Roe Plouse was situated on the
edge of the Common. The house itself was
large and built in the modern style. It was
surrounded by private grounds, and there
were thick trees growing up almost to the
front door.

I rang the bell. It was answered immedi¬
ately by a demure-looking, elderly servant in
livery. In reply to my query he told me
that his master was within, and invited me to
enter. I was shown into a lofty dining-room
sumptuously furnished. I was in no mood,
however, to notice the antique oak and rare
vases of old Sevres and Chelsea porcelain
which decorated the walls. The Spaniard
entered. He held out his hand with a
pleasant greeting.

“ ft is kind of you to call, Dr. Cato,” he
said. “ I’m pleased to see you.”

“ I have come,” I answered, “ not only to
see you, senor, but to acquaint you with a
painful affair.”

“ What is that ? ” he asked.

“You remember Ingram—that nice young

fellow who you were so kind to when stay¬
ing at the Sanctuary in the spring ? ”

“ I remember him perfectly.”

“ I have just seen his dead body.”

Don Santos started, and his swarthy face
turned pale.

“ Ingram dead ? ” he cried, after a pause ;
“that accounts. But I am interrupting you,
Dr. Cato ; when and how did he die ? ”

“ He was found this morning three hundred
yards from your gate, injured almost past
recognition, dead, foully murdered.”

Don Santos was quite silent for a moment;
then he said, slowly :—

“And you have called here because you
thought this news would interest me ? ”

“ I called for a double reason,” I replied.
“ First, because your friendship for the poor
fellow entitled you to know of his death, and
partly because I hoped that you might be
able to throw light on a ghastly occurrence.”

“ I did not murder him, if that is what you
mean,” answered Don Santos.

“ If I thought that I should scarcely have
asked to see you,” was my reply.

He laughed.

“ My dear fellow, forgive an unseemly
joke. The fact, is, your news has unnerved
me. Unfortunately, I can throw what will
be a very lurid light on this affair. But tell
me first—have you seen Ingram lately?”

“ I saw him last evening. He came to
bring Chetwynd and myself an excellent
piece of news. A friend, whose name he
would not divulge, had given him a magnifi¬
cent commission—he was nearly beside him¬
self with joy.”

“ He would not give you the name of his
friend ? ”

“ No.”

“ I can supply it. I am the person. Two
days ago I learned, through a mere accident,
that the celebrated pearl necklace in the
borsyth collection was to be sold yesterday
at Christie’s. As I did not wish to appear
in the matter, I commissioned Ingram to
buy it for me, giving him power to bid
as high as ^7,000. I had a telegram
from him yesterday, which I can show you,
saying that he had secured the necklace for
my figure, and would bring it to me in the
course of the evening. I waited up for him
until past midnight; he did not appear, and
I went to bed.”

“ Then you never received the necklace ? ”

“ No.”

“This is most important. Of course, the
poor fellow was robbed and murdered, for
there was nothing of value on his person.

8

ti-je strand magazine.

I

I

THEN YOU NEVER RECEIVED THE NECKLACE?"

The coroner is probably now at the Sign of
the Dragon ; will you come with me ? ”

“ Willingly,” answered Don Santos. He
put on his hat and accompanied me. His
evidence was given quietly. It, of course,
supplied a motive for the murder; but how
the deed was accomplished, how the mur¬
derers got away, and where the celebrated
necklace now was, remained wrapped in
mystery.

Time went on and nothing transpired to
throw light upon the occurrence. Everything
conceivable was done, the most unlikely clues
followed up, but the police had at last to
confess that they were nonplussed.

One afternoon, towards the end of the
following May, I was walking in my grounds
when I was attracted by the arrival of a cab
just outside the principal entrance. A tall
lady, in deep mourning, but rather shabbily
dressed, got out and walked up the drive.
She paused when she saw me, hesitated, and
then raising her eyes, said :—

“ Am I addressing Dr. Paul Cato ? ”

“ That is my name,” I answered; “ is
there anything I can do for you ? ”

“ I am Mrs. Ingram,” was her reply.
“ You knew my son and were kind to him.

May I speak to you in private for
a few moments ? ”

“ Certainly,” I said, much in¬
terest coming into my voice. I
took the lady immediately into my
private study. Closing the door,

I asked her to seat herself.

“ I knew your son well,” I
remarked, “and took a deep in¬
terest in him. His death has
caused me the greatest pain.”

She raised her hand to interrupt
my words.

“I beg of you to allude as little
as possible to personal feelings in
this matter,” she said. “ It is with
an effort I can keep my grief
under control, and I do not mean
--I am determined not—to give
way.”

Her face changed from red to
white as she spoke and her lips
trembled. After a moment, how¬
ever, she spoke very quietly.

“I want to talk business with
you—do you understand ? ”
“Perfectly,” I said.

“It is my intention to trace this
murder to its source. I have come
here for the purpose. I would have
seen you before, Dr. Cato, but
after the shock of my son’s death I was ill.
A blank surrounds that dreadful time-—I had
fever and, luckily for myself, was unconscious.

I have now recovered, and have one object
left in life. I mean to bring the man who
deprived my boy of his young existence to
the gallows.”

“ My hand on it, madam,” I could not
help saying—“ your wish is mine.”

“ Thank you,” she answered. A sudden
fire filled her dark eyes, the colour rushed
into her cheeks.

“ If that object can be effected I shall die
happy,” she continued. “ Now may I ask
you one or two questions ? ”

“ As many as you please.”

“ Will you give me, quietly and impartially,
an exact account of the murder—the
appearance of the body when it was found,
where it was found, and everything else?”

I complied—I told the mother of the
murdered man the whole sad history. She
would not allow me to shirk anything, nor did
I try to. When I had done she said :—

“ My son knew Senor Don Santos. The
senor lives on Wimbledon Common. Plis
house is called Roe House. My son wrote
to me constantly about him : the Spaniard

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

9

had evidently attracted him to a remarkable
degree. How far from the spot where the
body was found is the residence of Don
Santos ? ”

“The body was found about three
hundred yards from Roe House,” was
my reply.

“Ah,” she said, “I thought as much.
Has no one seen Don Santos in connection
with the murder ? ”

“ I visited him immediately afterwards.
He told me that he had commissioned your
son to buy him a valuable necklace. He
expected your son to visit him on the
evening when the murder was committed in
order to hand him over the necklace, when
your son was to receive his commission, a
sum amounting to ^350. Ingram never
reached Roe House, and beyond doubt the
murderer absconded with the necklace.”

“So that is Don Santos’s story,” replied
Mrs. Ingram, very slowly. “ Will you listen
to me ? I have every reason to believe—nay
more, I am certain of the fact—that my son
did visit Senor Don Santos on the evening of
the day on which he was murdered, and did
hand him over the necklace. I have more
than one reason for the very firm opinion
which I have formed. In the first place,
Don Santos is not a man of honour.”

“ Now, what can you mean ? ” I said.

“ He commissioned my son to purchase a
valuable necklace, telling him that he might
bid as high as ,£7,000 for it. My son was
to bring him the necklace, and on receipt of
it he was to be paid £7,000 and his own
commission of 5 per cent. My son, reck¬
less with joy at the thought of securing so
large a sum, had borrowed the £7,000 from
a dealer in order to go to Christie’s to pay
for the necklace. On my son’s murder, this
dealer, Robertson by name, applied to Don
Santos to restore the money, declaring that
the order was practically his, and that he
ought to make good the loss. Don Santos
absolutely declined to pay one penny.”

“ And how has the debt been met ? ” I
asked.

“ By me, Dr. Cato. All I possess in the
world of ready capital has been raised to
clear my son’s honour. I have paid Mr.
Robertson to the last farthing. I have now
nothing in the world to live on but a small
annuity which I inherited from my husband
of £50 a year.”

I felt my heart beat high with indignation.
There was nothing to say, however, and the
widow proceeded:—

“ My other reason for believing that there

Vol. xviii.—2

has been foul play is on account of a dream,
a curious and very vivid dream which I had.”

“ Indeed,” I said, gravely. I naturally did
not believe in dreams, but the face of the
woman opposite to me, in its intense and
tragic earnestness, forbade a smile.

“ I can guess something of your thought,
Dr. Cato,” she continued, “but there are
dreams which have elements of truth in them.
Let me tell you mine. On the night when my
boy was murdered, I dreamt that he visited
Don Santos at Roe House, that he gave the
Spaniard the pearl necklace, and sat with him
for a time on the wide veranda of his house.”

“ I did not know the house had a veranda! ”
I exclaimed.

“In my dream I saw a veranda with great
distinctness. It was on the second floor.
This veranda was inclosed by a stone balus¬
trade, and there w T ere several deck chairs
about and some small, round tables. My
son and Don Santos sat there together that
night and smoked. My dream was so vivid
that I could almost hear what they were
saying, and I noticed the expression on the
Spaniard’s face. I tell you, Dr. Cato, it was
diabolical. I would have seen you before
on the subject of my dream but for my
queer illness. That dream was not sent to
me for nothing.”

“Go on,” I said, “what followed? You
say you heard Don Santos speak and you
saw his face. What came next ? ”

“Nothing,” she replied; “a great black¬
ness fell over me—I no longer saw the
figures on the veranda. I awoke struggling
for breath and screaming. I do not know
any more.”

“ Then owing to your dream you are under
the impression that Don Santos is connected
with the murder ? ”

“ He is at the bottom of the whole thing,”
she replied.

I sat silent for a few moments, Mrs. Ingram
facing me. Her eyes, with that look of
absolute confidence in them, were uncanny;
the firm conviction of her words could not
but impress me. Chetwynd would doubtless
have shared her suspicions, but I could
scarcely give credence to her story. Because
a woman dreamt a ghastly dream, was a
person, to all appearance innocent, to be
accused of crime ? Nevertheless, Don Santos
must be a scoundrel not to have made some
effort to replace the £7,000 which Ingram
had borrowed to purchase the necklace.

“ What can I do for you ? ” I said, after a
pause.

“This,” she replied, instantly—“I want

10

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

you to go and see the Spaniard. I cannot
go myself, for the moment he saw me he
would be on his guard. Pay him a friendly
visit, and find out if there is such a veranda
to the house as I have just described. Get
him to talk about my son : watch him closely.

If you will do this for me, it is all I ask. He
does not suspect you; will you go, and at
once?”

“ I have not the slightest objection to
visiting Don Santos,” I said, after a pause,
“and if it will relieve your mind I will call
upon him.”

“ Then, go now, this afternoon—there is
no time to lose.”

Her wild words impelled me. I had
nothing special to do, and started off for
Wimbledon within the hour. I was admitted
to Don Santos’s presence. He received me
quietly and with his usual courtesy.

“ I am delighted to see you, Dr. Cato,” he
said. “ I was just writing to you.”

“ What about ? ” I asked.

“ I want to pay a visit to the Sanctuary
next week. I am not well; some of my old
painful symptoms have reappeared. Chet-
wynd had a soothing influence over me—his
treatment served me marvellously. Can you
take me in next week ? ”

“ With pleasure,” I answered, “ but I am
sorry you are feeling indisposed.”

“It has been coming on gradually. Chet-
wynd will soon restore me to my normal
health. By the way, you don’t look too
well yourself, Dr. Cato. You have quite a
haggard look in
your eyes. You take
poor Ingram’s
murder to heart.
That will never do.
By the way, has any
fresh light been
thrown upon the
mysterious affair
since I saw you
last ? ”

“None whatever,”
I answered.

“ Ah,” he said,
looking thoughtful;
“ it is one of those
mysteries which will
not be revealed
until the Day of
Judgment. Now
that you have come,
doctor, I shall insist
on your dining with
me.”

I thought for a
moment, and then
determined to ac¬
cept the invitation.
Don Santos rang
his bell and gave
directions to a servant who appeared. Not
long afterwards he and I found ourselves
seated at a little oval table in the big
dining-room. As we ate my host talked
well and brilliantly. Certainly he was an
interesting man, and his knowledge of art
treasures was extensive.

The meal lasted for over an hour, and
during that time I had almost forgotten Mrs.
Ingram, her curious dream, and her nameless
suspicions. The dream, however, and the
suspicions were revived when Don Santos
said, in a hearty voice :—

“ The night is fine—let us go up and
smoke on the veranda.”

“ The veranda ! ” I could not help
exclaiming.

“ Yes, have I not shown it to you ? It is
one of the specialities of my house. I had
it built according to my own ideas. On the
hottest day in summer you get a breeze there,
and I generally smoke my last Havana there
before retiring to rest; but come,”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

ii

As he spoke he led the way upstairs, and,
opening a door on the second floor, just as
the widow had described in her dream, we
entered an extensive veranda. As I looked
at it I could not help starting. It was in¬
closed by a stone balustrade, upon which
were fixed by uprights iron rails which ran
round it. There were several deck chairs,
just as the widow had mentioned, and there
were also some small, round tables. The
night was starlit and warm. As I seated my¬
self in a comfortable deck chair and lit a cigar
I noticed that my host was listless and silent.

A sudden impulse came over me.

“ Do you know,” I said, watching him
narrowly as I spoke, “ that I had an interview
to-day of a somewhat painful nature.”

“ Indeed,” he replied.

“ With no less a person than Mrs. Ingram,
the mother of the poor fellow who was
murdered. She told me of a dream she had.
She dreamt that you and her son were seated
on this balcony.”

“ Ah,” he said, impatiently, “ we never sat
here. I often meant to have him to dine
with me. On that one eventful night I
waited long for him, but he never came. I
could not account for his non-appearance.”
The Spaniard spoke softly and with much
sadness in his tone.

“ There is one thing, Don Santos,” I said,
suddenly; “ you will forgive me, but perhaps
you do not realize that Mrs. Ingram is a poor
woman. Her son borrowed ^7,000 to buy
that necklace for you. Is it fair that she
should have to pay it back ? ”

In a moment he had turned upon me, his
whole face distorted with the most livid
passion.

“ Why do you interfere ? ” he said ; “ you
had much better not. My God ! If you
only knew ! I will pay that woman the
^7,000 in full when I get the necklace, not
before.. Tell her to move Heaven and earth
to get it back for me, and she shall be paid
then in full, every farthing, but not before—
my God ! I have spoken —not before.”

His voice quivered, he suddenly left my
side and began to stride rapidly up and down
the veranda—there was almost the ring of a
madman in his tones. I saw I had gone too
far, and was about to soothe him when he
suddenly came back and spoke in his
accustomed voice.

“ I told you that my nerves were giving
way—there are moments when I can scarcely
contain myself. I must come to the Sanctu¬
ary as quickly as possible and put myself
under Chetwynd’s treatment.”

“ And I will not keep you longer now,” I
said. “ I have tired you.”

“You have upset me,” he said, brusquely.
“ Forgive me for being rough, but there are
some things I cannot bear. Well, if you
must go—you must.”

A few moments later I had taken my
leave of him.

As soon as I entered the Sanctuary on my
return, I was greeted by Chetwynd.

“ I want to speak to you,” he said. There
was some slight excitement in his manner.
I noticed it.

“ You will be interested to hear,” I re¬
marked, “that I have just been paying a
visit to our old patient, Don Santos. You
ought to go and see him—Roe House is
worth visiting.”

“Ah,” replied Chetwynd, “you know my
opinion of that man, Cato. Come with me
into my private consulting-room, won’t you?
I have something to say.”

I went with him. He turned at once and
spoke to me about Mrs. Ingram.

“ I have seen her,” he said ; “ she told
me that she had asked you to visit Don
Santos. She also mentioned her most extra¬
ordinary dream.”

“I said I would try to verify it for her,”
was my remark.

“ Have you done so ? ”

“Strange to say, Chetwynd, I have—at
least the part in which she describes the
veranda. It is there, and just as she spoke
of it, but doubtless the thing can be ex¬
plained. Ingram must have mentioned it to
her in one of his many letters.”

Chetwynd was silent.

“By the way,” I continued, after a pause,
“you will have to put up with Don Santos,
whether you like him or not. Next week he
is coming here again.”

“ The old symptoms ? ” asked my brother
doctor.

“ He complains of them.”

“That man will end in an asylum,” said
Chetwynd, briefly. “ I am sorry he is coming
back.” ” &

“ I could not refuse him admission to his
own club,” I answered.

“ Of course not. By the way, we seem to
be doomed to have old patients back again.

I have just received a letter from Lady
Helen Trevor; she arrives to-morrow.”

# “Indeed,” I said, “she was a very pleasant
visitor; we ought to be glad to welcome
her.”

“By the way,” said Chetwynd, quietly,

“ Don Santos may not find things so pleasant

12

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

as he imagines at the Sanctuary Club. Did
I tell you that Mrs. Ingram is coming here
also to-morrow ? ”

“ Indeed, but how. She is not a member.”

“She comes as my guest. You remem¬
ber that you and I always have the privilege
of asking guests here from time to time.”

“ Certainly, but are you acting wisely in
extending this invitation to a hysterical
woman ? ”

“You are hard on her, Cato, and also
unjust. Mrs. Ingram possesses absolute self-
control. Her mind is perfectly balanced;
and as to her dream—well, think what you
like of me, old fellow, but I believe in it.”.

I could say nothing further. In certain
moods it was impossible to control Chet-
wynd — he was determined to saddle a
foul crime upon Don Santos, and what
the end would be remained shrouded in'
mystery.

The next day Lady Helen arrived. She
looked older than when I had last seen her,
and there was evidently a very serious care
weighing upon her mind. On the first even¬
ing of her visit she spoke to me.

“ I have not forgotten the gentleman who
was an inmate of this house when I was last
here,” she said.

“ Do you refer to Senor Don Santos ? ” I
asked.

“ Yes,” she replied.

“ You are likely to meet him again. He is
coming back next week.”

“ Indeed,” she answered. She looked
pleased and relieved. Looking full at me
she said, suddenly, “ I want to take you into
my confidence—may I ? ”

“ If I can be of use to you, I shall be
pleased to listen to anything you have got to
say,” was my answer.

“ Well, it is this. At the present moment
I am sorely in want of money—a good sum,
too.”

“But I thought your husband was a
millionaire ? ”

“ He is rich, no doubt, but not quite so
rich as people give him credit for. In the
present matter, however, it is impossible for
me to apply to him. Now, I must get the
m0 ney—£5,000—as soon as possible, and
it has occurred to me that Don Santos can
help me. I mean to ask him for his aid.”

“ I wish you would not,” I could not help
saying.

She opened her eyes wide in some surprise.

“I must,” she said; “my need is very
pressing; in fact, I may as well own to you
that I have come to the Sanctuary Club

more in the hopes of meeting Don Santos
than anything else.”

I stared at her in some surprise. I did not
like to press more fully for her confidence,
but what did she mean? She was young
and handsome—what could she have in
common with a man of the Spaniard’s type ?

The next week the senor arrived. He
was gentle and courteous, his friendship with
Lady Helen was quickly renewed, and, to
my astonishment, he also took special pains
to be polite to Mrs. Ingram. That strange
woman by no means repelled his attentions.
On the contrary, she often sought him out,
and they had long and interesting conversa¬
tions together.

The days passed without anything special
occurring. At last, on a certain morning,
Lady Helen came to see me.

“ Will you help me?” she said, impulsively;

« if you will, I can get what I require.”

“ What do you want me to do ? ” I asked.

“ Don Santos has promised to advance
me a loan of £5,000 on a condition.”

“ And what is that ? ” I asked.

She made a slight pause; her large brown
eyes were full of restlessness.

“ I must give you my full confidence,” she
said then. “I want the money for my
brother—my favourite youngest brother. He
has got into terrible trouble—he is reckless,
defiant of the ordinary rules of society. He
has always been something of a spoilt darling.
When my mother died she left him in my
care. He has got into debt. My husband
is jealous of my great love for him, and will
not help him with so much as a pound.
Something must be done immediately, so I
am determined to come to the rescue. If I
can get £5,000 from Don Santos, my
brother’s most pressing debts will be paid,
and he will be saved.”

“ What is the condition on which he will
lend you the money ? ” I asked.

She came a little nearer and dropped her
voice.

“ You know the senor’s passion for curios
of all sorts?” she said. “Have you ever
heard me speak of a casket which we hold
in my father’s family? It is called the Cata-
lini Casket—it has belonged to us for four
hundred years. When I married, my father
gave it to me as my wedding present, but on
a condition, a solemn one, that I was never
to part with it. I did not intend to break
that condition, but my present need is too
great. I am going, not to sell the casket,
but to borrow money on it. Don Santos
will lend me ,£5,000 if I give him the

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

i3

casket as security. He returns home to¬
day.”

“ So soon ? ” I interrupted.

“ Yes. He says the uncomfortable symp¬
toms which brought him here have quite
disappeared, and he is anxious to be home
again. I am also going back to Yorkshire
this afternoon, but will return early to-morrow
with the casket. I want you to take the
Catalini Casket to Don Santos to-morrow
night and to bring me back the money. He
will pay me in gold, not by cheque—I have
asked him to do this in order to insure my
husband never knowing of the transaction.”

“ But why should I be your messenger ? ”

“It is by the senor’s special request. He
says that he has made a rule never to* admit
a woman into Roe House. Oh, you will, not
refuse me ? If you will help me in this matter
I will bless you to the longest day of my life.”

She spoke with passion; there were tears
in her eyes; her voice trembled. Perhaps
Chetwynd might have refused her, but I
found it impossible to do so.

“ I don’t like it,” I said. “ I will say so
frankly, but, of course, I cannot decline to be
your messenger.”

“ Thank you,” she answered ; “ you cannot

understand what a relief this is to me. I will
go and tell Don Santos immediately—he will
be pleased—he is most anxious to secure the
casket, and says quite openly and frankly that
he does not believe I shall ever be able to
redeem it.”

“ And under such circumstances are you
willing to part with such a treasure ? ” I
asked.

I must,” she replied ; “ I have no choice.”

She left the room, and a couple of
moments later Don Santos himself knocked
at the door of my room.

“ Come in,” I said.

“ So you are going to help Lady Helen ? ”
he remarked, closing the door softly behind
him. “ I am very much obliged to you,
very much obliged indeed. Now listen.
I have not been here for the last two or
three days for nothing. That poor woman,
Mrs. Ingram, has impressed me favourably.
I cannot part with ^7,000 for a valuable
necklace which I never received, but 1 will
let her have half the money, and whenever
the necklace is traced and brought to me
she shall have the remainder. If you will
bring the Catalini Casket to my house
to-morrow night, you shall have in gold and
notes the money which Lady
Helen requires, and also a
cheque drawn in Mrs. Ingram’s
favour.”

I thanked him heartily. I
did not remark then, although
it occurred to me afterwards,
that as he spoke he avoided
looking at me.

“ I am glad you are better,”
I said.

“ Much better—in fact, I
am quite well. I am restless
away from my treasures, and
am going back to them to¬
day.” He walked to the
window as he spoke, and I
saw him rubbing his hands
together as though some
thought was pleasing him very
much.

“You are in good spirits,”
I said.

“ Who would not be at the
thought of securing so match¬
less and celebrated a casket?”

“ Indeed,” I answered; “ I
know nothing about these
things.”

“ If you had ever studied
the subject of art treasures,

“oh, you will not refuse me?"

14

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Dr. Cato, you must have heard of this
special casket. It is formed out of one
enormous onyx, on which are two priceless
cameos, and around the lid rubies, diamonds,
emeralds, sapphires, all of enormous value,
are richly embedded. The casket was fought
for, struggled for, and lost again and again
as far back as in the time of the Crusades.
How it got into the Hampton family remains
a mystery. It will be mine now.”

“But surely Lady Helen will redeem it?”

“ Never,” he said, softly. He. came up to
me almost on tiptoe, held out his hand, said
good-bye, and left me.

That evening, before retiring to rest, I had
a word or two with Chetwynd. #

“I want to ask you a straight question,” I
said. “ Don Santos has been your patient
once again : do you still suspect him of foul
play in the matter of Ingram ? ”

He did not answer for a moment; then he
said, slowly :—

“ I would rather not speak of my sus¬
picions. I have just come from a long inter¬
view with Mrs. Ingram; she interests me
profoundly.”

“Well, I have something to say,” I con¬
tinued. “ I am going to visit the Spaniard
at Roe House to-morrow evening. I have
been commissioned to execute some business
for him.”

“ The deuce you have ! ” he cried, springing
to his feet. “ Are you mad ? ”

“ I hope not; and, by the way, the man’s
visit here has not been without fruit. He
has promised to refund Mrs. Ingram some
of the money which her son paid for the
necklace.”

Chetwynd looked grave and anxious.

“ I wish you would not go to Roe House,”
he said, earnestly.

I laughed.

“ Really, Chetwynd,” I answered, “ I shall
begin to think your own nerves are out of
order.”

He was silent for a moment, then he said,
slowly:—

“Notwithstanding my duties as doctor
here, I have toiled over the strange case of
the murder of Tohn Ingram almost day
and night, and I now hold a theory too
fantastic to divulge. This theory is founded
on a single point. It is this : As I looked at
poor Ingram’s dead body that morning last
autumn, I saw adhering to his coat a good
many pine-needles and twigs. Now,.the only
fir trees anywhere near stand in the inclosure
surrounding Don Santos’s house. This
looked to me as if Ingram must have climbed

a fir tree, for he could not have got the
needles on him unless he had been among
the small branches.”

« Climbed a fir tree ? What on earth for ? ”

I asked.

“ Ah ! that remains to be answered. Now
listen, Cato. Have you made up your mind
to visit Roe House ? ”

“ Certainly.”

“In spite of my telling you frankly that I
consider there is an element of danger in
your visit ? ”

“ In spite of your friendly warning.”

“Then I will cease to urge you not to go.
On the contrary, I consider that your visit
may be of the utmost use to me. Go and
do exactly what Don Santos asks you. If
he requests you to dine to-morrow night,
humour him. I shall also go to Wimbledon
to-morrow ; we will force his hand.”

“Do you mean to come with me to his
house ? ”

“Not I. He won’t know until the last
moment that I am on the premises. My
dear fellow, of one thing I am certain—
Ingram was never murdered on the common.”

“Not murdered on the common? But he
was found there. How did he get there? ”
“That,” replied Chetwynd, “is what you
and I have got to discover, and to-morrow
night, too. It is a risk—are you prepared to
run it ? ”

“ I certainly am. Chetwynd, I am sorry
for you ; you are bitten by a craze—a craze
to discover what never can be discovered on
earth.”

“ We will soon know,” was his ambiguous
answer. •

Lady Helen returned with the casket
and put it into my hands, and punctually
at eight o’clock on the following evening I
arrived at Roe House, carrying the treasure
with me. The moment I rang the bell the
door was opened by Don Santos himself.

“Well,” he cried, eagerly, “have you got
it?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Capital. Come into my study. You
have done well.”

We both entered. I took the precious
casket out of its wrappings and gave it to
him. He went over to the nearest window
and examined it carefully. I noticed a queer
smile of avarice on his features.

“ You will dine ? ” he said, looking at me.

“ If you wish it,” I answered.

“ That is right. I have not yet received
the necessary notes and gold from the bank.
I sent a special messenger for them early

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

T 5

to-day. They will come, doubtless, in the
course of the evening. Lady Helen specially
stipulated to be paid in gold and notes. Of
course, in a case of this kind one must
submit to the caprices of a woman, and the
money will be here by the time we have
done dinner.”

“ My time is yours,” I answered; “ I have
nothing special to hurry me back.”

“ Good, very good.

It is a delightful
summer’s evening—
we shall enjoy our¬
selves on the veranda
afterwards. May I
take you to a room
now to wash your
hands ? ”

I was somewhat
surprised at his act¬
ing as his own servant.

The house, too,
seemed silent and
deserted. In a few
moments we were
seated before a
sumptuous cold repast
in the dining-room.

“I hate your hot
English dinners,”
said Santos, apologe¬
tically ; “ besides, it
means keeping a lot
of servants around
one. Now, my wants
are few, and it is
so much more con¬
venient to wait on
ourselves than having
chattering servants
overhearing every
word one says.”

The senor spoke
in a quick, nervous
way, and there was
a gleam in his eyes
which I had noticed
with more or less
apprehension when he
was suffering from his
worst attacks at the Sanctuary. Suddenly,
as I sat before that dinner table, some of the
fears which had infected Chetwynd began to
visit me. I lost my appetite. I wished
myself anywhere than where I was. Don
Santos was a stronger man than I: more
muscular, with more physical power. Should
occasion demand it, the strength of a madman
might be his, Beyond doubt he was the

victim of incipient insanity. His conversation
as dinner proceeded took a strange turn. He
talked of himself in a most confidential way.
Suddenly he rose.

“ How hot the night is,” he said; “shall
we finish our dessert on the veranda ? ”
“With pleasure,” I answered. “But I
hope your messenger will soon come with the
notes, Santos, for I want to return to Hamp¬
stead before it is too
late.”

“ He ought to
arrive at any moment
— we will wait for
him on the veranda.
Come, let me show
you the way.”

He led me upstairs,
and we entered the
large veranda which
Mrs. Ingram had so
faithfully described in
her dream. It was a
beautiful starlit night
and perfectly warm.

“ Take that chair,”
said the senor. He
pointed to one of the
deck chairs as he
spoke. I seated my¬
self and lit a cigar.
My host also smoked
silently. We were
both quiet, drinking
in the peace and
beauty of the night.
At last Don Santos
stirred restlessly, and
said, in an abrupt
tone :—

“ It is strange how
one’s memory reverts
to bygone events.
Now, I hate even to
think of poor Ingram,
and yet I never come
to this veranda but
thoughts of him
return to me. By the
way, how far away
from here did you tell me his body was
found ? ”

“Not three hundred yards,” I answered.
“Strange, strange. Have you any special
theory with regard to the murder ? ”

“ No,” I replied, “ but my friend Chetwynd
has.”

“ Ha ! ” he answered; “ and doubtless that
most interesting lady, Mrs. Ingram, also

i6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

holds a theory of her own. I must not for¬
get that I am to send her a cheque by
you to-night. I would never wish to be hard
on women, although I hate them all. By
the way, Cato, do you know that I believe
that woman, in some queer, unfathomable,
impossible way, suspects me— me —of the
murder of Ingram ? ”

“Nonsense,” I answered.

He started to his feet.

“ I don’t think it nonsense, nor does she.
But I believe I heard a ring—that must be
the messenger with the notes and gold. I
will let him in.”

It struck me, as Don Santos said this, that
he must have extraordinary ears, for I had
certainly heard no bell ring. He left the
veranda quickly. I sat on in my comfort¬
able chair. I heard the sound of his retreat¬
ing footsteps dying away, and then everything
was quiet except for the stirring of a slight
breeze in the top of the dark fir trees. I

was relieved that Don Santos was no longer
by my side. If the man was not mad he
was next door to it : his words during my
visit had been more than strange, and there
was a light in his eyes which I had seen
before, but never in those of a sane person.
Should I leave the veranda, go downstairs,
and make my escape? Was I really in
danger? I could have easily gone away,
but Lady Helen had trusted me with her
commission, and the casket was in the
Spaniard’s possession. I must not leave
the house without the ^5,000 which was
to be Lady Helen’s in exchange for the
Catalini Casket. I must also try to get the
cheque which the man had promised Mrs.
Ingram. I was still lying back in my chair
when a moving shadow cast by a lamp in
the room behind me suddenly spread across
the veranda. I started and turned. Great
heavens! it was Chetwynd himself! He
rushed towards me, his eyes alight with
terror, his voice hoarse with
fear.

“For God’s sake, Paul, get
out of that chair,” he cried;
“jump for your life.”

There was no time to be
even surprised. I made one
bound from the chair, and at
the same instant something
whirled through the air close
behind me. There was a dull
clang. Chetwynd, gripping my
arm, pointed up. Neither of
us could speak.

Fixed , at the extremity of a
huge steel spring which had
been concealed as one of the
planks of the veranda, the chair
had flown up in a great arc
above us, the spring had dashed
against the bars of the iron rail¬
ing, and the chair checked thus
suddenly in its flight was still
quivering to and fro from the
terrific shock of the impact.

Chetwynd was the first to
gain his voice.

“ Hush ! Look ! ” he whis¬
pered. Through the doorway,
leering out into the darkness,
was the face of the Spaniard.
The next instant it vanished.
Chetwynd blew loud blasts on a
whistle, and we both rushed into
the room. The man was gone,
but before we had reached
the top of the stairs a loud

“he startep to his feet.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

i7

shriek, followed by the sounds of a desperate
struggle, fell on our ears, and hurrying down
we saw Don Santos struggling like a wild cat
in the hands of two powerful detectives. It
was a horrible sight. Chetwynd turned to
me.

“ I congratulate you, Cato,” he said.
“ Two minutes more and you would have
been lying amongst the gorse bushes. It
was a little too near to be pleasant.” He
looked back at the senor, who was still fill¬
ing the great hall with furious imprecations.

“ Take him to the station, Mitchell,” I
heard Chetwynd say ; “ I will be with you
the first thing to-morrow morning.”

I shuddered. The shock, the suddenness
of the whole thing, had unnerved me. I felt
sick and faint.

“ Come, old chap, it’s over now,” said my
friend ; “ let me get you some brandy.”

We entered the dining-room. The table
was still strewn with the remains of our
dinner. Chetwynd lit a candle, and I poured
out a stiff glass of brandy and gulped it
down.

“ But what does it mean ? ” I cried.

“I suspected it,” he answered; “not
exactly what has happened, but something
very like it. The senor is partly mad, but
more wicked. He had a craze for the collec¬
tion of art treasures, and wanted to secure
them without paying his victims the necessary
money. Thus he never intended to pay
Lady Helen for the Catalini Casket. The
old story which was repeated once in the case
of Ingram would have again been the talk
about you. Your lifeless body would have
been found in the morning on Wimbledon
Common, and the police would suppose that
you had been robbed and murdered. I
guessed that this was the senor’s game, but
it was impossible for me to tell how he per¬
formed his ghastly feats until I could get
within the precincts of Roe House. When I
found that you were really going there, I
thought my opportunity had come. I resolved
to watch you, and at the same time to let you
go into danger. I followed you this evening,
bringing two detectives in plain clothes with
me. I perceived that there were no servants in
the house, which strengthened my suspicions.
We three managed to get into the garden,
and watched you as you sat at supper.
When you went up to the veranda we
raised a window and got into the house, and
then began our search. We first made our
way to the room under the veranda. Come,

I will show you.” He took up a candle as
he spoke. I followed him.

“ We could hear your voices above us,”
continued Chetwynd. “ When we entered
the room I struck a light and then saw what
I will now show you—something that sent me
flying up to you. Thank God, I was just in
time. Santos must have gone down the
other way, so I missed him.”

We had now entered a small, bare room.
In the centre stood an enormous cogged
wheel and ratchet, which could be wound by
a handle. Upon the floor lay a long steel
chain.

“ Do you see this ? ” said Chetwynd.
“The chain was used to wind down the
huge steel spring in the veranda; this cord
drew back the catch in order to release it,
and then—well, you saw the rest for yourself.
One moment more, and it would have flung
you over the fir-tops and out on to the
Common, three hundred yards away. Your
dead body would have been found there in
the morning. Just as in Ingram’s case, there
would have been no clue. Don Santos
would have declared that you left the house
with the money in your possession, thus
giving the motive for your murder. No
possible suspicion could have attached to
him. Paul, I don’t wonder you feel shaken,
but think for your comfort that you have
avenged Ingram and brought to the gallows
one of the most crafty, scientific, and satanic
criminals of the day! What a stir it will
make ! ”

The next day Roe House underwent a
careful examination by some of the ablest
detectives in London. In all sorts of unlikely
places treasures of immense worth were hid¬
den. Doubtless they were most of them
stolen. Amongst others the pearl necklace
for which poor Ingram was murdered was
found. It was sold again even for a larger
figure, and thus Mrs. Ingram got back her
money. Lady Helen also received the Cata¬
lini Casket uninjured into her trembling
hands. She had the courage and good
sense, after so frightful a catastrophe, to
inform her husband of the truth. He was
more lenient than she had painted him, and
her young brother was saved from absolute
ruin.

As to Don Santos, even the plea of in¬
sanity availed nothing—-two months later he
was hanged for his crimes, and the world
was rid of one of the most consummate
scoundrels who has ever lived.

Vol. xviii.—3

Remarkable Cycles.

By Harold J. Shepstone.

N no industry, perhaps, have
manufacturers so sought to
bring their particular wares to
the notice of the public by such
novel and startling devices as
in cycle-making. Such intense
earnestness for something entirely new and
attractive has been the cause of many
curious creations in cycledom, and it is the
intention of this article to give a description
of some of the most extraordinary cycles
which have been built for this purpose. And
it cannot be denied that many of them must
have called for much ingenuity and skill on
the part of their designers and builders,
while not a few have been put to very
practical purposes indeed.

What is certainly the biggest mon¬
strosity the cycling world has ever seen
is the mammoth tricycle seen in our first
photograph. It is hardly necessary to add
that no one but a Yankee could have con¬
ceived the idea of constructing such a
machine. It was manufactured for the
Boston Woven-Hose and Rubber Company,
and was built with the express purpose of
advertising the Vim tyre, a tube well known
on the other side of the Atlantic. Some two
years ago this giant among tricycles was

brought to this country, and many will prob¬
ably recollect it, for it was exhibited in the
windows of a well-known cycle store in
Holborn Viaduct. It was so large that it
was found necessary to take it to pieces to
get it into the shop, and the same process
had to be repeated when it was removed.

This monster was not built solely to look
at, but for touring. It made many trips,
and our photograph shows the machine and
its eight riders on their arrival at Brighton.
The two side wheels are lift, high, while the
steering-wheel is 7ft. high. It has wooden
rims, which are fitted with single-tube tyres,
measuring 15m. and i8in. through for the
large and small wheels respectively. The
hubs on the two side wheels are i8in. in
length, and are fitted with spokes of steel
y 2 in. thick. Although the tricycle weighs
nearly a ton complete it can easily be pushed
along by one person on a level surface, so
minutely were the bearings made. It is geared
to fifty-four, and requires eight men to pedal
it, and another to superintend the steering,
which is effected by means of a wheel and
chain. Like all modern cycles, however, it
is susceptible to punctures, and sustained
many of these undesirable mishaps during
the course of its travels, and to locate and

Ft om a Photo. h)f]

THE LARGEST TRICYCLE EVER BUII/V-

[A. H. Fry, Brighton ,

REMARKABLE CYCLES.

!9

yCltkpTZ-Pvtoirc. yf'

THE BIGGEST BICYCLE IN THE WORLD.

[ Photo .

mend a puncture on this enormous cycle was
no easy task, occupying anywhere from a
few hours to a couple of days.

Although the largest tricycle that the brain
of the cycle-maker could create was capable
of being ridden, such is not the case with
the biggest ordinary two-wheel safety. This
machine was built entirely for show purposes,
and is the property of Messrs. H. A. Lozier
and Co., the makers of the well-known
Cleveland bicycles. Our photograph will
convey a fair idea of the size of the giant
wheel, which is shown so distinctly with an
ordinary bicycle and rider by the side of it.

The tubing used in its construction had a
diameter of 6in., while the wheels have a
diameter of 15ft., and, like all American
bicycles, are fitted with single-tube tyres,
which are i8in. in width. The machine is
made to proportion throughout, even the
saddle, on which half-a-dozen men could
easily find standing room. The spokes are
^in. thick, while the gear is no less than
360m. Given a giant to bestride it, all
existing records, we imagine, would soon be
broken.

Having described the largest of cycles it is
only natural that we should mention the

f inn u i nutu. uf/j

1 HE LONGPST CYCLE—USED ?JY THE BLJNp AT THE ROYAL

NORMAL COLLEGE.

[Reinhold Thiele,

20

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

From a Photo, by] the quaintest quint in the world. [Arnold tichwin & Vo.

longest, a machine designed to carry twelve
riders. It is used in the grounds of the
Royal Normal College for the Blind at Upper
Norwood, and by the aid of this remarkable
“ iron steed ” many a sightless individual has
enjoyed exhilarating spins awheel in the
college grounds. It is necessary, of course,
for one of the crew to be exempt from this
terrible affliction—loss of sight—and the
second rider on the machine is the one
responsible for the steering—not an easy task,
as anyone who has tried to negotiate corners
on machines that carry four riders and more
very well knows.

Our next illustration shows a quint, a
machine designed to carry five riders, and
represents the work of Messrs. Arnold
Schwin and Co., of Chicago, who claim that
it is the only successful multi-cycle ever
built. It has certainly done some good
work as a pacing-machine at most of the
great cycling contests, having been used at
various races in Paris, Bordeaux, Brussels,
Berlin, London, and in America, and has no
doubt done not a little to establish many a
cycling “record.” It is interesting, however,
on account of the novel use to which its
owners have since put it, namely, to advertise
the “World” bicycle, the name by which
their machines are known. As will be
seen in the photograph, all the five riders
have their heads concealed in globes, in¬
scribed with the word “World.” These
globes are constructed of light wire and
cloth, having a small aperture in front for
seeing and breathing. Such a bicycle with
such a unique crew careering about the

streets could hardly
fail to attract even
the attention and
admiration of the
busy, go-ahead
American citizen.

The distinction of
being the youngest
cyclist in the world
undoubtedly be¬
longs to Master
Clarence House,
age seventeen
months, who is seen
in the photograph
reproduced here¬
with riding his
diminutive wheel,
which rejoices in
the name of the
Tii-Bits cycle. He
caused much attrac¬
tion at the last Bradford cycle show, where
he disported himself on his machine, with
evident satisfaction to himself as well as to
the visitors. The total length of the little
bicycle is but 26m.; when the rider is seated
on his machine, the distance from the
floor to the top of his head is 2ft. 7 y 2 in.
The diameter of the wheels is ioin., length

THE YOUNGFST CYCLIST IN THE WORLD.
From a Photo, by Messrs. Fox , Bradford,

REMARKABLE CYCLES.

THE HEAVIEST CYCLIST ALIVE.

From a Photo, by J. H. Faber , Norfolk , Va.

of crank 3m., and gear 22. Every part
of the machine was specially made, and
it is a perfect cycle in every detail. It
is so small that it can be put upright
under an ordinary chair, while its rider
has often taken
cycling excursions
under the dining¬
room table. Little
Clarence is a fine
big baby-boy, and
bicycle and baby
together turn the
scale at 3o^lb.

Already he has re¬
ceived recognition
as an able cyclist,
for he is an honor¬
ary member of the
Bradford and
County Cycling
Club, and his father,

Mr. Albert House,
who is manager of
the Bradford Cycle
and Motor Com¬
pany, has just
written us to the
effect that Mr.

Ernest Flower,

M.P., has presented our cycling
prodigy with a gold medal.

Our next “baby” is a full-grown
one in the person of “ Baby ” Grimes,
who declares that he is the heaviest
cyclist in the world, a claim which
we do not intend to dispute. Our
photograph depicts the big “ baby ”
in racing costume, and naturally his
plump limbs are very noticeable.
Grimes has done a great deal of
cycling during the last five years, and
has felt no ill-effects through his in¬
dulgence in the pastime ; on the con¬
trary, he declares that the exercise has
been the means of keeping him in
health. He turns the scale at about
57olb. He is 6ft. 4m. high, has a
chest measurement of 62m., and his
calves are 22in. round. His flesh,
too, is as hard and firm as that of a
well-trained athlete.

'Furning for a moment to the more
utilitarian purposes to which cycles
are now being put, we might mention
the Police Patrol Tricycle, which was
manufactured by the Davis Sewing
Machine Co., of Dayton, Ohio, about
a year ago. As will be seen in our
photograph, the front and rear seats are
occupied by policemen, while the prisoner is
seated in the centre, and is unable to give
any annoyance by moving, as both his hands
and his feet are strapped. This machine,

A POLICEMAN S CYCLE—AS USED IN SOME OF THE AMERICAN CITIES.
From a Photo, Lent by the Paris Seicing Machine Co.

22

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

enable the bicycle

from a]

the company inform us, is the only cycle ever
constructed for such a purpose, and is unique,
having been in practical use by various police
departments in several of the American cities.

Our next photograph is also interesting, as
it represents a quadricycle fire engine. The
machine has the appearance of two tandems
joined together, and the four riders are
mounted two abreast. In the illustration we
see the pumps are being worked by the
pedals, the back wheels being thrown off the
ground. It is believed that in outlying districts
and country towns such a device as this is
invaluable for getting to the fire quickly, and
that it has a great future before it.

Then there is also the railway-track
bicycle, another of Uncle Sam’s creations,
though, so far as the writer can learn, it is
not very extensively used on the large
American railways. It would appear,
too, that it is made exclusively by one
firm, the Kalamazoo Railway Supply Com¬
pany. In most
respects it is similar
to an ordinary
bicycle, with the
exception that it
has a third wheel
of 11in. diameter,
while the conven¬
tional pneumatic
tyres are dispensed
with, though the
tread of the flat
surface of the
wheels, which en¬
ables it to run
smoothly on the
steel rails, has a
continuous rubber
band. These bands

to adhere more closely to the rails, and so
lessen the danger of slipping when the rails
are wet. Given a clear course, the speed
which can be attained on these machines is
astonishing, and to get to the scene of an
accident, or to reach a far-distant signal
station, is a matter which requires little pre¬
paration provided one of these bicycles is
forthcoming. With a comparatively low gear
a speed of twenty miles an hour is easily

KAJiAVAY CYCLE,

REMARKABLE CYCLES.

2 3

i

iHif!

wwm

Wrnim

'>] ■

} ? voVox“C<^> >

^’ro?no] jatho’s giant sociable. [Photo.

For variety and novelty in its com¬
position, it is doubtful if the “ iron¬
monger’s bicycle ” can be beaten.
The photograph of this curious
machine has been sent to us by
Mr. J. Nevil Moore, of Semaphore,
South Australia, where it was recently
exhibited in the windows of an enter¬
prising firm of ironmongers. Every
article that finds a place in its make¬
up can be purchased at the store in
question, and this statement alone
will give a fair idea of the immense
business of this establishment. Two
large grindstones do service as
wheels, and a couple of reaping-
hooks make an excellent imitation
of a handle-bar. A pair of gas-tongs
form the fork of the “ machine,” while
a truck-wheel and dog-chain combine
to supply the propelling mechanism.
The pneumatic principle is to be
found in the seat, which consists of a
pair of bellows, while rat-traps con¬
stitute quite the approved pattern of
pedals. Fire-irons, bevels, augers,
adze and hammer handles, and many
other familiar articles find a place in

obtainable on the level, for, naturally,
riding on a modern railway track is
smooth and easy running.

One of the most novel bicycles
we have ever seen adaptable for two
riders is the Jatho Giant Sociable.
The large wheel of this unique
machine is 8ft. 6in. in height, and
covers a distance of 315m. in one
revolution. The little steering-wheel,
which is under the control of the
male rider, is i6in. in height. The
machine is driven by chains running
from the right-hand and left-hand
bottom bracket to the hub of the
large wheel. Mr. Karl Jatho, the
builder and designer of this remark¬
able cycle, is seated on the farther
side of the machine, while the other
seat is occupied by his sister. They
have taken part in many cycling
festivals in the principal towns of
Germany on this curious “ steed,”
which has never failed to attract
particular attention. The machine
weighs nearly a hundredweight, and
C° st ^50 to build-

AN IRONMONGER’S BICYCLE.

From a Photo, bp Sanders db Bcgg, Port Adelaide,

24

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A BICYCLE YACHT.

From a Photo, by L. E. Hudson , Ellisburg , N. Y.

this novel bicycle. The rider is, if possible,
more curiously and wonderfully made. His
head is nothing more than a ball of binder-
twine, surmounted with a cake-tin to repre¬
sent a cap. The body is represented by a
dish-cover, while stove-pipes make excellent
representations of legs and arms.

Sailing on dry land has now become a
possibility, or at least Mr. L. E. Hudson, of
Ellisburg, N.Y., has demonstrated his ability
to rig his bicycle with a sail, and so convert
it into a “ bicycle yacht.” The mast is some
i oft. high, and is rigidly secured to the frame
of the bicycle about 4m. behind the handle¬
bar. The sail is made of heavy cotton
cloth, and is under the control of the rider
by means of a
cord which passes
along the boom
at the bottom of
the mast to the
handle - bar, and
can be kept in
check without
interfering with
the steering of
the wheel. Mr.

Hudson assures
us that it is a
very enjoyable
sport on a breezy
or windy day, and
enthusiastically
recommends it to

are fond of excitement with just a dash
of danger.”

Passing on to the more fascinating sub¬
ject of costly bicycles, it may come as a
surprise to many to learn that occasionally
cycles have been manufactured which
have been nothing else than a blaze of
gold and silver and precious stones. One
instance which we may mention is that
of a lady’s ordinary diamond dropped-
frame bicycle richly and profusely decor¬
ated in silver, the ornamentations suggest¬
ing the rococo and Louis XV. styles.
The handles are of carved and stained
ivory, decorated with silver and jade knobs
at the ends. The wheel is equipped with
silver brake, solid silver cyclometer and
silver bell, while the saddle and tool-
bag are also ornamented with this metal.
Perhaps the most beautiful accessory
of the wheel is the solid silver lamp
attached to the handle-bar. It is made
after the most approved fashion, with
a high - power reflector, and ruby and
emerald coloured cut-crystal side-lights. The
mudguard is nickel*plated, ornamented with
silver and strung with the finest silk, while
the whole frame of the machine is most
lavishly decorated with specimens of the
jeweller’s art. This bicycle was exhibited in
the windows of Messrs. Tiffany and Co., well-
known New York jewellers, and is a specimen
of their work. The machine, however, was
not on view very long, for it was purchased
the first day it was put on exhibition, and,
strange to say, by a titled gentleman of this
country.

The most costly bicycle ever manufactured,
however, was a tandem cycle built by the
Elgin Cycle Co., of which a photograph is

wheelmen “ who

From a]

THE FINEST CYCLE IN THE WORLD.

IPhoto.

REMARKABLE CYCLES.

2 5

here reproduced. This one machine repre¬
sents a small fortune, having cost ^2,000
to build. When it is stated that 2,ooodwts.,
or 8j^lb., of fine gold, and 176 genuine
diamonds, ranging in size from one to eight
carats each, several hundred rubies, pearls,
emeralds, and other precious stones are
mounted in conspicuous places on the frame,
one begins to see where its value comes in.
To photograph a machine of this kind with a
view to displaying its costly ornamentations
is somewhat difficult, but a glance at our
illustration, which is from a photograph in
colours, will give a fair idea of the numerous
massive gold bands which • decorate various
parts of the frame. These bands are of solid
gold and beautifully chased. Several of the
most popular outdoor sports are prominently
portrayed carved in solid gold. On the top
bar we may notice a bicycle race-track, show¬
ing several riders finishing a race in front of
a well-filled grand stand. On the lower rear
fork a boating scene may be detected, while
other racing scenes are depicted on other
parts of the machine. The front fork
deserves special comment. The decora¬
tions are marvellous creations of the gold¬
smith’s art, consisting of floral wreaths,
each leaf and flower carved and coloured
true to Nature out of solid gold. The sides
are finished with two massive gold bands,
mounted with twenty-five diamonds, forming
a cluster for two diamonds weighing 8cts.
each. The Elgin King Crown, which is set
with many beautiful gems, is noticeable,
while the name “ Elgin King ” on the drop-bar
immediately above may also be discerned.
The name is made out of heavy gold letters,
the entire design serving as a setting for a
large number of precious stones. The
tandem is rideable, and the whole idea of
loading the machine with such costly gems
was purely a device for advertising. A worm
gear takes the place of the front tandem
chain, and the steering is under the control

of the rear rider, but, of course, we can hardly
imagine such a machine on the road.

Another beautifully decorated bicycle so
far as costly ornamentation is concerned
is the “ Rambler,” which was made by the
Messrs. Gormully and Jeffery Manufactur¬
ing Company. It was built at a cost of
£ 200. All the enamelled parts of this
machine are embellished with silver em¬
bossing in the most artistic fashion. The
handle-bars, pedals, cranks, sprockets, and
hubs are all silver-plated. The brake is
covered with gold. The spoke nipples also
are of gold, and glisten through rims
of highly polished mahogany. Reference
may also be made to the saddle, which
is of highly polished leather, hand-carved
in fanciful designs with gold mountings.
The handles are of solid ivory, turned in
neat spiral design, and are tipped with
jewelled gold ends. The head is crowned
with a circlet of pearls, surrounding an
immense amethyst, while in every handle-tip
are set similar specimens of the violet-blue
gem. Turquoise gems may be found set at
the end of either rear fork diagonal tube,
and also in the head.

In concluding this article on quaint and
curious bicycles we may allude to the
tiniest of them all, a most interesting
mechanical curio, constructed by Joseph
Figarotta. This diminutive wheel weighs
but two ounces, but is none the less perfect
in all its parts; and, what is more, is in per¬
fect running order. No part or appurtenance
of the completely equipped wheel is lacking.
A dainty lamp, with microscopic coloured
lens, rests on its accustomed bracket. Al¬
though so small the wheels are fitted with
pneumatic tyres, and it is in every respect an
up-to-date machine. The height of the frame
is but ^in., wheel base ij^in., diameter of
wheel lin. The building of this liliputian
wheel occupied its owner most of his spare
time for two years.

A COMPLETE BICYCLK WHICH WEIGHS TWO OUNCES,
From a Photograph.

Vol. xviii.—4.

or TSf

WATCH
BELCW

By J. H. Whitfield.

53

E were a merry party in spite
of the weather and the scenery.
Five of us, three ship-con¬
structors, one engineer, and
one pressman, standing on the
edge of the unfinished Orient
Dock ; a vast expanse of quiet, muddy water
before us, a lowering grey sky above us, and
round us the flat shores of Kent and Essex.
Near us, but aloof, were a few boatmen,
labourers, hands connected with the slow
making of this immense basin. We were
there to test and to criticise the new sub¬
marine boat, Watch Below, designed and
invented partly by Mackey, the engineer,
principally by Boulger.

Who that ever knew Boulger could forget
him? Who that knew his history could
forget it? Shipwright at Portsmouth Dock¬
yard, working his way upward until he
held a good position at the Admiralty and
had a hand in shaping all new fashions for
ironclads, he was yet the good friend of all
his old mates. I remember his good nature
most of all. In his house at Clapham he
kept four unmarried daughters, one son-in-
law and wife, one widowed daughter, and a
swarm of grand-children. He loved them all,
excepting the son-in-law, and never grumbled

at anyone but the persons who softened his
“g ” and called him “Bouljer.”

Standing on the ragged edge of the dock,
we were smiling because Boulger was too fat
to get through the emergency door at the
after-end of the cigar-shaped craft below us.
We were disposed to good humour, for we
considered this little trip merely as a registra¬
tion of success. She had done well at a
deep-sea trial: so well that the highest ones
of the Admiralty had begun to show a faint
interest in her. Another trial in Sea Reach,
after certain improvements had been added,
was not quite so successful; but this, now,
was to put everything right. So, sniffing at
success, we were merry, all but Bawke, under¬
manager of the firm which was backing
Boulger with the necessary few thousands.
Bawke and the inventors had a difference of
opinion about the removal of certain ballast.
Bawke mistrusted the craft, and said so
frequently; while, English-fashion, he was
doing his very skilful best to render failure
improbable.

He said something again which caused
Mackey to ask : “ Do you think the motor
will give out, then ? ” looking up from the
large hatch which had been slid on one side
to admit Boulger.

THE TRIAL OF THE “WATCH BELOW:

27

“ No,” answered Bawke, “ I still think the
danger is in the slanting descent and ascent.
She’ll drown all hands some day—your
magnified Whitehead.”

“ Come and try,” said Boulger, as he
lowered his body into that of the craft.

“ Unless you’re afraid,” growled irritable
Mackey.

This word settled it, and Bawke descended,
asking, not from fear but from his critical
habit, “ What’s to keep this thing from turning
turtle ? ”

“ Mr. Boulger will oblige by sitting in the
bottom of her,” said O’Neill, of the Current
Hews , who was the fifth of us and who had
already embarked. “ Come, hurry up.”

Bawke hurried down and I followed. So
there were five on board. O’Neill had been
invited because it was time people heard of
the Watch Below , which was better covered
by patents than by any veil of secrecy.

Mackey closed and fastened the hatch and
the emergency hole, gave us more light from
the glow-lamps, and opened the air reservoir.

Our compartment had a space of 8ft.
between floor and ceiling. These were mere
flattenings of the hull’s circular shape.
Arrangements for comfort were rough, and
consisted principally of ropes led along each
side of the hold. These were for support
when the craft tilted. There was nothing
loose on board when the crew were clinging
to these ropes, only necessary gear being
carried, all fixed or fixable, in order to
prevent it slipping about.

Abaft of our position was the sinking and
rising gear, consisting of hollow cylinders,
which could be thrust out or withdrawn in
order to increase or diminish buoyancy.
Forward of us were the engines, and forward
of these again were arrangements similar to
those right aft. The chief points about the
invention were the electric engines, the air
supply, the ease with which either end could
be depressed, so that she plunged to the
depth at which it was required to travel, and
then could be brought head or stern first to
the surface at an easy angle.

But the pride of Mackey’s heart was the
“; look-out man,” as he called his own par¬
ticular invention. This was a telescopic
tube topped by a cowl, which could be easily
adjusted to the necessary height, being well
braced by stays always taut, no matter
whether high or low. Fitted vertically to
the. front of the cowl was a lens, which threw
a view, of the picture before it upon a slant¬
ing mirror, whence it was conveyed to and
reflected from the surface of a second mirror,

whereon the steersman might read his course.
The lens was protected by plate-glass of
such extraordinary hardness and polish that
spray dashing upon it left it at once
undimmed. The angle of the lens was so
wide that one-third of the surroundings up
to a certain height was received, and by
tilting the cowl its vertical range was in¬
creased, giving a serviceable, if somewhat
distorted, view of objects far above the
surface.

We started; the deck beneath us sloped
to a comfortable angle, then became level.

“ We are 10ft. down,” said Boulger, look¬
ing at his indicator. Portholes at the
side showed, through thick glass, water like
pea-soup; we went slowly ahead, and the
pea-soup foamed past us.

“ Up goes the look-out man,” said Mackey,
and a view of the land and water above
came down the tube, and a picture spread
itself like that of a camera-obscura upon the
lower mirror.

Breathing was not easy, as Mackey kept
the air-pressure high, which was quite neces¬
sary. The engines ticked away merrily.

We went once round the dock and back
to our starting-place, where those who had
been watching the progress of our look-out
tube just above the surface of the water gave
us a signal shriek from a steam-crane
whistle. This we heard distinctly and under¬
stood, and answered “ All’s well! ” by means
of specially-emitted air-bubbles.

Then again we travelled to the other end
of the dock, which was only a sloping mud-
bank, faced by a row of huge wooden piles
at irregular distances from each other, feeling
our way cautiously, knowing easily and
exactly our position both as to depth and
in relation to the dock sides. We fired a
dummy wooden torpedo here. For some
reason or other, as we slowly rose and pro¬
ceeded towards our goal, we came into smart
collision with the stone edge of the dock,
just at the place where we should disembark.

Boulger was steering, and said to Mackey,
who was about to slide back the main hatch,
“No—stop-—we must come home neater
than that. Off we go again—sink her to
1 oft., and finish in first-rate style.”

We plunged. Mackey seemed to go for
his little starting-lever rather testily, I thought,
and I noticed at the same time that Bawke
stiffened himself and gripped the life-line
tightly. We were going at a higher speed
although at a lesser angle than before.
Suddenly, without warning, the deck listed
and slid from beneath us. Clinging to our

THE STRAND MAGAZINE ,.

WE WERE ALL TURNING SOMERSAULTS.

ropes, we were all turning
somersaults. She rolled
violently, but seemed
about to right herself,
when we felt a shudder¬
ing, sliding sort of shock
—not severe, but enough
to incline our tossed
bodies somewhat forward,
and then we were all look¬
ing at each other, all on
the ceiling of the hold,
the engines hanging up¬
side down ticking away
merrily, lights good, no
water coming up the in¬
verted look - out tube,
which was artfully con¬
structed and came
home automatically;
everything working
well.

“ You’ve done it,

Mackey,” gasped
Boulger.

“Aye, but I’ll undo
it,” shouted Mackey,
who was sitting under
the engines with his
back against the side
and with both hands
grasping his left leg. “ Aft, lads, all of you,
and shake her up. She’s run her snout
between the piles into the soft mud at the
dock end.”

Although shaken ourselves we were un¬
hurt and able to rush aft, except Mackey, who
dragged himself into a position whence he
could control his engines.

We jumped and we shook her up, and
Mackey gave the engines all they would take,
as we could tell by the vibration and swirling
of the useless propellors outside. In vain - -
she was fixed. And we were sealed up in a
cigar-shaped box 15ft. below the surface of
the Orient Dock, with a limited supply of air !

It is useless to describe all the attempts we
made. She was fixed. Mackey stopped his
engines and lowered himself down, where he
sat on what was now our floor. He was
ghastly. Sweat stood out upon him.

Boulger crouched, with his face resting in
his hands, complaining that he felt sick and
giddy; Bawke bit at his moustache and
muttered, “ What a fool I was to get in this
mess.” O’Neill squatted and wrote rapidly.

After a few minutes’ panting we looked at
each other again, all but Boulger. I went
across to him and, as his grateful subordinate,

touched him on the shoulder and said, “ Look
up, sir; we shall get out of this.” He shook
his bowed head and did not look up.

“ Some of us are here till we’re handed out
stiff. That’s certain! ” predicted Mackey.
“ I can’t think what made her twist.”

“Those infernal triple propellers,” ex¬
claimed Bawke. “ She was bound to go over
sooner or later. If we could get her stem
clear of the mud you might, by reversing the
engines, right her again.” ^

“ Especially as she’s not bang over,” said

Mackey. “She’s got a list to—to-

Hanged if I know which is port and which
is starboard now. Anyway, she would have
righted herself if she hadn’t got jammed
here.”

“ If that ballast-” said Bawke.

“ Ballast! Ballast! ” shouted Mackey,
drawing his right knee up close to his chin,
while his left leg was stretched straight out
before him. “ I tell you, man, you’re gone
mad on ballast. You’re a croaker ; you’re
the Jonah of this voyage.”

“I’ll personify Jonah, if you’ll kindly find
some way of throwing me overboard,” re¬
marked O’Neill. “Or a torpedo : you might
fire me through the tube.”

THE TRIAL OF THE “WATCH BELOW .

2 9

Boulger looked around him in a dazed sort
of way. Mackey’s voice had aroused him.
“ Let’s try her again, lads,” he said.

“ Shake her again, boys,” cried Mackey,
dragging himself up to his levers.

So we tried again, and we shook her again
until we were exhausted. She was fixed.

“ Power’s giving out,” said Mackey, referring
to his storage batteries. He sank back to
his former position.

“ I’m done,” moaned Boulger, dropping
feebly.

“ There’s a chance for one, perhaps two, of
you,” said Mackey.

A chance ? Of course—the emergency
door at our feet. This was merely a hinged
iron plate, fastened from inside with a water¬
tight joint, but opening outwards.

“The hatch is jammed, and, besides, it’s
too big to open. But one of you ought to
get through that manhole door before the
rush of water comes,” said Mackey, “ especi¬
ally as it’s below instead of above. One
ought to get through; two may ; but it’s a
dog’s chance for the third.”

“We must go odd-man for it,” said O’Neill.
“ If we all bolt at once nobody will get
through.”

“And make haste, because of my air
cylinders,” remarked Mackey.

We stooped around Mackey and spun
coins—I acting for Boulger, who would pay
no heed. I won the toss for Boulger, and it

was with a sickly sort of joy that I recog¬
nised his chance as being worth nothing.

Then Mackey won. Again that horrid
thrill of satisfaction when Mackey said in low
tones : “I tossed only for the form of the
thing. My leg is broken—and—besides—
the craft is a failure—and—and ”

And he sank back, his face that of a man
who is suffering much and expecting to
suffer more. Again we hazarded. The game
was mine ; Bawke came next.

“ Strip yourself, Jemmy,” muttered Mackey
—he had always called me “ Mister” before.
“ Strip yourself and keep your arms well
above your head. You’re young and wiry,
and ought to get through. The door only
opens a foot or so. There’s about a balance
now between our air and the water, that’ll
let the door fall down— then the water’ll rush
in and bang the door to—then the next
man’s chance’ll come.”

“ Here, take these and tuck them in some¬
where,” said O’Neill, handing me a sheaf of
the notes he had hastily scribbled for the
Current News. “ They ought to make
some noise ; ’tisn’t often that a dead man
speaks to the public.”

“Any message, sir,” I asked Boulger.
No answer. I-Ie kept his face covered as
he bent his body downward.

Bawke was leaning, arms folded, eyes fixed
on the ceiling beneath him. He whispered,
“ I shall follow you. I can’t die. I sha’n’t die!”

O’Neill was on his knees, his eyes closed,
his hands clasped.

Mackey said in a very low tone, without
looking up at me : “You know my lodgings,
you can get my wife’s address there—she’s at
Leith. I’ve led her somewhat of a
dance in my time, but we parted
friends, and I leave her no bairns
to bother her.”

As I threw off all clothes but
those next to my skin, a series of
thoughts coursed through my brain.
Should I give way ? Boulger was
doomed — Mackey was doomed.
Should I give way to Bawke -Bawke
with his keen intellect, with that eye
which sees far below the sur¬
face of any base metal worked
by civilized man ? Should
Bawke go first ?

Or O’Neill—friendly O’Neill
— careless in everything but
his work, open-handed, open-
minded? I thought of the
glee with which he had told
that when he left us he was

30

THE STEAMl) MAGAZINE .

going to meet the great Galloper, most success¬
ful of special correspondents who was just
home red-hot from a battle-field, covered with
Press laurels. Should O’Neill have a chance ?

But myself. I thought of my mother in
that southern seaport—mother, to whom my
promotion brought no joy because it meant
separation. A picture stopped before me—I
saw her and my sister in the little house,
waiting for the chief pleasure of their life,
my weekly letter, and receiving, instead, the
news of my awful death. And pity for them
quickened the instinct of self-preservation
within me.

These men were bachelors like myself—
their claims for life
were no more than
mine, and I had won
the toss. The me¬
chanical action of
tearing off my clothes
had allowed all this
thinking in the
minute consumed by
it. But now I was to
make my attempt.

I took off the
clamps which
fastened the door. It
did not fall, although
a little water oozed
in through the joint.

So I stood on it, my
arms straight above
me. Bawke rushed
towards me as if he
would dispute my
right, and I was ready
for his attack. I
could have killed him
or whomsoever in¬
terfered with me at
that time. However,
he stopped, knelt,
and made ready to
follow my plunge. He evidently thought the
door would not close again, and meant to
endeavour to force himself head-first through
the rising mass of water.

Thinking all this, and much more, as I
stood there with my hands touching the floor
over my head, my finger-tips playing with
particles of grit in the planking, I could
partly realize some of the sensations of a
felon as he feels the gallows-trap giving way
under his feet. Suddenly the heavy cover
swung downwards and I slid out. I was
conscious of struggling, of abrasion, of semi¬
suffocation. Then I was free amongst some

effervescing liquid, and I felt myself fumbling
around the hull of our prison. Then a
rapid ascent into growing light—a rough hug
from strong hands—and I was hauled into
one of the boats even then searching for us.

I looked around, water in my eyes, many
questions in my ears. Big bubbles showed
there was strife between air and water below,
but Bawke did not appear. It was evident
that the rush of water had closed the door,
and that the air-pressure was insufficient to
allow of its being opened a second time.

The foreman in charge of that part of the
dock said, after a few hurried words of
explanation and wonderment had passed :

“ I expect she’s got
nipped between them
two piles there. They
seemed to be forced
apart; the one on the
left has only been
driven in a few feet.”

“ Then it can be
shifted easily,” I
shouted.

I took in a great
gasp of air, the value
of which, boundless
around me, I had
never estimated; and
as I thought of those
below with it doled
out to them, price¬
less, I felt equal to
any effort. Hurrah !
Those giant logs
should be drawn
further apart, and the
Watch Below should
be released. “ We
must heave that
highest pile over. To
it, my men ! Fore¬
man, you must have
blocks and tackle in
your shed yonder. We’ll have ’em up.”

We all scrambled ashore and rushed to the
shed, where we found the gear we required.
Speedily the tackle was stretched from the
top of the pile, which stood high above its
neighbour, to a fixed log on shore, giving us
a straight lead for pulling the pile over in
the best direction.

“ Now, yeave-ho, m’ lads, pull like men
and not like women. Yeave-ho, break the
rope. That shakes her. Heave away,
m’ lads ; show ’em what you can do. Pull
away, m’ hearties.”

We were all on the rope, digging our heels

“i STOOD ON IT, MY ARMS STRAIGHT ABOVE ME.”

THE TRIAL OF THE “WATCH BELOW.

»

into the soft earth—a tug-of-war with men’s
lives as the prize. Slowly, slowly, the timber
yielded and opened like the jaw of some
monster unwilling to give up its prey. But,
as it came over more and more, the resist¬
ance was greater.

“ Pull, m’ lads, pull, give her fits ; now
then, all together. I wish I had our crane
here,” gasped the foreman, who was working
like two men ; “ here are the rails, and it
could be run along, but steam’s not up.”

“ Pull, lads, pull. Grim death is against
us ; tug away, we’ll beat him yet. Now—a
supreme effort! ”

Merciful Heaven, is she coming ? She is !
A foaming, a shout from the foreman to the
men in the boats : “ Back your oars, there,”
a swirling of propellers, and her stern

3i

He answered, hesitatingly: “ Yes ; shipped
a lot of water,” and disappeared as if pulled
away from below.

O’Neill then put out his head, and said, in
his usual tones : “ Faith, my boy, this is a
narrow squeak. Have you got those notes
safe ? ”

“ Boulger—Mackey ! ” I ejaculated. “ How
are they ? ”

“ Boulger’s silly and Mackey’s insensible,
but otherwise I believe they’re all well,
barring Mackey’s leg. Shall I come out this
way ? ”

“ No, no; we’ll get the main hatch open,”
1 answered.

This was done, and Mackey was handed
out as he had predicted, but very limp.
Boulger was still dazed, and I led him away,

A SWIRLING OF PROPELLERS, AND HER STERN APPEARED.”

appeared. Rolling violently, she was float¬
ing at an angle, but righted, the emergency
door well out of the water, the main hatch
just clear, the look-out cowl all snug and
undamaged.

I jumped into a boat, which was rowed to
her when the rolling had diminished and her
engines had stopped. To my perfect joy the
door was pushed open, and I saw Bawke,
who looked at me, but said nothing.

“ Is all well ? ” I demanded.

after regaining and donning my soddened
clothes.

Boulger recovered and Mackey recovered,
but the Watch Below was doomed. Many
of her patents were sold, however, and few
submarine boats are now designed without
owing something to the two inventors. They
earned about as much as they had spent, and
so, as O’Neill remarked, “ The only good
turn the Watch Beloiv did them was when
she saved their lives.”

A Peep into “ Punch

Part VII.—1875 to 1879.

By J. Holt Schooling.

[ The Proprietors of “ Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection firom Mr. Punch's famous pages. ]

potent influence which broke the great
Gladstone Government of 1868-1874 was,
probably, “ the fact that people in general
had grown tired of doing great things, and
had got into the mood of the lady described
in one of Mr. Charles Reade’s novels, who
frankly declares that heroes are her abomina¬
tion. The English constituencies had grown
weary of the heroic, and would have a
change.”

Whatever was the cause of Gladstone’s fall

The New Shepherd. —Hartington (new hand, just taken
on). “ Hey, hut Measter !—Where be the Sheep ? ”

I.— BY TENNIEL, 1875.

N the Tenniel-cartoon, No. 1, John
Bright is giving to Lord Harting¬
ton (now the Duke of Devonshire)
the shepherd’s crook, on the staff
of which is written “ Liberal
Leadership.” This cartoon was published
February 13,

1875, and in 1874
“the great Liberal
Administration
had fallen as
suddenly as the
French Empire ;
had disappeared
like Aladdin’s
palace, which was
erect and ablaze
with light and
splendour last
night, and is not
to be seen this
morning.” Mr.

Justin McCarthy
has also recorded
that the most

A Picture Puzzle. — Tenor Warbler (with passionate emphasis on the
first Words of each Line). “ Me-e-e-c-e-t me once again, Me-e-e-e-t me
once aga-a-ain-”

(Why does the Cat suddenly jump up off the Hearth-rug , rush to the
Door, and make frantic endeavours to get out ?]

3. —BY DU MAURIER, 1875.

Gross Neglect of Duty. —Sunday School Teacher.
“ What did your Godfathers and Godmothers then for you?”

Sunday School Dunce. “Nothing at all, Miss—neither then
nor since ! ” 2.— by du maurier, 1875.

in 1874, his dismissal from power caused him
to almost withdraw from Parliamentary life

anddrom the poli¬
tical world. “ It
seemed clear [in
1875-J. H. S.]
that Mr. Glad¬
stone never
meant to take
any leading part
in politics again,”
and he made
himself busy with
the writing of
controversial
essays. In these
c i rcumstances
the Leadership
of the much-
reduced Liberal
Party in the

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

33

House of Commons was, on the
nomination of John Bright, passed
on to Lord Hartington—hence the
cartoon in No. i, in which the New

“A Parthian Shaft.”— Cook. “Now I’m a
Leavin’ of yer, M um, 1 may as well Tell yer as the
Key o’ the Kitching-Door fits your Store-Room ! ”
4. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1875.

Jumping at Conclusions. —Ethel {muck impressed). ‘‘0, Miss

Grumph, do look ! That must be Adam ! ”

6.— BY DU MAURIER, 1875.

But the selection of Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman
answered that question.

Pictures 2 and 3 are by Du Maurier; the piece of
social satire in No. 3 is very amusing, and—thank
goodness !—we do not now have inflicted upon us at
social gatherings nearly so much of the amateur sing¬
ing as was pressed upon the group of guests in No. 3,

Shepherd asks, “ Hey, but Measter !— Where
be the Sheep ? ” A few months ago, curiously
enough, the position was reversed, and the
Liberal sheep were asking, in 1899, “Hey,
but Measter!—Where be the Shepherd?”

Punch, a Martyr. —“ O, I say, I’ve such a Capital Story

for you. My little Niece, only Two Years old-”

7. —BY W. RALSTON, 1875.

who are momentarily aroused from stifled
boredom by their appreciation of the cat’s
just act.

There is a little gem of a Keene in No. 4.
Just look at the attitude of the departing
cook, and at her facial expression.

TenniePs picture in No. 5 refers to the
Prince of Wales’s visit to India in 1875.
No. 6 is by Du Maurier—a fine piece of
work—and No. 7, by W. Ralston, shows very
cleverly Mr. Punch’s resignation under a
trial ol his patience. Many of Mr. Punch’s
own stories and jokes have been dished up

34

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

Hard of Hearing. — Polite Stranger (in a hurry, think¬
ing he had grazed an Old Gentleman s ankle). ** Beg Pardon !”
Old Gentleman. “ Eh?”

Polite Stranger (louder). “ I beg your Pardon ! ”

Old Gentleman (unconscious of any hurt). “ Why? ”

Polite Stranger. “ I’m afraid I kicked you-”

Old Gentleman. “ Eh ? ”

Polite Stranger (shouting). “ I kicked you.”

Old Gentleman (surprised). “ Wha’ for?”

Polite Stranger. “ It was quite by Accident.”

Old Gentleman (not catching it). “ Eh ? Peg your Pard-”

Polite Stranger (roaring in his ear). Accident.' ”

Old Gentleman (starting). “ Bless my Soul ! You don’t say

So! Where? Where? I hope nobody’s killed-”

[.Polite Stranger rushes off, and loses his Train /]

8.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1875.

over and over again in other papers, and on
this score a New York correspondent writes
to me : “ Permit me to say that your Punch
articles are accomplishing a great work in
exposing a class of comic artists here who
have prospered on their filchings from for¬
gotten back numbers of that estimable paper.’’

Arms for the proposed new West-End Stock Exchange. (To
he placed over the principal Entrance.) On a chevron vert, a
Pigeon plucked proper, between three Rooks peckant, clawed
and beaked gules. Crest: a Head Semitic grtnnant, winkant,
above two pipes laid saltierwise, argent, environed with a halo
of Bubbles or. Supporters : a Bull and Bear rampant sable,
dented, hoofed and clawed gules. Motto : “ Let us prey.”

9. —BY LINLEY SAMBOURNE, 1875.

No. 8 is another splendidly clever Keene-
drawing. In No. 9 there is a smart coat-
of-arms and motto for the proposed new

Oh ! Horror !—Tommy (suddenly—on his 70 ay home from
Church). “ What did you take out of the Bag, Mamma ! /

only got Sixpence ! Look here ! ”

IO. — BY DU MAURIER, 1876.

West-end Stock Exchange. The motto, “ Pet
us prey,” is very happily chosen. The tempt¬
ingly-worded advertisements of the “ outside ”

“New Crowns for Old Ones!” (Aladdin adapted.)

II.—BY TENNIEL, 1876.

stockbrokers, with which we are so familiar,
ought not to be so successful as they often
are, if people would only reflect that the
money spent upon publishing these advertise-

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.» 35

merits, if invested by the advertising stock¬
broker himself in one of his “cover-systems”
(instead of in advertising), would very soon
automatically turn into a small fortune—if
the “ cover-system ” and every other system
of gambling were not, as they are, absolutely
worthless (except as a base for ingeniously
plausible traps to catch the public).

Glancing at No. 10, we see in No. 11
Benjamin Disraeli (as the magician in
Aladdin who offered “New lamps for old
ones ”) offering the Crown of India to the
■Queen in exchange for the Crown of England.
This cartoon was published April 15, 1876,
the year in which, on Disraeli’s initiative,

Over-Weighted. — Britannia. “Look here, Father Nep!
I can t stand it much longer! Who’s to ‘ rule the waves ’ in this
sort of thing? ” 12.—by tenniel, 1876.

the Queen formally assumed the title of
Empress of India. In August, 1876, there
was published another cartoon by Tenniel,
entitled “ Empress and Earl ; or, one good
turn deserves another.” Disraeli had just
been created Earl of Beaconslield, arid in
the cartoon (not shown here) the Empress
is placing an Earl’s coronet on Beaconsfield’s
head.

The Tenniel-cartoon in No. 12 refers to
the building of the Inflexible ’, which was
protected with very heavy armour-plates.
1 he comely figure of Britannia presses
heavily on her shield : notice how well Sir
John Tenniel has given to this comely

Dignity and Impudence. (A Reminiscence of the Great
Ball at the Guildhall.) Impudence (to Dignity). “Ye’d better
look sharp, my Lord, ir yer wants to be in Time for Supper !
Why, the Tripe and-Onions is all gone, and so’s the Liver-and-
Bacon ; and blest if they hain’t sendin’ round the Corner for all
the Fried Fish as they can lay 'old on ! ”

T3.—BY DU MAURIER, 1876.

female figure the exact pose of being over¬
weighted.

There is a good drawing by Du Maurier in
No. 13, and No. 14 is a vivid picture of
despair by Charles Keene.

In the important Tenniel-cartoon, No. 15,
Lord Beaconsfield, Prime Minister in 1876,
is bringing Lord Salisbury to the front in
foreign affairs. The football is labelled
Eastern Question, and Lord Beaconsfield says
to Sir Henry Elliott, the English Ambassador
at Constantinople: “There, stand out of the
way, Elliott !—We’ve got a stronger man ! ”
This was in November, 1876, when there was
much friction between England and Russia
on the subject of Turkey.

Despair.— Brown has locked his. Portmanteau with one of
those Letter Padlocks, and forgotten the Word that Opens it !
[Only Ten Minutes to Dinner!]

14. — BY CHARLES KEENE, 1876.

36

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A Fresh “ Kick Off.”—B eaconsfielcl {Captain). “There, stand out of
the way, Elliott !—We’ve got a stronger man ! ”

15.— BY TENNIEL, 1876.

No. 16 is a very fine bit of characterization by
Charles Keene. James, the Scots beadle, who is
strongly suspected of larceny, is a marvellously clever
representation of deep, imperturbable, crafty guile, as
he calmly suggests to the horrified minister that the

“ Splitting the Difference.*'— Presbyterian Minister (portentously}.
“James, this is a very dreadful Thing! You have heard there is One
Pound missing from the Box ! ”

James (the Beadle , who is strongly suspected ). “ ’Deed, Sir, so they were
tellin’ me-”

Minister (solemnly). “James! You and I alone had Access to that
Box-”

James. “ It’s just as ye say, Sir—it must lie between us Twa ! An’ the
best way’ll be, you to Pay the tae Half, an’ I’ll Pay the tither, an’ say na’
mair aboot it !” 16.— by Charles keene, 1876.

theft “ must lie between us Twa,”
proposes to pay one half each, “ an’
say na’ mair aboot it ! ” The more
one looks at Charles Keene’s work,
being on one’s guard not to overlook
its masterly artistic quality by reason
of its great ease and naturalness,
the more one realizes that only a
supreme artist could have drawn
these pictures.

We pity the poor little boy in
No. 17, and in looking at No.
we observe that the architect’s em¬
barrassment is caused by his mis¬
interpretation of the old pew-opener’s
innocent remark as to the bad con¬
dition of the pulpit in the church
which is to be restored. The half-
startled, half-suspicious glance of the
clergyman at his trusted pew-opener

The Round of the Studios. —JEstheticParty
(to Child of the House). “ Tell me, Little Boy, was
it your Father who Painted this exquisite Copy of
one of Luca Signorelli’s most exquisite Master¬
pieces? ”

Child of the House (in great trepidation).
“ Boo-hoo-oo-oo—I want Nursey !”

17.— BY DU MAURIER, 1877.

— as the double meaning of her
remark strikes him also—is another
of those life-like bits of absolutely
true expression with which Charles
Keene’s work abounds. Look at
poor Tam’s face in No. 19—a per¬
fect expression of disappointment
and vexation, mixed with half-
heartedly-hopeless entreaty.

Glancing at No. 20, we see in
No. 21 another very fine bit of work
by Charles Keene. “ Wha’s catchin’
Fesh?” retorts the disgusted small
Scots boy, who has not had a rise

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

37

drawing of this is very fine, very
true. The long - suffering master
appeals to his old servant so simply
and in such entire good faith as he
says, “Ah, James! Think how long
I’ve put up with her ! ” There is
not a shadow of a doubt in either

all the morning, to the minister’s reproof, “ Don’t you
know it’s Wicked to catch Fish on the Sawbath ? ”
There is no exaggeration, no caricature of expression
in the work of Charles Keene : it is just real bits of life
truly caught and most wonderfully expressed in line.
The injured feeling of the boy and his disgust, his full
intention to reply rudely and shortly to the
minister who has just touched him on a very
sore place, are all expressed in the few
masterly lines that make this boy a real boy,
and exactly the sort of boy he ought to be in
the circumstances stated.

Passing No. 22, by Keene, we come to a
joke illustrated by Du Maurier which has
often been served up afresh since it first
appeared in Punch , in the year 1S77. The

V* -

Expensive \—Londoner (to Friend from the North). “
how do you like the Opera, MacAlister?”

Mr. MacAlister. “ No that bad. But is’t no dreadfu’,
to be sittin’ in thae Chairs at Ten Shilluns apiece ! ”

20.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877.

man’s mind as to the fact that the “ Missus ”
was a person to be “ put up with,” and the
reluctance of the servant to put up with
his Missus any longer is as plainly shown as
is the conviction of his master that he at

Dilapidations. —Architect (who has come down about the “ Restora¬
tion "). “ Good deal of Dry-Rot about here ! ”

Garrulous Pew-Opener. “ Oh, Sir, it ain’t nothink to what there is in the
Pulpit ! ! ” 18. — BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877.

“ Not Proven.” —Presbyterian Minister. “ Don’t you know it’s Wicked
to catch Fish on the Sawbath ! ? ”

Small Boy (not having had a rise all the Morning). “ Wha’s catchin’
Fesh?!” 21.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877.

Candid. — Tam (very dry, at door of Country Inn, Sunday any rate is doomed tO put Up with the

“ A y e > Mon > > re micht * me a blt Gin oot in a Missus for the

rest of his natural life. You

Landlord (from within). “ Weel, ye ken, Tammas, I daurna
sell onything the Day. And forbye ye got a Half-Mutchkin awa’
wi’ ye last Nicht (after Hoors tae) ; it canna be a’ dune yet! ”
Tam. “Dune! Losh, Mon, d’ye think a' could Sleep an’
Whuskey i’ the Hoose ? ! ”

19.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877.

see plainly that this poor man will never
revolt, and that James is weighing his regard
for his master against his inability to endure
his mistress any longer.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Plain to Demonstration. —Customer (nervously), “Ah!
They must be very Irksome at first.”

Dentist (exultantly). “Not a bit of it, Sir! Look here,
Sir!” (Dexterously catching his entire set.) “Here’s my
Uppers, and here’s my Unders !”

22. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1877.

This picture by Du Maurier and many
more of his earlier pictures do not incur the
risk of being pronounced not true to life
by reason of the artist’s great love of
beautiful faces and forms, a love that in
some of Du Maurier’s later work caused him
to sacrifice truth of expression to that
idealization of face and form which is so
well known a feature of his work—especially
of his later work.

The exaggeration in No. 24 is necessary to
give point to the joke, and passing No. 25
we come to an impressive Tenniel-cartoon,

A Discussion on Character. —“ I believe that Character
lies in the Nose. ‘Give me plenty of noseas Napoleon
said ! ”

“ Nose? Nose be Blowed ! Character lies in the Chin and
Lower Jaw ! ”

24.— BY DU MAURIER, 1877.

No. 26, that takes us back to the foreign
affairs of twenty years ago, when we were on
the brink of war with Russia. This was
published January 19, 1878; Lord Beacons-
field was in power, his will was supreme in
the Cabinet, and it was feared that he would
lead the country into war over the Eastern
Question already referred to in cartoon
No. 15.

But now, in 1878, the crisis was more
severe. The Russians had beaten the Turks,
and their victorious armies were almost within
sight of Stamboul. The road to Constanti-

“A Fellow-Feeling Makes us Wondrous Kind.”—
11 What! Going to Leave us, James?”

“ Yes, Sir, I'm very sorry, Sir, but I really can’t put up with
Missus any longer !”

“ Ah, James ! Think how long I've put up with her !

23. —BY DU MAURIER, 1877.

The LastSei.l.— “Oh, Sir, please Sir, is this Chancery Lane? ’
“ It is.”

“ Ah ! I knowed it was !”

“ Then why did you ask?”

“ ’Cos I wanted to have Counsel’s opinion !”

25. —BY DU MAURIER, 1878.

A PEEP INTO u PUNCH

39

nople'was clear, and we did not mean , to let
Russia have Turkey. Parliament met before
the usual time, the Queen’s Speech announced
that “some unexpected occurrence may
render it incumbent on me to adopt measures
of .precaution,"” there was, says Mr. Justin
McCarthy, “a very large and very noisy war

On the Dizzy Brink.— Lord B. “Just a leetle nearer the
edge ?”

Britannia. “ Not an inch further. I’m a good deal nearer
than is pleasant already ! ”

26.— BY TENNIEL, 1878.

party already in existence. It was particularly
strong in London.” The events which gave
rise to this cartoon, No. 26, also gave rise to
the famous Jingo Party—the party who were
in favour of war. Then arose the music-hall
war-song so familiar to many of us now, that
we are startled to think that more than

An Eye to Business. —Shipwrecked Party (who sees his
7 uay to supply “ A Sketch on the Spot ” to the Illustrated
Papers). “ Beg pardon, but do you happen to have such a
Thing as a piece of India Rubber ! ? ”

27.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1878.

Pauca Verba. —Robinson (after a long Whist-Bout at the
Chtb). “ It’s awfully Late, Brown. What will you say to your
Wife? ”

Brown (in a whisper). “ Oh, I shan’t say much, you know—
* Good Morning, Dear,’ or something o’ that sort. She’ll Say
the Rest!! ! ” 28.— by Charles keene, 1878.

twenty years have passed since we first
heard it roared out:—

We don’t want to fight, but, by Jingo, if we do,
We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men, we’ve got
the money, too.

In March, 1878, Lord Derby resigned the
office of Foreign Secretary, war seemed more
certain than ever, and then, for the first time,
Lord Salisbury was made Minister of Foreign
Affairs—in the place of Lord Derby.

New Idea for a Fancy Ball. —Shave your Head, and go
as a Phrenological Bust.

29.— BY DU MAURIER, 1878.

Soon after this, Lord Beaconsfield and
Lord Salisbury attended the famous Congress
of Berlin, there to represent England in
settling the terms of peace in Europe, which
should disperse the war-clouds hanging over

40

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

this country.

The result of
that memorable
journey to Berlin
was the historic
“Peace with
Honour/’ words
that will always
be linked with
the name of
Beaconsfield, and
which were first
spoken by him¬
self when, from
a window of the
Foreign Office,

Beaconsfield an¬
nounced to the

excited crowd that he had returned
Berlin bringing “ Peace with Honour.”

Passing Nos. 27, 28, and 29, in No. 30 we
have a picture by Charles Keene which has
interest quite apart from its intrinsic value.
The man sits there in his room, window wide
open, and shows in his face that he knows
the victory is with him and his bag-pipes, not
with the quite discomfited German band

Put to the Rout. — Distracted Bandster. “ Komm avay— komm avay —
ee zhall nod give you nodingsh—ee vill blay de Moozeek erselbst ! Teufel ! ”
30. — by Charles keene, 1878. [They retreat hastily.}

from

outside, who are
already beginning
their retreat from
the man who will
play the music
himself. The ex¬
trinsic interest of
this picture by
Keene is that
Keene himself
was a great lover
of the bag-pipes,
and made a very
large and varied
collection of
them — we may
be sure that the
pipes seen in
the life out of his

No. 30 were drawn from
own collection.

The next cartoon—No 31—is, I think, the
best of those now shown. It is by Tenniel,
and is surely a marvellously clever drawing.
Not only is the differentiation of the charac¬
ters in the cartoon most definitely conceived
nnd expressed, but the picture looked at as a
whole strikes the imagination very vividly.

Here are Mr. Gladstone and Lord
Beaconsfield, caught by Dr. Punch
in the act of flinging mud at each
other, and “ the two head boys of the

A Bad Example.—#**. Punch. “What’s all this? You, ihe two head

boys of the school, throwing mud! You ought to be ashamed of your¬
selves l" 3T. — BY TENNIEL, 1878.

“ Retort Courteous.” —Facetious Old Gent
(to Passenger with a Saw). “You show your
Teeth, Sir.” (Chuckles.)

Crusty Carpenter. “ You don’t. 'Cause why?
—Y’ ain’t got none ! ”

32.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1878.

school ” don’t know where to look.
The half hang - dog expression of
Beaconsfield’s face and figure are
irresistibly funny, and Gladstone
looks so grimly in earnest, although

4i

A‘PEEP INTO “ PUNCH. ”

At the Head of the Profession. —Scene.— Prisoners'
Waiting-Room adjoining Police Court. (Eminently respect¬
able Director awaiting Examination.')

Artful Dodger (to Charley Bates). “You’ve been copped for
a Till—-and me for a Cly. But ’e’s been copped for a Bank—
shared somethin’ like six million swag among the lot ! ”

Charley Bates (in a tone of respectful admiration). “ Lor ! ”
33.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1878.

not without a resentful shame at being caught,
and a sullen resolve to be at it again when
Dr. Punch and his cane have gone away.

This cartoon was published August io,
1878, at the time when the great popularity
of Beaconsfield’s Administration of 1874-
1880 (at its climax after the Berlin Treaty of
1878) was just on the turn of the flowing
tide of success. Mr. Parnell, then a young
man, was beginning to harass and discredit

the Government, which was also being cen¬
sured by the Liberals in respect of foreign
affairs, and Mr. Gladstone and Lord Beacons-
fleld had become “ unparliamentary ” in
their “ personal shies ” of abuse and recrimi¬
nation.

The stolid bluffness of the crusty carpenter
in No. 32 is very good. Keene’s cartoon in
No. 33 (published November 2, 1878) refers
to the suspension of the City of Glasgow
Bank on October 1, 1878, with liabilities
estimated at ^13,000,000, followed by heavy
failures in the mercantile world. Some of
the directors of the bank were arrested, tried
for fraud, and convicted, and it is at one of

Parried. —Facetious Parson (to Parishioner , who is not
believed to be a rigid Abstainer). “Ah, Mr. Brown! Fools
stand in slippery places, I’ve heard ! ”

Mr. Bi-own (the footpath was in a frightful state). “ So I
see, Sir ; but I’m blest if I can ! ”

35. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1879..

them, who is awaiting the preliminary magis¬
terial examination, that the Artful Dodger
and Charley Bates (from Dickens’s
“Oliver Twist”) gaze with respectful
admiration, as being a man who is
at the tip-top of their own profession
of thieving and swindling

No. 34, by Charles Keene, pub¬
lished in 1879, illustrates the then
deplorable state of affairs in Ireland
which in May, 1882, caused the
terrible murder of Lord Frederick
Cavendish and Mr. Burke in Phoenix
Park, Dublin.

There is a very famous joke in
No. 35, one that has become a classic
since it was published by Punch
twenty years ago.

The next Keene-picture, No. 36,
has in it nothing to attract admiration

“A Pi. e as a NT Prospect.” — Car-Driver (to New Agent). “ Begorra,
the wondher is he wasn’t Shot long before—but, shure, they say, what’s
Iverybody’s Business is Nobody’s Business ! ”

34. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1879.

Vol. xviii.—6.

42

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

if we look for “ prettiness.’ 5 Two
nasty little vulgar girls have been
quarrelling, and the bigger girl
viciously says to the other, “ Yer

“There’s A Divinity Doth Hedge,” etc.—
Juvenile “ Scold." “ Yer nasty little Thing !„ If
yer Father wasn’t a P’liceman, I’d smack yer ! ”

36. —BY. CHARLES KEENE, 1879.

1,000 mem. We had fallen into, the old pitfall
of despising the enemy, just as a hundred years
before the massacre at. Isandhlwana we regarded
the American War of Independence as a mere
rebellion in omrcolonies,and sent out half-a-dozen
ships to stop, the rebellion which, on the 4th July,
1776, resulted in the famous Declaration of Inde-

Charity Begins At Home. — Tommy.. “ What beastly Waste 1 ”
3&..—BY DU MAUHLER, 1879.

nasty little Thing ! If yer Father wasn’t a
P’liceman, I’d smack yer ! ”

There is an historic Tenniel-cartoon in No.
37. It was published March i, 1879, after
the horrible blunder at Isandhlwana on
January 22^ 1879, when the Zulus simply
wiped out one of our columns of about

A LESSON.

37'.— BY TENNIEL, 1879.

Illli 1 BE V-/ tv r W - ' .

had a rise all day). “ There! ” (Throwing’ hisjly-hook tnto

the stream,, with a- matedictian.)' — ■* Take your Choice .

39,.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1879.

pendence of the United States of America.
But John Bull is able to learn a lesson
from disaster. In 1879, Sir John Tenniel
squatted him down on the stool we see in
the cartoon, and set a Zulu, to write the
lesson on the slate—quite plain. John Bull
sat still, looked on—and learnt his lesson.

A PEEP INTO u PUNCH.

43

“Live And Let Live.”— Village Doctor (to the Grave-
Digger, who is given to Whiskey). “Ah, John! I’m sorry to
see you in this pitiable Condition again ! ”

Grave-Digger. “Toots, Sir! Can ye no’ let a’e little Fau’t
o’ mine gae by? It’s mony a muckle ane o’ yours I ha’e happit
owre, an’ said naething aboot! ”

40. — BY CHARLES KEENE, 1879.

In September, 1898, we saw one of the
results of the lesson taught to John Bull in
1879 by the Zulu in this Tenniel-cartoon.
Slow and steady, swift and sure, Lord
Kitchener kept this lesson that John Bull
was taught in 1879 right before his eyes
during the years of preparation for the final
victory at Omdurman ; and John Bull can
now almost afford to sponge the Zulu’s lesson
off the slate, for it has been driven right
home by success
as well as by
disaster.

Glancing at
No. 38, we come
to another very
fine Keene-pic-
ture in No. 39.

The fisherman
stamps and
almost bursts
with impotent
rage as at the
end of a whole
day’s fishing
without a single
rise he bangs his
fly-book into the
stream with a
“Take your
Choice!”—about

all he has left to say. He has long since
exhausted his stock of curses — you can
see that, clearly, by looking at the man’s
face.

Observe the grave-digger’s face in No. 40,
and see how it exactly agrees with the reply
he is making to the village doctor. Don’t
look only at the jokes, for good as these
often are (this one, for example), they

Taking Measure.— Tailor (to stout Customer). “Have
the kindness to put your Finger on this bit of Tape, Sir,—just
here ! I'll be round in a Minute! ”

41.— BY DU MAURIER, 1879.

become almost insignificant by the side of
Charles Keene’s illustration of the joke.
Pictures. 41 and 42 are both by Du
Maurier, and
although No. 42
is burdened by a
rather long piece
of “cackle,” it is
well worth inclu¬
sion here, espe¬
cially to those
readers who will
appreciate the
full meaning of
this admirable
woman’s solici¬
tude that her
husband may be
quite fit to meet
the Consulting
Physician of the
Life Insurance
Company early
to-morrow.

The Force of Example. — Jones (newly married, to his bachelo
P c Tf Brown and Robinson). “No, it’s not Youth, nor Beauty, no
Wealth, nor Rank, that a sensible Man should look for in a Wife It'
Common Sense, united to experience of life ; and Steadfastness of Purpose
combined with a deep though by no means unpractical sense of the fieetin

nature of Human Existence on this-”

Re-enter Mrs. Jones , suddenly. “ I’m sorry to disturb you, my Love, bu
its getting late, and you have an early appointment in Town to-morrow
with the Consulting Physician of the—ahem !—of that Life Insuranc
Company, you know.

[ Taking the hint. Brown and Robinson depart, each framing a dcsperat
resolve that he will throw himself away on the drst ood-looking youm
Heiress of Title he happens to meet.] s J

42. —BY DU MAURIER, 1879.

(To be continued.)

From Behind the Speaker's Chair.

LIII.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

TAR LI A-
MENTARY
REFORMS.

WHEN we consider the succes¬
sion of amendments and im¬
provements in Parliamentary pro¬
cedure that has marked the
course of the last twenty years, it is reason¬
able to expect the factory at Westminster to
at least double its output of legislation.
There are in the present House some (sur¬
prisingly few) members who can recall the
good old times when the House, commenc¬
ing public business at half-past four, thought
Ministers fortunate if the first,
order of the day were reached
before seven o’clock.

In those halcyon days mem¬
bers putting a question delighted
themselves, their wives and
daughters in the gallery, by
reading aloud its every word.

The Irish members, quick to
see innocent-looking openings
for obstruction, seized upon
what was ironically called “ the
question hour.” They put
down innumerable questions of
prodigious length with as much
sting directed against the
Saxon — particularly Mr.

Forster and Mr. George Tre-
velyan, successively Irish Secre¬
taries—as the vigilance of the
clerks at the table permitted.

This went on for years, the
House being relieved of the
incubus by the intervention of
Mr. Joseph Cowen,, then mem¬
ber for Newcastle. Fie pointed
out that the questions being
printed on a paper held in every
member’s hand there was no
necessity for reading the text,
gested that citation of the
suffice.

“ ARISING
OUT OF
THAT
ANSWER.”

and sug-
number would
The Speaker assented, and thus
by an unpremeditated stroke the House was
relieved from an intolerable burden. If
there is room for more statues in the
precincts of the House of Commons, or for
a fresh stained-glass window in the Octagon
Hall, a grateful Legislature should not forget
“ Joe ” Cowen.

There was another outrage on
the question hour that long
survived this radical reform. The
fact that there were only ninety
or a hundred printed questions
on the paper did not, up to a period
not more distant than the coming of Mr.
Gully to the Chair, indicate the precise
amount of time that would be appropriated
for the service. When a printed question
had been replied to, up got the gentleman
responsible for it or some other
member, and repeating the for¬
mula, “ Arising out of that
answer,” another question was
put. Members opposite, above
or below the gangway, thinly
veiling a controversial point in
the garb of a question, followed,
and quite a sharp debate lasting
over several minutes sprang up.

Mr. Sexton excelled all others
in this art. On an average a
question on the printed list
standing in his name was the
prelude to five others, each
“ arising out of the answer just
given.” Not the least valuable
of the services rendered by Mr.
Gully during his occupancy of
the Chair has been stern re¬
pression of this irregularity. The
Orders, or rather the custom of
the House, make it permissible
that a Minister having replied
to a question on the paper a
member may without notice put
a further question designed to
elucidate a point left obscure.
He may not at the moment start
on a new tack. Under Mr. Gully’s alert super¬
vision it is amazing to find how little a
Minister leaves unanswered of questions set
forth on the paper.

The deliberate and noisy pro¬
longation of questions was only
one of the opportunities for
obstruction the question hour in¬
vited mutinous members to avail
themselves of. The license of supplementary

PARLIAMENTARY BENE¬
FACTOR— MR. JOSEPH
COWEN.

MOVING

THE

ADJOURN¬

MENT.

FROM BEHIND THE SEE AXE EE CHAIR.

45

questions frequently worked the House into
an uncontrollable storm of passion. In the
midst of it would be heard a voice exclaim¬
ing, “ I move that this House do now
adjourn.” The member who spoke, how¬
ever personally obscure, was by the utterance
of this incantation master of the whole
Parliamentary proceedings. The business of
the day, whatever it might be, of whatever
range of Imperial importance, was peremp¬
torily set aside, and on this formal motion
the flood of angry temper rushed forth un¬
controlled, occupying as much of the sitting
as physical endurance made possible.

A little more than nineteen years
a famous ago this month there was a scene

scene, in the House of Commons that
illustrates the working of what
were ironically called its rules* Mr. O’Donnell
had a question on the paper making a violent
personal attack on M. Challemel-Lacour, just
appointed French
Ambassador at the
Court of St. James.

Sir Charles Dilke,

Under-Secretary for
Foreign Affairs at
the time, made due
answer. Where¬
upon Mr. O’Donnell
rose and began to
make a speech en¬
larging on the
indictment set forth
on his printed
question.

That su-ch a
course of procedure
was permissible will appear incredible to
members of the present House of Commons.
Mr. O’Donnell, as usual when combating
authority in the House of Commons, knew
what he was about. Attempts being made
to stop him, he quietly replied, “I will
conclude by a motion,” meaning that he
would move the adjournment of the House.

Gulliver bound by the manifold threads of
the pigmies of Liliput was not more helpless
than was the Imperial House of Commons
in the hands of the member for Dungarvan.
Mr. Gladstone, distraught, took the extreme
course of moving that Mr. O’Donnell be not
heard. That was a bold last card for the
Premier to play. Mr. Parnell easily trumped
it. Mr. O’Donnell had moved the adjourn¬
ment of the House. Mr. Parnell now moved
the alternative obstructive motion — the
adjournment of the debate. For eight hours
by Westminster clock the angry storm of

words waged. At one o’clock in the morning
Mr. O’Donnell retired triumphant from the
scene, and the wearied House, with nice
assumption of nothing having happened in
the interval, proceeded with the list of
questions.

Gentlemen of England, who live at ease
in the House of Commons in these last
days of the century, beginning questions at
half-past three, with the certainty that the
Orders of the Day will be reached before
half-past four, and that all will be over by
midnight, find a difficulty in believing that,
less than twenty years ago*, such things might
be. They were,, and it took considerable
repetition and increased aggravation before
the House of Commons shook itself free
from the chains that bound it.

Another, a less dramatic, but, by
balloting, its regular recurrence, not less
effective, block to the advance of
business was the
older manner of
giving notices of
motion. Every
Tuesday evening,
when the long
labour of questions
had been lifted from
the shoulders of the
House, the clerk at
the table unlocked
a box containing a
pile of slips of paper
carefully wrapped
up. These- were
notices of motion,
and the receptacle
was the ballot-box. In full view of the
watchful House the clerk, dipping the out¬
stretched fingers of both hands into the
mass-, lifted them up and stirred them about
as if he were publicly making a plum-pudding.
This was designed to avoid suspicion of
favouritism. Selecting at random one of the
folded pieces of paper, he opened it and read
aloud the number. The Speaker, referring to
a long catalogue, called the name of the
member to which the number was attached.
Thereupon the member rose and recited the
terms of a resolution he proposed to submit
or the name of a Bill he desired to introduce.

On the first night of the Session four Tues¬
days may be balloted for. It being the rule
that a day for private members’ motions may
be secured only a month ahead, it follows that
the weekly ballot thereafter opened only one
opportunity—“thisday four weeks.” Never¬
theless, the whole box of tricks was gone

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

46

MAKING A PUDDING.

through. Every folded paper was opened, the
number called out by the clerk at the table, and
the corresponding name on the list cited by
the Speaker. Then would the stranger in the
gallery be mystified by observing member
after member, his name cried from the Chair,
respond by mutely raising his hat. The prize
of that day four weeks had been snatched by
another hand. Nothing remained. The
succeeding proceedings were a mere formula,
an absolute waste of presumably precious
time. Nevertheless the box had always been
scrupulously emptied, the list gone through
to the bitter and far-off end. So year after year,
in entirely altered circumstances, with the fin-
de-siec/e device of syndicates in full practice
“nobbling” the ballot, the old order of
things prevailed. Just as a flock of sheep
observing the leader jump over an imaginary
obstacle jump at precisely the same spot, so
the House of Commons, the highest develop¬
ment of British intelligence, carried on this
ludicrous game.

Only a few Sessions ago the Speaker intro¬
duced the practice of inquiring as soon as the
available Tuesday was appropriated whether
any other members have motions to bring
forward. Of course they have not. The
box is shut up, the list laid down, and the
business of the day proceeded with.

Once the hand of Parliament is
put to the plough of reform of
procedure it makes a deep, long
furrow. Another tradition which
long dominated the House of
Commons was that private members should
on the opening day publicly announce their

“ARRIVED
IN TOWN
FOR THE
SESSION .’ 1

legislative intentions. This was called giving
notice of motions. It was all very well in
the days when the number was limited to a
dozen or at most a score. In these days, with
special wires to provincial newspaper offices,
and with London correspondents on the look¬
out for the doings of local members, the situa¬
tion is changed. Much as people coming to
town for the season leave cards on a circle of
friends advertising their arrival, so modern
members of Parliament let their constituents
know they are at their post by the costless
contrivance of giving notice of motion on the
opening day of the Session.

In recent times the average aggregate
number exceeded two hundred. The business
was carried on by the process described of
the ballot-box and the list in the Speaker’s
hand. An hour, sometimes an hour and a
half, of the freshest day of the Session was
occupied with a performance that had no
recommendation save its cheap advertising.
Now the balloting is done by the clerks in a
Committee Room upstairs, and a working
hour of the Session is saved.

There remains an obvious con-
bringing sequential reform, whose accorn-
in bills, plishment cannot be long delayed.

Private members having had a
field-day on the first night of the Session,
had another performance all to themselves
on the second day. This is called “ Bringing
in Bills”—a tiresome, objectless performance
that might be dispensed with without in¬
juring the foundations of the State. The
Speaker, reading from his list, recites the
name of a Bill, and asks, “ Who is prepared
to bring in this Bill?” Up rises a private
member, and reads a list of names, modestly
concluding with the not least important
“And Myself.” When the list has been
gone through in monotonous fashion, the
members in charge of Bills crowd the Bar,
are called up one by one by the Speaker,
and hand to the clerk at the table what
purports to be their Bill. The proceeding
is fraudulent, as well as foolish. The docu¬
ment is no Bill at all, merely a sheet of
foolscap folded over and indorsed with a
title.

This Session seventy-one Bills were brought
in. Seventy-one times the Speaker asked,
“Who is prepared to bring in this Bill?”
Seventy-one lists of members were recited
by as many members, concluding, with vary¬
ing inflexions of modesty, “ and Myself.”
Seventy-one members crowded at the Bar.
Seventy-one names were called out by the
Speaker. Seventy-one members marched up

FROM BEHIND THE SEE A EE RE CHAIR.

47

to the table blushing with consciousness of
the sham document carried in their hands.
Seventy-one times the clerk at the table to
whom the fraud was furtively handed read its
title ; seventy-one times the Speaker inquired,
“ What day for the second reading ? ” Three
score and eleven fixtures were made.

It is not worth the trouble of looking up
how many were kept. If when next month
the prorogation take place it appear that the
odd eleven Bills have been added to the
Statute Book, private members may boast a
record Session.

The death of Sir John Mowbray
sir john removes from the House of
moweray. Commons almost the last, cer¬
tainly the best known, of an old
type. In the present assembly its honoured
Father was the only relic of the Parliament
elected in 1852. He was first returned for
Durham in 1853, and sat continuously through
eleven Parliaments. For forty years he bore
the honoured rank of Privy
Councillor. He held modest
office under three Administra¬
tions. Lord Derby called him
to the Treasury Bench first in
1858, renewing the invitation in
1866. When, in 1868, Mr.

Disraeli was Premier he promptly
availed himself of the opportunity
of associating with his Ministry
so fine a type of the English
gentleman. For nearly a quarter
of a century Sir John acted as
chairman of the Committee on
Standing Orders and of the
Committee of Selection.

He lived in and for the
House of Commons, serene in
the surety that he had not a
single enemy. A party man in
the sense that he always spoke
and voted with the Con¬
servatives, he looked with
generous eye on the political
vagaries of others. At a time
when, owing to their violence in
the House of Commons and
suspicion of complicity in crime
in Ireland, Irish members of the
House of Commons were regarded as pariahs,
Sir John Mowbray preserved his personal re¬
lations with such among them as he had known
in quieter times. He was not a persistent
contributor to debate. When he rose he was
listened to with the respect his high character
and far-reaching personal associations with
public men and historic epochs commanded.

He had seen much and, happily, had
preserved clear impressions. Only last
year he gave me a vivid account of the
coronation of William IV. He was at
the time a Westminster boy, and availed
himself of the ancient privilege of the
school to take his place in the Abbey, just
above the benches allotted to peers on the
occasion of the coronation. He saw
Queen Victoria riding in State to be
crowned in the Abbey. He was at this
time at Oxford. When the Queen married,
the youth at Oxford drew up a loyal
address. Young Mowbray had the good
luck to be included in the deputation that
proceeded to London to present it. He told
me he did not remember very much about
the Queen, his attention being concentrated
on the figure of the Duke of Wellington
standing in close attention on his youthful
Sovereign.

“You know,” he said, “I was born just
before the Battle of Waterloo,
and felt I had a sort of connec¬
tion with the Duke.”

Having long passed
“ very the age of fourscore
cold.” the end could not
be far off. It was
undoubtedly hastened by his
insistence upon attending to his
Parliamentary duties*. A rumour
was current that he meant to
retire from Parliamentary life.
He would show everyone that
there was no foundation for
such gossip. So he came up one
bleak spring afternoon, took his
familiar seat above the gangway,
chatted with friends in the lobby,
and went off to have a cup of
tea. A very old friend who sat
at the table with him told me he
after a while withdrew in alarm.
The old man was in such a state
of nervous excitement, talked so
rapidly, coughed so omincftisly,
he thought he would be better
left to himself. A very short time
after Sir John sank back shiver¬
ing in his chair.
u I am very cold,” he said to another
friend, a famous doctor, who approached him
with shy endeavour not to look professional.

It seemed he would die in the House in
which he had lived so long. But they man¬
aged to get him to his own home, where soon
the cold of which he had complained deepened
into the chillness of death. Sir John Mow-

“ BORN JUST BEFORE WATER¬
LOO ”— THE LATE SIR JOHN
MOWBRAY.

4 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE
HOUSE OF
COMMONS’
AIR.

bray was not a great statesman, nor will his
name shine forth from Parliamentary annals
as that of an orator or as a debater. But he
was the kind of men who form the backbone
of the House of Commons, who have built
up and who, whilst they are with us, maintain
its unique reputation.

The lot of the gentleman who
has charge of the ventilation
apparatus in the House of Com¬
mons is, like the policeman’s, not
a happy one. The machinery at
his disposal is the most elaborate, and—
having had longer continuous experience than
the majority of members—I venture to say,
is the most successful in the world. There
is nothing about which two or three people
gathered together more sharply differ than on
the point of temperature. What is one man’s
freezing point is another man’s approach to
suffocation. In
cold weather
there are always
elderly members
sending impera¬
tive injunctions
to have the
te m pe r a t u re
raised, followed
in a quarter of
an hour by
angry protests
from younger
men that they
can scarcely
breathe in so
heated an at¬
mosphere. In
summer time a
window, whether
open or shut, is equally
best thing the engineer
own way, unmindful of
one side or the other.

If any member wants to realize how great
is the blessing of the ventilation machinery of
the House of Commons, he should go over
to “ another place ” on one of the rare
occasions when it is crowded in view of
debate on topics relating either to rent or
religion. The elaborate contrivance that
supplies the House of Commons with fresh
air does not extend to the House of Lords.
That gilded chamber is dependent, like
ordinary halls, upon the manipulation of
the windows. After a few hours’ occupation
by anything approaching a crowd, the atmos¬
phere becomes distinctly stuffy. No matter
ho.vv long or how late or how crowded the

ANNUAL

RETURN.

I! I Hi

A HASTY HATH.

a casus belli. The
can do is to go his
private protests on

House of Commons may sit, the atmosphere
suffers scarcely perceptible change. Ever
fresh draughts of air, drawn in from the
surface of the salubrious Thames, purified
by passage through thick layers of cotton¬
wool, iced in summer, warmed in winter, are
driven up through the open ironwork of the
floor, circulated through the chamber, steadily
passing out by apertures in the roof.

In the good old days of all-night sittings
I have left the House for a hasty bath and
breakfast, and coming back in the brightness
of early morning have found the atmosphere
of the otherwise worn-out House as fresh as
it was when the long sitting opened.

proposed ^ orc * ^ eel te ^ s me a cur i° us
circumstance garnered from his

experience when Speaker. It
was found that whenever discus¬
sion became heated the thermometer which

guides the engi-
neer in his
adjustment of
the temperature
invariably went
up, falling as
soon as order
was restored.

At the end of
each Session
returns are
ordered, show¬
ing among mis¬
cellaneous mat¬
ters how many
days the House
has sat, the
duration of sit¬
tings, the num¬
ber of divisions,
the number of times the closure has been
moved, and the proportion of accept¬
ance by the Speaker or the Chairman of
Ways and Means. Here is suggestion of a
new and significant inquiry. A table marking
the maximum temperature of the House from
day to day, with foot-notes showing the
subjects under discussion, would be most
useful to the student and historian of Parlia¬
mentary manners.

It would be interesting to know (i) what
was the temperature in the House on the
27th of July, 1893, five minutes before the
cry of “Judas!” smote the ear of Mr.
Chamberlain as he stood at the table, genially
comparing Mr. Gladstone to King Herod at
the moment preceding the awful fate follow¬
ing on a reign of unrelieved wickedness; (2)
the temperature marked ten minutes later

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR .

49

when Mr. Hayes Fisher seized Mr. Logan
by the back of the neck and thrust
him forth from the Front Opposition
Bench.

Early in the Session a private
resurgam. measure, The General Power

Distributing Company Bill, was
disposed of by the euphuism of a resolution
declaring that it be “ read a second time
upon this day six months.” That is the
delicate manner in which the House of
Commons, dissembling its love, kicks Bills
downstairs. The idea is that on the appointed
date the House will be in recess. The Bill
confidently coming up to be read a second
time finds the lights are fled, the garlands
dead, and all but he departed.

As the Session advances nearer to its
close accident is averted by reducing the
interval, obnoxious Bills being appointed to be
read a second
time “on this
day three
months.”

In the good
old days, before
the introduc¬
tion of the sav¬
ing ordinance
whereby Sup¬
ply automatic¬
ally closes so
that the pro¬

rogation inevit¬
ably takes place
in the first fortnight of August, there was
always opening for accident. In this par¬
ticular case it was on the 3rd of March the
House resolved to read the Bill a second time.
That would bring it up again on the 3rd of
September. In the storm and stress of Mr.
Gladstone’s prime it was by no means
impossible to find the Session prolonged
into the first week in September.

There is a case wherein the

LORD

denman’s unex P ected happened. Among
little active legislative habits the

SURPRISE. l£l , te , 1 .f rd t00k Char § e

of a Woman’s Suffrage Bill. At
the beginning of every Session he brought it
in, and noble lords, not to be outdone

in the matter of regularity, every Session
threw it out. One year it happened that
the accustomed fate befell his pet measure
in the third week of February. In the fewest
possible minutes the House resolved that the
Bill should “ be read a second time on this
day six months.” Lord Denman, like a well-
known rabbit, lay low and said nuffin. The
Session proved a busy one. Both Houses
were sitting in the third week of August.
One night Lord Denman rose, and blandly
reminding their lordships of the date, claimed
the privilege of having his Bill read a second
time as ordered.

As a rule the House of Lords had Lord
Denman at their feet, hustling about the
poor pathetic figure as if it were a football.
Now he had the House of Lords between
finger and thumb. By some hocus-pocus of
distinction between calendar months and

lunar months
the House wrig¬
gled out of the
difficulty. Lord
Denman car¬
ried his grey
hairs in sorrow
down to the
grave with the
pained certainty
that he had
been cheated
out of the re¬
ward of a rare
opportunity.

Charming thing said by one of
a back Her Majesty’s Ministers about a
view. nominal supporter of the Govern¬
ment whose general bearing does
not endear him to mankind. A tender¬
hearted colleague was trying to make the best
of a bad job.

“ He means well,” he said, “ but is perhaps
a little soured by disappointment. He may,
you know, from his point of view be acting
for the best. Anyhow, let us take the most
favourable view of him possible under all
circumstances.”

“Very well,” said the right honourable
gentleman, with unwonted grimness. “ Let
us see his back.’

LAY LOW AND SAID NUFFIN.”—THE LATE LORD DENMAN.

Vol. xviii.—7.

Launched at Society.

A TALE OF HENLEY REGATTA.
By Victor L. Whitechurch.

TELL you, the curse of our
so - called civilization, in
Western Europe at least, lies
not so much in tyrannical
Governments and fools who
submit to them, as in pleasure
—luxury. What is it that makes men and
women apathetic to the shrieking cries of
humanity? The race-course, the theatre, the
ball-room, the whirl of selfish, social pleasure
and amusement. It is against this that blows
must be directed in the future if we would
achieve our ends. It must not be the single
tyrant struck with the dagger, the public
building ruined with the bomb, unless the
bomb is cast into the theatre rather than into
the council chamber ! ”

These extraordinary words were borne
forcibly upon my ears as I awoke from an
afternoon siesta one sunny day in the be¬
ginning of June.

I was spending a week or two on the
north Cornish coast, and had walked from my
hotel at Tintagel to a charming little inlet
known as Tregarget Strand, taking my lunch
with me in a satchel. After my modest
repast, partaken of at the foot of huge,
rugged cliffs, with the waves breaking in
upon the smooth rocks in the foreground, I
had strolled aimlessly along the shore until
I had hit upon a cave in the cliff. Bent
on exploration, I penetrated this cave for
about twenty yards, sat down on a com¬
fortable rock within, lit my pipe, and gave
myself over to the contemplation of the
sunlit sea sparkling beyond the entrance.
The day was very hot for the time of year,
and the cool atmosphere of the cave was a
welcome change. Finally, half-reclining as
I was upon the rock, I must have dozed
off to sleep, and, as I said before, the above
sentence fell on my ears as I woke.

At the entrance of the cave w^ere two men.
One a small, rather stout, bearded individual,
seated with his face turned slightly away from
me ; the other a young man of about six or

seven and twenty, with an excited, ruddy
face, fair sandy moustache, and curly hair of
the same colour. He was standing up before
his companion, declaiming to him with
earnestness and many gestures.

I saw at once that they were not aware of
my presence, hidden as I was in the semi¬
darkness and shadow of the cave’s interior.
My first impulse was to come forth and
declare myself, but laziness and curiosity
combined got the better of me, and I kept
still.

“ And so we are going to put this theory
into practice, eh ? ” said the man who was
seated, slowly and deliberately.

“ We are, my friend, yes—at last we are,”
went on the other, excitedly. “ I have
worked the scheme out to the full, and we
and our two good comrades are agreed.
Yes, in a month’s time we shall strike a blow
at which society shall indeed shudder and
take warning—a blow to pleasure on a
gigantic scale.”

“ Meanwhile,” rejoined his companion, “ I
should keep a little bit cooler, if I were you,
and not talk so loud. One never knows
where danger exists.”

“ True,” replied the other; “ my excitement
carries me away sometimes, especially when
I think what we have undertaken.”

“ Well,” said the stout man, rising from his
seat and taking his companion’s arm, “ it’s
lucky I knowsomething about submarine-”

That was all I heard. The breaking of a
wave drowned the rest of the sentence as the
two men disappeared from the mouth of the
cave.

I rose to my feet and prepared to follow
them. Then I reflected for a moment. If I
left the cave at once, and they chanced to
see me, the consequences might not only be
disagreeable to myself, but, at least, I should
excite suspicion. So I waited for a few
minutes. When I emerged into the day¬
light once more I saw them disappearing
in the distance towards the little bay from

LAUNCHED AT SOCIETY.

which one mounted the cliffs. I started
quickly after them, but had scarcely gone a
dozen steps when my foot slipped on a bit
of seaweed attached to a rock, and I fell
heavily with an awful crash on my knee.
When I picked myself up I could only walk
slowly and with pain, and the end of it was
that I lost sight of the two strangers alto¬
gether. Subse¬
quent inquiries
in the neigh¬
bourhood failed
to draw any
information
concerning
them. The inci¬
dent remained
in my memory
for a week or
so, and then
gradually died
away.

At the time
of which I am
speaking I held
a lieutenant’s
commission in
the Navy. I
had been inva¬
lided home
from an African
station for six
months, and was
gradually recov¬
ering my health,
which had suf¬
fered from
fever, and was
taking things
pretty easily.

One day I re¬
ceived an invi¬
tation to go and
spend a week
at Henley dur¬
ing the regatta.

Some friends of
mine had taken

a house-boat, and were getting up a fairly
large party. Now, as there happened to
be a certain lady in the case whom I
knew was also invited, I accepted with
alacrity, looked up all manner of boating
costumes, packed my portmanteau, and took
an afternoon train from Paddington on the
day before the regatta.

As we moved out of the station I noticed
a man seated in the farther corner of the
carriage. Something, I could not at first tell

“ I STARTED QUICKLY AFTER THEM.

what, about him seemed familiar, and pre¬
sently, as he turned his face half away from
me to look out of the window, there flashed
across my mind the scene in the cave at
Tregarget. It was the small man with the
dark beard. My curiosity was aroused,
especially when it flashed across my mind
that the month was just up. He appeared

the very essence
of a boating
man, clad in
light summer
costume and a
straw hat.

When the
train drew up
at Henley there
was a further
development.
A tall young
man in flannels
and blazer was
on the plat¬
form, and
lounged up to
my travelling
companion as
he alighted. It
was the other
of the two men.

“ Got it?” I
heard him ex¬
claim, in a
casual tone of
voice.

The bearded
man nodded,
and they walked
towards the
brake van. I
waited on the
platform for a
few moments.

Presently I
saw them assist¬
ing a porter to
lift a large pack¬
age out of the
brake van, a box about 4^4ft. in length and
some iSin. square. They seemed very par¬
ticular about the way it was laid on a trolley
and wheeled down the platform. I saw them
both deposit this box in a cab, end up, and
drive off. I engaged another, and as we
journeyed to the river I pondered over
this somewhat mysterious affair, but forgot
all about it a few minutes afterwards when
I met Hilda Carr at the tea-table on the
house-boat.

5 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“i SAW THEM ASSISTING A PORTER TO LIFT A LARGE PACKAGE OUT OF THE BRAKE VAN.

I had come to Henley with the express
purpose of proposing to Hilda Carr. She
told me afterwards she guessed it herself.
But my love-making by no means made
much headway for the next twenty-four hours.
Girls are such idiots, or at least they behave
in such a silly way, that they make a fellow
feel mad. They can’t be serious when a
man wants to be serious. When I got her
up in a quiet little corner of the upper deck
that same evening, and managed to blow out
the Chinese lantern nearest to us to make it
darker and give me a better chance \ and
when I began talking seriously about the
stars and things, instead of seeing what I was
driving at, she simply said : —

“ Oh, Mr. Barton, do come and listen to
these lovely niggers.”

And then she went off to the others, and
encouraged a pack of wretched blackamoors
who were serenading the house-boat from a
punt.

It was just the same the next day. She
never gave me a chance. She sat next to a
fellow named Willoughby at lunch, and he
seemed to get on famously with her. It

nearly drove me wild. I hinted to her that
I was put out, but she only laughed at me.

But in the evening, after dinner, my luck
turned, and I managed to get her alone in a
Canadian canoe belonging to the house-boat.
We paddled up stream beneath the quaint
old bridge, now crowded with people return¬
ing to the station. The sun had set by the
time we reached Marsh Lock, about three-
quarters of a mile from the course. I paddled
into the lock with some other craft.

“ Are you going farther, Mr. Barton ? ”
said my companion.

“ Oh,” I replied, “let’s just go through.
There’s lots of time.”

To tell the truth, I was anxious to get into
a quiet reach, for I had a certain question
to ask. That was why I wanted to go
through the lock.

I was just beginning to ease down a bit
when we had gone a few hundred yards
farther, and was thinking of how I had better
begin, when a certain voice arrested my
attention.

It came from a house-boat. Now, during
Henley week most of the house-boats are

LAUNCHED AT SOCIETY.

53

moored alongside the course on the Bucks
side, and it was somewhat unusual to find
one above Marsh Lock. It was a small,
dingy-looking concern, and only four men
were aboard her, sitting on the deck smoking.
The voice I recognised was that of the fair-
moustached young man—and there he was,
one of the group.

The coincidence set me thinking as I
paddled on. Was there some deep plot
about to be unfolded ? Were they Nihilists
or Anarchists ? I remembered that outburst
against society pleasures, and here was the
man who made it, present at one of the

“ I’m sure I don’t want you to think of
me,” she replied ; “ but really we’d better be
turning. It’s getting quite dark.”

I turned the canoe rather surlily. It had
choked me off for the moment. As we neared
the house-boat once more, I rested on my
paddle so as to drift by silently. A punt was
alongside, and in the gloom I could see a
figure stepping into it. Then I distinctly
heard the words :—

“To-morrow afternoon .... drop my
handkerchief.”

I dipped my paddle in the water and we
shot ahead, the punt following close astern.

“ IT WAS THE YOUNG FELLOW WITH THE RED MOUSTACHE.”

gayest scenes in England—Henley Regatta ;
what did it mean ?

“A penny for your thoughts ! ” said Hilda.
“ Why so silent ? ”

“ They’re not worth it,” I replied. Why
do men a/ways make bungling replies at the
wrong moment ?

“ Oh,” she said, rather tartly.

“No,” I said, realizing that I had put my
foot in it. “ If I’d been thinking of you it
would be different.”

We entered the lock together and lay there
side by side. As I struck a match to light a
cigarette the glare of it showed me the face
of the man in the punt.

It was the young fellow with the red
moustache.

I am not going to weary the reader with
the details of how I proposed to Hilda Can¬
on the. way back. Suffice it to say that, in
spite of my pleading, nothing would induce

54

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

her to give me a decisive answer. She would
neither say yes nor no, and I simply felt a
fool.

I felt a bigger one next day. She snubbed
me horribly, and I nearly kicked young
Willoughby. I’m afraid I got in a temper, so
much so that I sneaked away from lunch
and embarked in the canoe by myself, deter¬
mining to paddle up and down the course.

Anyone who has tried this at Henley
knows what it means. Between the bridge
and “Regatta Island” are hundreds upon
hundreds of boats, punts, and canoes, a
veritable carnival of colour and beauty such

Good ! I wanted something in my present
mood to take my mind off things. So I
determined to follow him. It was a good
five minutes before I could turn, and when I
did so he was fifty yards away from me.

Bang ! A race had begun. I was hemmed
in for a minute and could not stir. I could
see him moving on, though.

“Well rowed, Eton!—go it, Leander !—
now then, stroke ! ”

The crews came by in grand style. My
eyes were fixed on the punt creeping ahead.

Splash, and an ugly rocking. The “wake”
of the umpire’s steam launch.

“ HUNDREDS upon hundreds of boats, punts, and canoes.”

as can only be seen on this beautiful reach
of the Thames. Every now and then the
warning bells command the clearance of the
course, and the craft on either side become
still more densely packed. It is no easy task
to pilot one’s way through the endless flotilla,
and skill and patience alike are necessary.

Bump ! The nose of my canoe ran into a
punt. It was not my fault. The occupant,
who was using paddles only, ought to have
seen me.

“ I beg your pardon, sir ! ”

It was my old friend of the fair moustache,
got up in flannels and blazer, working Ins
way up stream.

All clear now ! I slipped into the course
and picked up a little speed. In and out,
carefully, gingerly, went the punt and my
canoe. At length we were beyond the
crowded part, and as I shot under the
bridge my unconscious quarry was punting
hard about a hundred yards ahead up stream.
I kept this distance between us, for I did
not want to raise his suspicions.

Presently we drew near Marsh Lock. He
punted up to the shore, made his punt fast,
and stepped out. I followed in a lazy
manner, lighting my pipe carelessly as I
strolled after him towards the lock.

The latter was full of boats coming down

LAUNCHED AT SOCIETY.

55

stream. They had just closed the upper
gates and opened the sluices. 1 watched the
water swirling into the lock, and then I
marked the movements of the man I had
followed.

He was close to the upper gates, gazing at
the stream beyond. I looked, too, and saw
rather a curious thing. There was a large
boat with two men in it close alongside the
mysterious house-boat some little distance
up stream. Apparently at a sign from the
man who stood on the lock, they came rowing
towards us.

When they were about a hundred yards
away they stopped pulling, and, in an
aimless manner, allowed the boat to drift
round, so that the stern pointed towards the
lock gates. Then I saw that not only was
the boat of unusual size for a river craft,
but that she carried something
rather heavy in the stern—some¬
thing covered over in a peculiar
manner.

One of the two men in her
kept her in position with her head
up stream, the other stood up
and gazed towards the lock.

The latter had now filled, and
the lock-keeper and his assistant
were opening the lower gates to
allow the boats out. Presently
both of them were opened wide
and the procession commenced.

It was then that I turned to
look at the man of the punt.

He was apparently studying the
water, and puffing away at a
cigar. Suddenly I noticed he
held a handkerchief loosely in
his hand.

A moment afterwards and he
had dropped it—dropped it into
the water above the upper gates.

I looked at the boat. The
man who had been standing up
was apparently stooping. There
were no other boats near him.

Suddenly I saw some dark
object drop from the stern of
the boat into the water. The
man who was standing near me
instantly turned and walked
quietly but quickly away from
the lock gates, while the boat im¬
mediately put towards the shore.

I was fairly puzzled—but only
for an instant. For I saw some¬
thing the next moment that
appealed to my knowledge of

naval gunnery, and revealed one of the most
diabolical plots that the mind of man could
conceive. That something was air bubbles —
air bubbles rising to the surface of the water
and travelling quickly towards the ldck gates
by which I stood. I knew the meaning of
them only too well, and realized the appalling-
situation in a moment.

A small torpedo, driven by compressed air,
had evidently been launched from the stern
of the boat, and in about ten or fifteen
seconds would strike the lock gates beneath
the surface of the water.

And then what would happen ? It was
three miles to the lock above—the lower
gates of Marsh lock stood open. It meant
that three miles of water, four feet or so in
height, would come sweeping down. It
would be impossible to close the lower gates,

‘crack!’ ‘splash!’—CLOSE to my head.”

56

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

and in five minutes a huge “ tidal wave ”
would rush irresistibly and without warning
upon the thousands of pleasure-seekers on
the regatta course below. The destruction
would be simply appalling.

All this flashed through my mind as I
watched the ominous bubbling of the escaping
compressed air drawing nearer and nearer.
For a couple of seconds or more I stood
petrified with the horror of the situation.
Then I threw off my coat, took a running
dive, and plunged into the river.

I had determined to turn the course of the
torpedo.

I rose to the surface and struck out. The
bubbles were only twenty yards, off. I
measured the distance with my eye and
swam on.

“ Crack !” “ Splash ! ”—close to my head

in the water.

The light-moustached man had seen my
dive, rushed to the bank, and was firing at
me with a revolver, regardless of the sundry
spectators who were running towards him.

“ Crack ! ” “ Splash ! ” Missed me again.

The bubbles were very close. I dived,
opened my eyes beneath the surface, and
saw the ugly black thing coming at me.

I knew that if I touched the apex I stood
a chance of exploding the thing. But I was
perfectly cool. I waited a moment, then
put out my hand, seized it by the head very
gingerly, and with a push deflected its course
towards the bank ; the screw at the end
struck my face slightly as it turned, and I
rose to the surface and swam in the other
direction for dear life.

Towards the bank ! Yes, as I looked over
my shoulder I saw my adversary standing
close to the edge of the water.

“ Back for your lives ! ” I yelled to some
men who were making for him. “ Back ! ”

The torpedo struck the bank. There was
a dull roar, and I could see the earth fly and
a mighty splash of water. Then I felt it—
felt as if I were struck on every part of my
body, and I knew no more.

When I recovered consciousness I was

lying on a sofa in the lock-keeper’s cottage.
Some fellows in flannels were standing
around me.

“You’re all right,” said one; “I’m. a
doctor, you know. You’ve only had a shock.
By Jove, though, 'you’ve done a plucky
thing.”

“ Did you see it ? ”

“ Only partly—you know what happened,
eh ? ”

“ No—what ? ”

“Why, the thing exploded just at the foot
of the fellow who was potting at you. We
halted in time, but he was blown clean off
his legs—it was awful. I couldn’t do any¬
thing with him.”

“ Where is he ? ”

“ Dead,” said the doctor. “ He came
round for a couple of minutes first, and
began to curse you. Then he told us it was
a small torpedo, with eight pounds of gun¬
cotton and an air-motor, and that if it hadn’t
been for you, Henley would be swamped by
now. He died gloating over the thought.”

“ Have they caught the others ? ”

“What others?”

I told them. But no one had seen the
two men in the boat make off, and they were
never caught. The house-boat was searched
afterwards by the police, and sundry tools
and machines discovered, together with a
few spare pounds of gun-cotton. From these
it was evident that the torpedo had been
about 4ft. long, and weighed about 501b.,
quite a small one, but sufficient to have
blown up the lock gates, and thus to have
brought destruction on thousands.

They punted me back to Henley, took me
aboard the house-boat, and told the story.

And a couple of hours later I forgot the
horror of it—when Hilda Carr said “ Yes.”
She told me she had meant it all the time,
but intended to wait until the end of the
week—but that now I had done something
to earn it sooner.

And Willoughby had been sweet on
another girl, after all. So it all ended happily
—except for the young Anarchist.

Royal Mesalliances.

By A. de Burgh.

“ Amor omnia vincit.”

HERE is one conclusion to
which all psychologists have
come, and that is that love is
one of the strongest agents
which move human beings to
action. There seems to be no
barrier insurmountable when it is a question
of gaining one’s heart’s desire ; there is no
pain which does not become insignificant if
suffered in the service of love; and for the
one cherished above all others patience and
perseverance come never stronger to the fore
--all obstacles appear of little importance,
while even reason yields to the dictates of
love and passion. However
near to each other human
beings may be brought by
pity and sympathy, there is
no doubt that love wields
still a greater power in this
direction ; neither rank nor
station, wealth nor position,
are considered when the
heart speaks.

Therefore it is only
natural that marriages be¬
tween different classes are
so frequent, and as those
born in the purple are of the
same clay as the “ common
herd,” there is nothing ex¬
traordinary or abnormal in
so - called “ mesalliances,”
even when Royal personages
unite themselves to persons
in the more humble walks of life. The
tendency of our century has been to level
more and more the barriers which separate
class from class, and the intercourse between
the highest and lowest has become more
frequent, more free, and much more intimate
than was the case in former times. ’

When love is in question, reason, self-
interest, sometimes even honour, go for
nothing; they do not weigh in the balance.
Self-interest is generally considered one of
the most important elements that influence a
man’s or woman’s action. It cannot, how¬
ever, compete with love.

But it is by no means our intention to
write an essay on a subject which has so fre¬
quently been treated by the ablest writers of
the day. We simply wish to introduce briefly
and prosaically a subject which is of more or

Vol. xviii.—8

less psychological and social interest; namely,
the mesalliances of notable personages, and
our prefatory remarks may be taken as an
explanation of the action of those in high
positions whom it is intended to bring before
our readers as having followed the dictates
of their hearts.

Many years ago, when Royalties considered
themselves of a different race—indeed, almost
demi-gods—it was thought quite impossible
that they could intermarry with commoners,
and for such members of reigning families
as were courageous enough to break the
ridiculous law that shackled them, and
married men or women
belonging to the lower
classes, a new form of mar¬
riage was specially invented,
viz., “morganatic” marriage,
which is in existence even
to this day. In such cases
neither child nor wife can
bear the title or acquire the
rank of the father or the
husband, although the mar¬
riage is legitimate.

Whether marriages of the
class which we here specially
consider were or are happy
or not, it is not our task to
investigate; but we may
say that, as far as is known,
the same rule prevails as
in common marriages —
some are happy, very
happy, while others are fraught with misery
and wretchedness.

We must include in this present article the
first King of Belgium, who, as Prince of
Coburg, married for his first wife the only
child of King George IV. of Great Britain
and Ireland, whom he lost within a year of
their marriage. Some time later Prince
Leopold consoled himself by marrying
morganatically the celebrated actress, Char¬
lotte Bauer, with whom he lived a very happy
life, but whom he divorced when he accepted
the throne of Belgium. His son by Charlotte
Bauer is the well-known Baron von Epping-
hoven, who is married to the daughter of the
British Consul at Nice.

Another scion of the same House, Prince
Ferdinand of Coburg, also married an actress,
Eiise Hensler, an American by birth. He

PRINCESS ELVIRA, WHO MARRIED THE
PAINTER, TOLCHI.

From a Photo, by Addle , Vienna.

58

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

was formerly the husband of Queen Maria of
Portugal, and one of the handsomest men
of the present century. He received by
legislative act and Royal decree the title of
King Consort at the time of his marriage.
So much affection prevailed between him
and his Queen-wife that she began to aban¬
don to him the reins of government. This
caused great jealousy and ill-will amongst the
people of Portugal, and ended in a revolution
which forced the King Consort into a
retirement from which he did not emerge
until the death of the Queen, when he
became Regent for the two years which
elapsed until his eldest son attained his
majority. It was after this that he married
again as mentioned above, and devoted the
remainder of his days to the collection of
art-treasures, which he bequeathed at his
death, a few years ago, to his American
widow, who is still living.

Only very lately Princess Elvira (whose por¬
trait is given on the previous page), daughter
of Don Carlos, Duke of Madrid, eloped with
a Roman artist, Tolchi, to whom she was
afterwards married. She was only following
in the footsteps of a somewhat long list of
ladies of Royal blood. Of the reigning
House of Spain the Princesses Isabella and
Josephine, grand-aunts of the present youthful
King, eloped with the men who subsequently
became their morganatic husbands.

Princess Isabella left the house of her
father at Enghien, near Paris, in the most
romantic fashion—by a rope-ladder—in the
middle of the night, the handsome Polish
Count Gurowski, to whom she had lost her
heart, having a carriage waiting at the garden-
gate. The couple fled to this country, where
they were married. The union did not turn
out happily, and when the Count died,
twelve years ago at Paris, he had been
separated for years from the Princess.

Josephine was living at Madrid, at the
Royal Palace, with her sister-in-law, Queen
Isabella, at the time she eloped with a poet
and journalist, who had started in life as a
reporter for a daily newspaper in Havana.
His story reads almost like a fairy tale. He
had become infatuated with the daughter of a
rich Cuban planter, but his suit was opposed
by the father of the girl in the most con¬
temptuous manner. He told the lad that he
was of far too low origin ever to dream of
marrying his daughter. Enraged beyond
measure, the young reporter exclaimed that
he would show people who he was by marry¬
ing a Princess.

He went to Madrid, where, after meeting

with many rebuffs and suffering want and
even hunger, he finally succeeded in making
a name for himself as a poet and author.
Several poems which he dedicated to Prin¬
cess Josephine sufficed to turn her head.
She made the poet’s acquaintance, and they
soon became enamoured of one another.
Finally they eloped from Madrid, and, after
a secret marriage at Valladolid, made their
way to Paris.

Consternation prevailed in the Royal
Family and in Court circles when their flight
became known. Both the Court and Govern¬
ment made strenuous efforts to have the
marriage invalidated, but in vain. The people
were delighted with the union, and manifested
in the strongest manner their dissatisfaction
with the sentence of banishment pronounced
against the fugitive lovers. After a while,
however, the good-nature of Queen Isabella
prevailed, and the couple returned to Spain
with honour, the Sovereign receiving the
popular poet in every way as her brother-in-
law. The Royal Family had at no time
reason to regret the marriage, and the ex¬
journalist’s three sons are perhaps the most
popular, and certainly the most accomplished,
members of the family.

The ancient House of Austria the Haps-
burgs, has been especially remarkable for the
number of morganatic marriages amongst
its members. Considering the lineage (the
Hapsburgs claim descent from Julius Caesar)
and the strictness of the etiquette prevailing
at the Austrian Court, and remembering the
exclusiveness and the loftiness of the position
of the Imperial House, it seems at first
surprising to see scions of this highly auto¬
cratic and proud family allying themselves
to subjects in the humbler walks of life.
Early in this century (1827) Europe was
startled by the announcement of the marriage
of Archduke John, afterwards for a time the
nominal head of the then still existing German
Confederation (Bund), with Anna Plochl, the
daughter of a peasant posting-master of a
small Styrian village. The story of the
meeting and courtship is well worth repeating.
The Archduke was coming from Italy,
on his way to Vienna, where his immediate
presence was commanded, and when at
Aussee (it was before the time of railways)
there was no postilion at hand to take
him on his way ; the postmaster’s daughter
donned the dress of a postilion, and drove
the Archducal carriage to the next station.
The youthful Prince discovered the sex of his
driver, admired her pluck, fell in love with
her, and made her his wife. She was created

ROYAL MESALLIANCES.

59

ARCHDUKE HENRY OF AUSTRIA.
From a Photo, by Stoklas, Baden.

Baroness Brandhof, and by the present
Emperor in 1850 Countess of Meran. Her
descendants still flourish in Austria as Counts
of Meran.

At Budapest it is well known that Count
Louis Batthyany, who was shot by the
Austrian troops in the market-place of that
city for his complicity in the insurrection of
1848, could have effected his escape the night
before his execution, had he consented to fly
with the Archduchess Maria, who was deeply
in love with him.

One of the most remarkable marriages of
this century to which one of the daughters of
the Austrian Emperor was forced to consent,
and which has always been considered a most
humiliating alliance for the ancient House of
Hapsburg, was the marriage of the Arch¬
duchess Marie Louise to Napoleon I. The
ex-Empress entered afterward into a matri¬
monial alliance with Count Neuperg, and the
Austrian Princes Montenuovo of to-day are
the descendants of that marriage. Napoleon’s
son, the Duke of Reichstadt (King of Rome),
who was naturally considered a most incon¬
venient personage, ruined his health by dis¬
sipation, into which, as many believe to this
day, he was intentionally led by those who
had the care of him.

In more modern times we can record two
morganatic marriages in this Imperial House.
Archduke Henry married an actress, and in

consequence was compelled to resign his
rank in the army and was banished from the
Court; however, many years afterwards,
through the intervention of the late Empress
Elizabeth, Francis Joseph forgave his cousin,
whose wife received the title of Baroness
Weideck.

But the saddest episode is that known as
the mystery of Johann Orth, one of the most
remarkable romances in the dynastic history
of Europe in this century. The Archduke
John Salvator of Tuscany, a nephew of the
Emperor Francis Joseph, had fallen in love
with an actress and singer, Ludmilla Hubei,
whom he married in spite of all family oppo¬
sition, renouncing at the same time all his
rights, privileges, and rank, and assuming the
name of Orth, after one of his castles. The
romantic marriage was celebrated secretly,
but in a perfectly legal manner, by the
Registrar of Islington, and was witnessed by
the Consul-General of Austria in London.

Johann Orth next bought;'in 1891, a fine
ship in Liverpool, which he re-named Santa
Mai'garita ; and so anxious was he to guard
against the vessel being recognised, that he
stipulated that all drawings and photographs
of it should be handed over to him, and
these he burned with his own hands; more¬
over, he caused all portraits and negatives
of himself and of his wife to be bought

BARONESS WEIDECK, WIFE OF ARCHDUKE HENRY.
From a Photo, by Lippe , Vienna.

6o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

JOHANN ORTH (ARCHDUKE JOHN).
From a Photo, by A. Red , Lim.

up at any price, and these were likewise
destroyed. We are giving here only absolute
facts.*

Shortly afterwards the ex-Archduke and
his wife set sail for South America, and the
vessel was duly reported to have arrived at
Monte Video, and departed for a destination
unknown. But from that moment every trace
was lost of the ship and all on board, no
news as to her fate having ever been heard,
although many a search has been made along
the coast by order of the Emperor of Austria
and his Government. Adventurers and
treasure - seekers have been at work, as
it was well known that Johann Orth had
on board over a quarter of a million pounds
in specie ; it is believed that he intended to
have bought an estate in Chili with the
money and to have settled there, but that the
vessel foundered off Cape Horn during a
terrific storm which raged on the coast
shortly after the ship had left. From time
to time since then the most startling
rumours have been set afloat about the miss¬
ing Prince having turned up: one being
that he had been one of the leaders of the
Chilian rebellion, having divided his treasure
among his crew, burned his ship, landed on
a lonely coast, etc. His own mother, who

* With great difficulty we have been able to procure por¬
traits of Johann Orth and his wife from photographs in the
possession of a sister of Frau Orth, who lives in a small village
in Switzerland, and we can vouch for their genuineness. These
portraits have never before been reproduced.

died only a few months ago at the Castle
Orth, believed her son alive to her very last
hour, and expected his return. The Swiss
Government is of a different opinion, and
assumed the death of the Archduke, and paid
over to Frau Orth’s next-of-kin a large amount
of money, which Johann Orth deposited as a
settlement for his wife with the Swiss authori¬
ties before his departure, and there is little
doubt that the Sa 7 ita Margarita lies at the
bottom of the sea, and that all on board
perished.

The most recent morganatic marriage in
the dynastic history of the Imperial House of
Romanoff was the union a few years ago (very
much against the wish of the Czar Alexander
III.) of the Grand Duke Michael Michaelo-
vitch with the then Countess Sophia de
Merenberg, born in 1868, afterwards granted a
special patent of nobility as Countess de Torby
for herself and descendants by the reigning
Grand Duke of Luxembourg, the step-brother
of her father, Prince Nicolaus of Nassau.
The accomplished Countess of Torby is,
therefore, of Royal blood on her paternal
side, Prince Nicolaus having, in 1867, also
made a morganatic marriage with the
Countess of Merenberg, the daughter of the
great Russian poet, Poutchkine, whereby this
Prince equally unselfishly renounced all his
claims to the Grand Ducal throne. The
Countess of Torby is a cousin of the Queen-
Mother of Holland and the Duchess of

LUDMILLA HUBEL, WIFE OF JOHANN ORTH.
From a unique private Photo.

ROYAL MESALLIANCES.

61

Albany. The Grand Duke was formerly a
colonel in the Russian army, but was, on his
marriage, placed on the retired list. Since
their marriage, which took
place at San Remo early
in 1891, the Grand Duke
has resided with his family
at Wiesbaden, or at his
charming chateau on the
Riviera.

Had Lieutenant Baria-
tinski possessed sufficient
courage there would have
been another mesalliance
to record in the family of
the Autocrat of All the
Russias. The beautiful
Grand Duchess Olga, the
favourite daughter of Czar
Nicholas I., was on the
point of eloping with the
lieutenant, when at the last
moment his heart failed
him, and he made a clean
breast of the whole affair
to His Majesty, with the
result that the Grand
Duchess was married at once to Prince
Charles of Wiirtemberg, afterwards King of
that country, while the cowardly young
officer was rewarded with such rapid pro¬
motion that before he had reached the age
of fifty he had attained the
rank of field-marshal.

Two morganatic mar¬
riages, which are better
known through the descen¬
dants thereof — some of
whom have made our
country their home, and
are allied to our own
Royal Family, and have
endeared themselves
amongst the people who
know them well—are those
of the late Duke Alexander
of Wiirtemberg and the late
Grand Duke Alexander of
Hesse and the Rhine. The
former married a Hun¬
garian lady of ancient
lineage, the Countess Clau-
dine of Rhedey, who was
created Countess Hohen-
stein, and their son is the
Duke of 'Feck, whose
daughter will be our future Queen.

The latter married in 1851 Julie Countess
of Hanke, who was created Princess of

Battenberg, and had four sons and one
daughter, all of whom are or were well known
in England. The most brilliant of the
brothers was no doubt
Alexander, for some time
reigning Prince of Bulgaria.
He aspired to the hand of
one of the charming sisters
of the present Emperor of
Germany, but the affair
having fallen through, he
retired to Austria, where
the Emperor gave him the
command of a regiment,
and he married an opera-
singer, who received a
patent of nobility under
the name of the Countess
of Hartenau. The couple
were, perhaps, the hand¬
somest in Europe, and the
early death of the gallant
Prince was universally re¬
gretted. The Countess, his
widow, still lives at Graz, in
Styria, the last home of the
loving and popular pair.
The Italian Court has also had its romances.
The mother of the present Queen of Italy
was banished from the kingdom for ten years
by her brother-in-law, King Victor Eman-
nuel, for having eloped with an artillery
officer. This match did
not turn out a happy one,
for the officer eventually
tired of his Royal wife and
committed suicide. It is
a strange coincidence that
the same King who dis¬
played such rigour with his
relative entered himself
some years afterwards into
a morganatic alliance with
a vivandi&re, who survives
him.

A marriage which occa¬
sioned great interest in
England, where it took
place, was that of Oscar
Carl August, Prince Ber-
nadotte, formerly Duke of
Gothland, the second son
of King Oscar II. of
Sweden and Norway. He
married in 1888, at
Bournemouth, Miss Ebba
Munk, lady-in-waiting to the Swedish Crown
Princess. Miss Munk was the guest of Lady
Cairns, and the wedding took place from her

COUNTESS HARTENAU, WIFE OF PRINCE
ALEXANDER.

From a Photo, by L. Bude , Graz.

62

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

MISS EBBA MUNK, WIFE OF PRINCE BERNADOTTE.

From a Photo, by Florman , Stockholm.

house. Prince Oscar had to resign all rights
of succession to the Swedish throne for him¬
self and his descendants. The five children
of this romantic union have been granted a
patent of nobility as Counts and Countesses
of Wiborg in Gothland. Prince Bernadotte
is commander in the Swedish navy, and lives
with his family a very retired life, residing
during winter in a villa at Stockholm, and
in summer at the “Villa Fridhem ” (Home
of Peace). Both the Prince and Princess
Bernadotte are extremely religious, and when
the former is not on duty he and his wife are
engaged in preaching and missionary work,
both in Stockholm and in the country.

DUKE LUDWIG OF BAVARIA.
From a Photo, by Baumann , Munich.

PRINCE OSCAR BERNADOTTE.
From a Photo, by Florman, Stockholm.

In Bavaria we have an instance of a Royal
Prince having made two morganatic marriages.
Prince Ludwig, the elder brother of the
Royal oculist, Duke Carl Theodor, married
first in 1859 an actress, Fraulein Mendel, who
was created Baroness Wallersee, and, after
her death in 1891, Fraulein Barth, who was
given a patent of nobility under the style and
title of Frau von Bartholf. He had before
marrying also to resign his rights and patri¬
mony to his younger brother. By his first
wife he had a daughter who married Count
Larisch, who obtained a divorce from her.
A short time ago the Countess Larisch
became the wife of the opera-singer Brucks.

FRAU VON BARTHOLF, WIFE OF DUKE LUDWIG OF BAVARIA.

From a Photo, by Marx , Frankfurt.

ROYAL MESALLIANCES.

63

COUNTESS LARISCH, WHO MARRIED HERR BRUCKS.
From a Photo, by Dittmar, Munich.

The eldest daughter of Duke Carl Theodor,
Princess Sophia of Bavaria, made also a pure
love-match by marrying last year the Count
Torring-Jettenbach, a scion of an old Bavarian
noble house, but not of Royal blood.

A few years ago another young Bavarian
Princess entered into an alliance which was
not only romantic, but brought great grief to
her parents and grand-parents. Princess

COUNT TORRING-JETTENBACH.
From a Photo, by Stujfler. Munich.

HERR BRUCKS, THE OPERA-SINGER.
From a Photo, by MiUler , Munich.

Elizabeth, the eldest daughter of Prince
Leopold and the Archduchess Gisela, eldest
child of the Emperor of Austria and the
murdered Empress Elizabeth, ran away with
the young Lieutenant Baron Otto von See-
fried zu Buttenheim, and they were married at
Genoa. The marriage was the more objection¬
able on account of the religion of the bride¬
groom, who is a Protestant, whereas the

PRINCESS SOPHIA OF BAVARIA.
From a Photo, by Stuffier, Munich.

6 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Bavarian and Austrian
families are strict
Catholics. The alli¬
ance is not a happy
one. Baron Seefried
neglects his wife, who
is now* only twenty-
five years of age, and
the unfortunate Prin¬
cess, who is deeply
attached to her hus¬
band, leads a most
melancholy life. She
has lost her former
rights, and has only
gained a negligent
husband.

In looking into the
matter closely we must
come to the conclu¬
sion that the number
of morganatic mar¬
riages made by
members of Royal Families increases year
by year, and many are the Princes and Prin¬
cesses who are ready to sacrifice their Royal
prerogatives in order to try if they cannot
find real happiness in a simpler home—life
with the woman or man they love. Whether
it is more likely for them to draw a prize in
the marriage lottery by deviating from the
rule we can scarcely judge, but certain it is
that some of these marriages have turned
out extremely happy ones. No doubt it is
very difficult for a Princess to accustom her¬
self to lead the life of a simple gentlewoman,
and, in consequence, after the first passion
has cooled off, the Prin¬
cess is frequently much
disappointed. The hus¬
band can also hardly be
expected to maintain
the deference after mar¬
riage towards his wife
who has descended from
her position in order to
marry him, which fact
makes the position for
both extremely difficult.

It is a much simpler
matter for a Prince to

make a morganatic
marriage, as he raises
the lady of his choice
to a higher position,
for she is generally
given a title if she is
not already noble. We
should therefore think
that the morganatic
marriages made by
Princes are more often
successful than those
made by Princesses.
That the institution of
“ morganatic ” mar¬
riages could be justi¬
fied by logic is, of
course, out of the
question ; it can only
be considered as a
relic of feudal times,
when the divine right
of Kings w r as looked
upon as actually existing.

The Princess Sybilla of Plesse-Cassel, who
was married a year ago to Herr von Fincke,
is a remarkably beautiful girl, and she also
possesses a considerable fortune, while Herr
von Fincke is also possessed of moderate
means, and it seems as if this marriage were
a very happy one.

Princess Henrietta of Schleswug-Holstein
leads a very contented life with her mor¬
ganatic husband. The Princess Henrietta,
having entirely given up all pretensions to
Royal rank, lives the extremely simple life of
a professor’s wife at Kiel.

The instances we
have here recited by no
means exhaust the sub¬
ject. How r ever, we have
selected the most promi¬
nent ones, and such as
are of a particularly
romantic nature. What
a wealth of material the
details of these mesalli¬
ances would afford the
novelist could he only
become fully acquainted
with them !

BARON SEEFRIEO.

From a Photo, by Dittman, Munich.

PRINCESS ELIZABETH OF BAVARIA.

From a Photo, by Dittman , Munich.

Hilda IVade.

By Grant Allen.

V.—THE EPISODE OF THE NEEDLE THAT DID NOT MATCH.

EBASTIAN is a great man,”
I said to Hilda Wade, as I
sat one afternoon over a cup
of tea she had brewed for
me in her own little sitting-
room : it is one of the alle¬
viations of an hospital doctor’s lot that he
may drink tea now and again with the Sister
of his ward. “ Whatever else you choose to
think of him, you must at least admit he is a
very great man.”

I admired our famous Professor, and I
admired Hilda Wade: ’twas a matter of
regret to me that my two admirations did
not seem in return sufficiently to admire one
another.

“Oh, yes,” Hilda answered, pouring out
my second cup. “ He is a very great man.
I never denied that. The greatest man, on
the whole, I think, that 1 have ever come
across.”

“And he has done splendid work
for humanity,” I went on, growing en¬
thusiastic.

“ Splendid work ! Yes. Splendid! (Two
lumps, I believe ?) He has done more, I
admit, for medical science than any other
man I ever met.”

I gazed at her with a curious glance.
“ Then why, dear lady, do you keep telling
me he is cruel ? ” I inquired, toasting my
feet on the fender. “ It seems contra¬
dictory.”

She passed me the muffins, and smiled
her restrained smile.

“ Does the desire to do good to humanity
in itself imply a benevolent
disposition ? ” she answered,
obliquely.

“ Now you are talk¬
ing paradox. Surely
if a man works
all his life long for
the good of man¬
kind, that shows
he is devoured by
sympathy for his
species.”

“ And when your
friend Mr. Bates
works all his life long
at observing and
classifying lady-birds,

I suppose that shows

Vol. xviii.—9.

he is devoured by sympathy for the race of
beetles ! ” .

I laughed at her comical face, she looked
at me so quizzically. “ But then,” I objected,
“ the cases are not parallel. Bates kills and
collects his lady-birds : Sebastian cures and
benefits humanity.”

Hilda smiled her wise smile once more
and fingered her apron. “ Are the cases so
different as you suppose ? ” she went on, with
her quick glance. “Is it not partly accident?
A man of science, you see, early in life takes
up, half by chance, this, that, or the other
particular form of study. But what the study
is in itself, I fancy, does not greatly matter:
do not mere circumstances as often as not
determine it ? Surely it is the temperament,
on the whole, that tells : the temperament
that is or is not scientific.”

“ How do you mean ? You are so
enigmatic! ”

“Well, in a family of the scientific tem¬
perament, it seems to me, one brother may
happen to go in for butterflies—may he
not ?—and another for geology or for sub¬
marine telegraphs. Now, the man who
happens to take up butterflies does not make
a fortune out of his hobby—there is no
money in butterflies : so we say, accordingly,
he is an unpractical person, who cares
nothing for business, and who is only happy
when he is out in the fields with a net,
chasing emperors and tortoiseshells. But

66

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the man who happens to fancy submarine
telegraphy most likely invents a lot of new
improvements, takes out dozens of patents,
finds money flow in upon him as he sits in
his study, and becomes at last a peer and a
millionaire: so then we say, what a splendid
business head he has got, to be sure, and
how immensely he differs from his poor
wool-gathering brother, the entomologist,
who can only invent new ways of hatching-
out wire-worms. Yet all may really depend
on the first chance direction which led
one brother as a boy to buy a butterfly-
net, and sent the other into the school
laboratory to dabble with an electric wheel
and a cheap battery.”

“ Then you mean to say it is chance that
has made Sebastian ? ”

Hilda shook her pretty head. “By no
means. Don’t be so stupid. We both know
Sebastian has a wonderful brain. Whatever
was the work he undertook with that brain
in science, he would carry it out consum¬
mately. He is a born thinker. It is like
this, don’t you know.” She tried to arrange
her thoughts. “ The particular branch of
science to which Mr. Hiram Maxim’s mind
happens to have been directed was the
making of machine-guns—and he slays his
thousands. The particular branch to which
Sebastian’s mind happens to have been
directed was medicine — and he cures as
many as Mr. Maxim kills. It is a turn of
the hand that makes all the difference.”

“I see,” I said. “The aim of medicine
happens to be a benevolent one.”

“ Quite so ; that’s just what I mean. The
aim is benevolent: and Sebastian pursues
that aim with the single-minded energy of a
lofty, gifted, and devoted nature—but not a
good one.”

“ Not good ? ”

“ Oh, no. To be quite frank, he seems to
me to pursue it ruthlessly, cruelly, unscrupu¬
lously. He is a man of high ideals, but
without principle. In that respect he reminds
one of the great spirits of the Italian Renais¬
sance—Benvenuto Cellini and so forth—men
who could pore for hours with conscientious
artistic care over the detail of a hem in a
sculptured robe, yet could steal out in the
midst of their disinterested toil, to plunge a
knife in the back of a rival.”

“ Sebastian would not do that,” I cried.
“ He is wholly free from the mean spirit of
jealousy.”

“No, Sebastian would not do that. You
are quite right there : there is no tinge of
meanness in the man’s nature. He likes to

be first in the field : but he would acclaim
with delight another man’s scientific triumph
—if another anticipated him—for would it
not mean a triumph for universal science ?—
and is not the advancement of science
Sebastian’s religion ? But .... he would
do almost as much—or more. He would
stab a man without remorse, if he thought
that by stabbing him he could advance
knowledge.”

I recognised at once the truth of her
diagnosis. “ Nurse Wade,” I cried, “ you
are a wonderful woman ! I believe you are
right; but—how did you come to think of
it?”

A cloud passed over her brow. “ I have
reason to know it,” she answered, slowly.
Then her voice changed. “Take another
muffin! ”

I helped myself and paused. I laid down
my cup and gazed at her. What a beautiful,
tender, sympathetic face ! And yet, how able !
She stirred the fire uneasily. I looked and
hesitated. I had often wondered why I never
dared ask Hilda Wade one question that was
nearest my heart. I think it must have been
because I respected her so profoundly. The
deeper your admiration and respect for a
woman, the harder you find it in the end to
ask her. At last I almost made up my mind.

“ I cannot think,” I began, “ what can have
induced a girl like you, with means and
friends, with brains and ”—I drew back, then
I plumped it out—“ beauty, to take to such
a life as this—a life which seems, in many
ways, so unworthy of you ! ”

She stirred the fire more pensively than
ever, and re-arranged the muffin-dish on the
little wrought-iron stand in front of the grate.
“ And yet,” she murmured, looking down,
“ what life can be better than the service of
one’s kind? You think it a great life, for
Sebastian! ”

“ Sebastian! He is a man. That is
different, quite different. But a woman !
especially you, dear lady, for whom one feels
that nothing is quite high enough, quite pure
enough, quite good enough : I cannot imagine
how-”

She checked me with one wave of her
gracious hand. Her movements were always
slow and dignified. “ I have a Plan in my
life,” she answered earnestly, her eyes meeting
mine with a sincere, frank gaze; “a Plan to
which I have resolved to sacrifice everything.
It absorbs my being. Till that Plan is

fulfilled-” I saw the tears were gathering

fast on her lashes. She suppressed them
with an effort. “ Say no more,” she added,

HILDA WADE.

67

faltering. “Infirm of purpose, I will. not
listen.”

I leant forward eagerly, pressing my ad¬
vantage. The air was electric. Waves of
emotion passed to and fro. “ But surely,” I
cried, “ you do not mean to say-”

She waved me aside once more. “ I will
not put my hand to the plough, and then
look back,” she answered firmly. “ Dr. Cum-
berledge, spare me. I came to Nathaniel’s
for a purpose. I told you at the time what
that purpose was—in part: to be near
Sebastian. I want to be near him . . . for
an object I have at heart. Do not ask me to
reveal it: do not ask me to forego it. I am
a woman, therefore weak. But I need your
aid. Help me, instead of hindering me.”

“Hilda,” I cried, leaning forward, with
quiverings of my heart, “ I will help you in
whatever way you will allow me. But let me
at any rate help you with the feeling that I
am helping one who means in time-”

At that moment, as unkindly fate would
have it, the door opened, and Sebastian
entered.

“ Nurse Wade,” he began, in his iron
voice, glancing about him with stern eyes,

“ where are those needles I ordered for that
operation ? We must be ready in time before
Nielsen comes. . . . Cumberledge, I shall
want you.”

The golden opportunity had come and
gone. It was long before I found a similar
occasion for speaking to Hilda.

Every day after that the feeling deepened
upon me that Hilda was there to watch
Sebastian. IV/iy, I did not know : but it was
growing certain that a life-long duel was in
progress between those two—a duel of some
strange and mysterious import.

The first approach to a solution of the
problem which I obtained came a week or
two later. Sebastian was engaged in observ¬
ing a case where certain unusual symptoms
had suddenly supervened: it was a case of
some obscure affection of the heart: I will
not trouble you here with the particular
details: we all suspected a tendency to
aneurism. Hilda Wade was in attendance,
as she always was on Sebastian’s observation
cases. We crowded round, watching. The
Professor himself leaned over the cot with
some medicine for external application in a
basin. He gave it to Hilda to hold. I
noticed that as she
held it her fingers
trembled, and that
her eyes were fixed
harder than ever
upon Sebastian.
He turned round
to his students.
“ Now, this,” he
began in a very un¬
concerned voice,
as if the patient
were a toad, “is a
most unwonted
turn for the disease
to take. It occurs
very seldom. In
point of fact, I
have only observed
the symptom once
before; and then
it was fatal. The
patient in that
instance ” — he
paused dramatic¬
ally — “ was the
notorious poisoner,
Dr. Yorke-Banner-
man.”

As he uttered
the words, Hilda
Wade’s hands

“ THE DOOR OPENED, AND SEBASTIAN ENTERED.”

68

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

trembled more than ever, and with a
little scream she let the basin fall, breaking
it into fragments.

Sebastian’s keen eyes had transfixed her
in a second. “ How did you manage to do

the tendency before: and that case was the
notorious ”—he kept his glittering eyes fixed
harder on Hilda than ever—“ the notorious
Dr. Yorke-Bannerman.”

/ was watching Hilda, too. At the words,

“with a little scream she let the basin fall.”

that ? ” he asked, with quiet sarcasm, but in
a tone full of meaning.

“ The basin was heavy,” Hilda faltered.

“ My hands were trembling—and it somehow
slipped through them. I am not . ...
quite myself .... not quite well this after¬
noon. I ought not to have attempted it.”

The Professor’s deep-set eyes peered out
like gleaming lights from beneath their over¬
hanging brows. “ No, you ought not to
have attempted it,” he answered, withering
her with his glance. “You. might have let
the thing fall on the patient and killed him.
As it is, can’t you see you have agitated him
with the flurry ? Don’t stand there holding
your breath, woman: repair your mischief:
get a cloth and wipe it up, and give me the
bottle.”

With skilful haste he administered a little
sal volatile and nux vomica to the swooning
patient; while Hilda set about remedying
the damage. “ That’s better,” Sebastian said,
in a mollified tone, when she had brought
another basin. There was a singular note
of cloaked triumph in his voice. “ Now,

we’ll begin again.I was just saying,

gentlemen, before this accident, that I had
seen only one case of this peculiar form of

she trembled violently all over once more,
but with an effort restrained herself. Their
looks met in a searching glance. Hilda’s air
was proud and fearless : in Sebastian’s, I
fancied I detected after a second just a tinge
of wavering.

“You remember Yorke - Bannerman’s
case,’ r he went on. “ He committed a
murder--”

“ Let me take the basin ! ” I cried,, for I
saw Hilda’s hands giving way a second time,
and I was anxious to spare her.

“ No, thank you,” she answered low, but
in a voice that was full of suppressed defiance.

“ I will wait and hear this out. I prefer to
stop here.”

As for Sebastian,, he seemed now not to
notice her, though I was aware all the time
of a side-long glance of his eye,, parrot-
wise, in her direction. “ He committed a
murder,” he went on, “ by means of aconitine
—then an almost unknown poison ; and after
committing it, his heart being already weak,
he was taken himself with symptoms of
aneurism in a curious form, essentially similar
to these ; so that he died before the trial—a
lucky escape for him.”

He paused rhetorically once more; then

HILDA WADE.

69

he added in the same tone, “ Mental agitation
and the terror of detection no doubt ac¬
celerated the fatal result in that instance.
He died at once from the shock of the arrest.
It was a natural conclusion. Here, we may-
hope for a more successful issue.”

He spoke to the students, of course, but I
could see for all that that he was keeping his
falcon eye fixed hard on Hilda’s face. I
glanced aside at her. She never flinched
for a second. Neither said anything directly
to the other: still, by their eyes and mouths, I
knew some strange passage of arms had
taken place between them. Sebastian’s tone
was one of provocation, of defiance, I might
almost say of challenge: Hilda’s air I took
rather for the air of calm and resolute, but
assured, resistance. He expected her to
answer; she said nothing. Instead of that,
she went on holding the basin now with
fingers that ivoiild not tremble. Every
muscle was strained. Every tendon was
strung. I could see she held herself in with
a will of iron.

The rest of the episode passed off quietly.
Sebastian, having delivered his bolt, began to
think less of Hilda and more of the patient.
He went on with his demonstration. As for
Hilda, she gradually relaxed her muscles,
and, with a deep-drawn breath, resumed her
natural attitude. The tension was over.
They had had their little skirmish, whatever
it might mean, and had it out : now, they
called a truce over the patient’s body.

When the case had been disposed of, and
the students dismissed, I went straight into
the laboratory to get a few surgical instru¬
ments I had chanced to leave there. For a
minute or two I mislaid my clinical thermo¬
meter, and began hunting for it behind a
wooden partition in the corner of the room
by the place for washing test-tubes. As I
stooped down, turning over the various
objects about the tap in my search, Sebastian’s
voice came to me. He had paused outside
the door, and was speaking in his calm, clear
tone, very low, to Hilda. “ So now we
understand one another, Nurse Wade,” he
said, with a significant sneer. “ I know
whom I have to deal with ! ”

“ And I know too,” Hilda answered, in a
voice of placid confidence.

“ Yet you are not afraid ? ”

“It is not I who have cause for fear. The
accused may tremble, not the prosecutor.”

“What? You threaten ? ”

“No; I do not threaten. Not in words, I
mean. My presence here is in itself a threat,
but I make no other. You know now, un¬

fortunately, why I have come. That makes
my task harder. But I will not give it up.

I will wait and conquer.”

Sebastian answered nothing. He strode
into the laboratory alone, tall, grim, un¬
bending, and let himself sink into his easy
chair, looking up with a singular and some¬
what sinister smile at his bottles of microbes.
After a minute he stirred the fire, and bent
his head forward, brooding. He held it
between his hands,, with his elbows on his
knees, and gazed moodily straight before him
into the glowing caves of white-hot coal in
the fire-place. That sinister smile still played
lambent round the corners of his grizzled
moustaches.

I moved noiselessly towards the door, try¬
ing to pass behind him unnoticed. But, alert
as ever, his quick ears detected me. With a
sudden start, he raised his head and glanced
round. “ What! you here ? ” he cried, taken
aback. For a second he appeared almost to
lose his self-possession.

“ I came for my clinical,” I answered, with
an unconcerned air. “ I have somehow
managed to mislay it in the laboratory.”

My carefully casual tone seemed to re¬
assure him. Fie peered about him with knit
brow r s. “ Cumberledge,” he asked at last,
in a suspicious voice, “ did you hear that
woman ? ”

“ The woman in 93 ? Delirious ? ”

“ No, no : Nurse Wade ? ”

“ Hear her ? ” I echoed, I must candidly
admit with intent to deceive. “ When she
broke the basin ? ”

His forehead relaxed. “ Oh, it is nothing,”
he muttered, hastily. “ A mere point of
discipline. She spoke to me just now, and
I thought her tone unbecoming in a sub¬
ordinate.Like Korah and his crew,

she takes too much upon her.We

must get rid of her, Cumberledge : we must
get rid of her. She is a dangerous woman ! ”

“ She is the most intelligent nurse we have
ever had in the place, sir,” I objected, stoutly.

He nodded his head twice. “Intelligent—
je vous I accoi'de ; but dangerous—dangerous!”

Then he turned to his papers, sorting them
out one by one with a preoccupied face and
twitching fingers. I recognised that he
desired to be left alone, so I quitted the
laboratory.

I cannot quite say why , but ever since
Flilda Wade first came to Nathaniel’s, my
enthusiasm for Sebastian had been cooling
continuously. Admiring his greatness still,
I had doubts as to his goodness. That day
I felt I positively mistrusted him. I wondered

7 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ BUT DANGEROUS—DANGEROUS ! ”

what his passage of arms with Hilda might
mean. Yet, somehow, I was shy of alluding
to it before her.

One thing, however, was clear to me now
—this great campaign that was being
waged between the nurse and the Professor
had reference to the case of Dr. Yorke-
Bannerman.

For a time, nothing came of it: the routine
of the hospital went on as usual. The
patient with the suspected predisposition to
aneurism kept fairly well for a week or two,
and then took a sudden turn for the worse,
presenting at times most unwonted symptoms.

Fie died unexpectedly. Sebastian, who had
watched him every hour, regarded the matter
as of prime importance. “ Pm glad it hap¬
pened here,” he said, rubbing his hands. “A
grand opportunity. I wanted to catch an
instance like this before that fellow in Paris
had time to anticipate me. They’re all on
the look-out. Von Strahlendorff, of Vienna,
has been waiting for just such a patient for
years. So have I. Now, fortune has favoured
me. Lucky for us he died ! We shall find
out everything.”

We held a post-mortem, of course, the
condition of the blood being what we most
wished to observe; and the autopsy revealed
some unexpected details. One remarkable
feature consisted in a certain undescribed and

impoverished
state of the con¬
tained bodies,
which Sebastian,
with his eager zeal
for science, desired
his students to see
and identify. He
said it was likely
to throw much
light on other ill-
understood condi¬
tions of the brain
and nervous
system, as well as
on the peculiar
faint odour of the
insane, now so
well recognised in
all large asylums.
In order to com¬
pare this abnormal
state with the
aspect of the
healthy circulating
medium, he pro¬
posed to examine
a little good living
blood side by side with the morbid specimen
under the microscope. Nurse Wade was in
attendance in the laboratory as usual. The
Professor, standing by the instrument, with
one hand on the brass screw, had got the
diseased drop ready arranged for our inspec¬
tion beforehand, and was gloating over it
himself with scientific enthusiasm. “ Grey
corpuscles, you will observe,” he said,
“almost entirely deficient. Red, poor in
number, and irregular in outline. Plasma,
thin. Nuclei, feeble. A state of body
which tells severely against the due re¬
building of the wasted tissues. Now, com¬
pare with typical normal specimen.” He
removed his eye from the microscope, and
wiped a glass slide with a clean cloth as he
spoke. “Nurse Wade, we know of old the
purity and vigour of your circulating fluid.
You shall have the honour of advancing
science once more. Hold up your finger.”

Hilda held up her forefinger unhesitatingly.
She was used to such requests : and, indeed,
Sebastian had acquired by long experience
the faculty of pinching the finger-tip so hard,
and pressing the point of a needle so dex¬
terously into a minor vessel, that he could
draw at once a small drop of blood without
the subject even feeling it.

The Professor nipped the last joint between
his finger and thumb for a moment till it

HILDA

WADE .

7i

was black at the end : then he turned to the
saucer at his side, which Hilda herself had
placed there, and chose from it, cat-like,
with great deliberation and selective care, a
particular needle. Hilda’s eyes followed his
every movement as closely and as fearlessly
as ever. Sebastian’s hand was raised, and
he was just about to-pierce the delicate white
skin, when, with a sudden, quick scream of
terror, she snatched her hand away hastily.

The Professor let the needle drop in his
astonishment. “ What did you do that for ? ”
he cried, with an angry dart of the keen eyes.
“ This is not the first time I have drawn
your blood. You knew I would not hurt
you.”

Hilda’s face had grown strangely pale.
But that was not all. I believe I was the
only person present who noticed one unob¬
trusive piece of sleight-of-hand which she
hurriedly and skilfully executed. When the
needle slipped from Sebastian’s hand, she
leant forward even as she screamed, and
caught it, unobserved, in the folds of her
apron. Then her nimble fingers closed over
it as if by magic, and conveyed it with a
rapid movement at once to her pocket. I
do not think even Sebastian himself noticed
the quick forward jerk of her eager hands,
which would have done honour to a conjurer.
He was too much taken aback by her un¬
expected behaviour to observe the needle.

Just as she caught it Hilda answered his
question in a somewhat flurried voice. “ I—
I was afraid,” she broke out, gasping. “ One
gets these little accesses of terror now and
again. I—I feel rather weak. I don’t think
I will volunteer to supply any more normal
blood this morning.”

Sebastian’s acute eyes read her through,
as so often. With a trenchant dart he glanced
from her to me. I could see he began to
suspect a confederacy. “ That will do,” he
went on, with slow deliberateness. “ Better
so. Nurse Wade, I don’t know what’s be¬
ginning to come over you. You are losing
your nerve—which is fatal in a nurse. Only
the other day you let fall and broke a basin
at a most critical moment; and now, you
scream aloud on a trifling apprehension.”
He paused and glanced around him. “ Mr.
Callaghan,” he said, turning to our tall, red-
haired Irish student, “your blood is good
normal: and you are not hysterical.” He
selected another needle with studious care.
“ Give me your finger.”

As he picked out the needle, I saw Plilda
lean forward again, alert and watchful, eyeing
him with a piercing glance; but, after a

second’s consideration, she seemed to satisfy
herself, and fell back without a word. I
gathered that she was ready to interfere, had
occasion demanded. But occasion did not
demand : and she held her peace quietly.

The rest of the examination proceeded
without a hitch. For a minute or two, it is
true, I fancied that Sebastian betrayed a
certain suppressed agitation—a trifling lack
of his accustomed perspicuity and his lumin¬
ous exposition. But after meandering for a
while through a few vague sentences, he soon
recovered his wonted calm ; and as he went
on with his demonstration, throwing himself
eagerly into the case, his usual scientific
enthusiasm came back to him undiminished.
He waxed eloquent (after his fashion) over
the “ beautiful ” contrast between Callaghan’s
wholesome blood, “ rich in the vivifying
architectonic grey corpuscles which rebuild
worn tissues,” and the effete, impoverished,
unvitalized fluid which stagnated in the
sluggish veins of the dead patient. The
carriers of oxygen had neglected their proper
task : the granules whose duty it was to bring
elaborated food-stuffs to supply the waste of
brain and nerve and muscle had forgotten
their cunning. The bricklayers of the bodily
fabric had gone out on strike : the weary
scavengers had declined to remove the useless
by-products. His vivid tongue, his picturesque
fancy, ran away with him. I had never heard
him talk better or more incisively before;
one could feel sure as he spoke that the
arteries of his own acute and teeming brain
at that moment of exaltation were by no
means deficient in those energetic and highly
vital globules on whose reparative worth he
so eloquently descanted. “ Sure, the Professor
makes annywan see right inside wan’s own
vascular system,” Callaghan whispered aside
to me, in unfeigned admiration.

The demonstration ended in impressive
silence. As we streamed out of the labora¬
tory, aglow with his electric fire, Sebastian
held me back with a bent motion of his
shrivelled forefinger. I stayed behind un¬
willingly. “Yes, sir?” I said, in an interro¬
gative voice.

The Professor’s eyes were fixed intently on
the ceiling. I-Iis look was one of rapt inspi¬
ration. I stood and waited. “ Cumberledge,”
he said at last, coming back to earth with a
start, “ I see it more plainly each day that
goes. We must get rid of that woman.”

“Of Nurse Wade?” I asked, catching my
breath.

He roped the grizzled moustache and
blinked the sunken eyes. “ She has lost

72

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

nerve,” he went on. “ Lost nerve entirely.
I shall suggest that she be dismissed. Her
sudden failures of stamina are most embar¬
rassing at critical junctures.”

“ Very well, sir,” I answered, swallowing a
lump in my throat. To say the truth, I was
beginning to be afraid on Hilda’s account.
That morning’s events had thoroughly dis¬
quieted me.

He seemed relieved at my unquestioning
acquiescence. “ She is a dangerous edged-
tool, that’s the truth of it,” he went on, still
twirling his moustache with a preoccupied
air, and turning over his stock of needles.
“ When she’s clothed and in her right mind,
she is a valuable accessory—sharp and tren¬
chant like a clean, bright lancet : but when
she allows one of these causeless hysterical
fits to override her tone, she plays one false
at once—like a lancet that slips, or grows
dull and rusty.” He polished one of the
needles on a soft square of new chamois-
leather while he spoke, as if to give point
and illustration to his simile.

I went out from him, much perturbed.
The Sebastian I had once admired and
worshipped was beginning to pass from me :
in his place I found a very complex and
inferior creation. My idol had feet of clay.
I was loth to acknowledge it.

I stalked along the corridor moodily to¬
wards my own room. As I passed Hilda
Wade’s door I saw it half ajar. She stood a
little within and beckoned
me to enter.

I passed in and closed
the door behind me. Hilda
looked at me with trustful
eyes. Resolute still, her
face was yet that of a
hunted creature. “ Thank
Heaven I have one friend
here at least,” she said,
slowly, seating herself.

“You saw me catch and
conceal the needle ? ”

“ Yes, I saw you.”

She drew it forth from
her purse, carefully but
loosely wrapped up in a
small tag of tissue-paper.

“ Here it is ! ” she said,
displaying it. “ Now, I
want you to test it.”

“In a culture ? ” I asked,
for I guessed her meaning.

She nodded. “Yes, to
see what that man has
done to it.”

“ What do you suspect ? ”

She shrugged her graceful shoulders half
imperceptibly. “ How should I know ?
Anything ! ”

I gazed at the needle close. “ What made
you distrust it ? ” I inquired at last, still
eyeing it.

She opened a drawer and took out several
others. “See here,” she said, handing me
one : “ these are the needles I keep in anti¬
septic wool—the needles with which I always
supply the Professor. You observe their
shape—the common surgical patterns. Now,
look at this needle with which the Professor
was just going to prick my finger ! You can
see for yourself at once it is of bluer steel
and of a different manufacture.”

“That is quite true,” I answered, examin¬
ing it with my pocket lens, which I always
carry. “ I see the difference. But how did
you detect it ? ”

“ From his face, partly, but partly, too,
from the needle itself. I had my suspicions,
and I was watching him close. Just as he
raised the thing in his hand, half concealing
it, so, and showing only the point, I caught
the blue gleam of the steel as the light
glanced off it. It was not the kind I knew.
Then I withdrew my hand at once, feeling
sure he meant mischief.”

“ That was wonderfully quick of you ! ”

“ Quick ? Well, yes. Thank Heaven, my
mind works fast: my perceptions are rapid.

‘ I HAD MY SUSPICIONS.’

HILDA WADE.

73

Otherwise-” she looked grave. “ One

second more, and it would have been too
late. The man might have killed me.”

“You think it is poisoned, then ? ”

Hilda shook her head with confident
dissent. “ Poisoned ? Oh, no. He is
wiser now. Fifteen years ago, he used
poison. But science has made gigantic
strides since then. He would not needlessly
expose himself to-day to the risks of the
poisoner.”

“ Fifteen years ago he used poison ! ”

She nodded with the air of one who knows.
“ I am not speaking at random,” she an¬
swered. “ I say what I know. Some day I
will explain. For the present, it is enough to
tell you, I know it.”

“And what do you suspect now?” I
asked, the weird sense of her strange power
deepening on me every second.

She held up the incriminated needle again.
“ Do you see this groove ? ” she asked, point¬
ing to it with the tip of another.

I examined it once more at the light with
the lens. A longitudinal groove, apparently
ground into one side of the needle, length¬
wise, by means of a small grinding-stone and
emery powder, ran for a quarter of an inch
above the point. This groove seemed to me
to have been produced by an amateur, though
he must have been one accustomed to deli¬
cate microscopic manipulation : for the edges
under the lens showed slightly rough, like
the surface of a file on a small scale, not
smooth and polished as a needle-maker
would have left them. I said so to
Hilda.

“You are quite right,” she answered.
“That is just what it shows. I feel sure
Sebastian made that groove himself. He
could have bought grooved needles, it is true,
such as they sometimes use for retaining
small quantities of lymphs and medicines,
but we had none in stock, and to buy them
would be to manufacture evidence against
himself, in case of detection. Besides, the
rough jagged edge would hold the material
he wished to inject all the better, while its
saw - like points would tear the flesh,
imperceptibly but minutely, and so serve his
purpose.”

“ Which was ? ”

“Try the needle, and judge for yourself.
I prefer you should find out. You can tell
me to-morrow.” *

“It was quick of you to detect it!” I
cried, still turning the suspicious object over.
“The difference is so slight.”

“Yes; but you tell me my eyes are as

Vol. xviii.—10.

sharp as the needle. Besides, I had reason
to doubt, and Sebastian himself gave me the
clue by selecting his instrument with too
great deliberation. He had put it there with
the rest, but it lay a little apart: and as he
picked it up, gingerly, I began to doubt.
When I saw the blue gleam, my doubt was
at once converted into certainty. Then his
eyes, too, had the look which I know means
victory. Benign or baleful, it goes with his
triumphs. I have seen that look before,
and when once it lurks scintillating in the
luminous depths of his gleaming eyeballs, I
recognise at once that, whatever his aim, he
has succeeded in it.”

“ Still, Hilda, I am loth-”

She waved her hand impatiently. “Waste
no time,” she cried, in an authoritative voice.
“If you happen to let that needle rub care¬
lessly against the sleeve of your coat, you
may destroy the evidence. Take it at once
to your room, plunge it into a culture, and
lock it up safe at a proper temperature where
Sebastian cannot get at it—till the conse¬
quences develop.”

I did as she bid me. By this time, I was
not wholly unprepared for the result she
anticipated. My belief in Sebastian had
sunk to zero, and was rapidly reaching a
negative quantity.

At nine the next morning, I tested one
drop of the culture under the microscope.
Clear and limpid to the naked eye, it was
alive with small objects of a most suspicious
nature, when properly magnified. I knew
those hungry forms. Still, I would not
decide off-hand on my own authority in a
matter of such moment. Sebastian’s character
was at stake—the character of the man who
led the profession. I called in Callaghan,
who happened to be in the ward, and asked
him to put his eye to the instrument for a
moment. He was a splendid fellow for the
use of high powers, and I had magnified the
culture 300 diameters. “ What do you call
those ? ” I asked, breathless.

He scanned them carefully with his experi¬
enced eye. “ Is it the microbes ye mean ? ”
he answered. “ An’ what ’ud they be, then,
if it wasn’t the bacillus of pyaemia ? ”

“ Blood-poisoning 1 ” I ejaculated, horror-
struck.

“ Aye : blood-poisoning : that’s the English
of it.”

I assumed an air of indifference. “ I
made them that myself,” I rejoined, as if
they were mere ordinary experimental germs :
“ but I wanted confirmation of my own
opinion. You’re sure of the bacillus ?”

74

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ An’ haven’t I been keeping swarms of
those very same bacteria under close obser¬
vation for Sebastian for seven weeks past?
Why, I know them as well as I know me
own mother.”

“ Thank you,” I said. “ That will do.”

I KNOW THEM AS WELL AS I KNOW ME OWN MOTHER.

And I carried off the microscope, bacilli and
all, into Hilda Wade’s sitting-room. “ Look
yourself! ” I cried to her.

She stared at them through the instrument
with an unmoved face. “ I thought so,” she
answered shortly. “The bacillus of pyaemia.
A most virulent type. Exactly what I ex¬
pected.”

“You anticipated that result ? ”

“Absolutely. You see, blood-poisoning
matures quick, and kills almost to a certainty.
Delirium supervenes so soon that the patient
has no chance of explaining suspicions.
Besides, it would all seem so very natural!
Everybody would say, ‘ She got some slight
wound, which microbes from some case she
was attending contaminated.’ You may be
sure Sebastian thought out all that. He
plans with consummate skill. He had designed
everything.”

I gazed at her, uncertain. “ And what will
you do 1 ” I asked. “ Expose him ? ”

She opened both her palms with a blank
gesture of helplessness. “ It is useless,” she
answered. “ Nobody would believe me.
Consider the situation. You know the needle
I gave you was the one Sebastian meant to
use—the one he dropped and I caught—
because you are a friend
of mine, and because
you have learned to
trust me. But who else
would credit it ? I
have only my word
against his — an un¬
known nurse’s against
the great Professor’s.
Everybody would say I
was malicious or
hysterical. Hysteria is
always an easy stone to
fling at an injured
woman who asks for
justice. They would
declare I had trumped
up the case to forestall
my dismissal. They
would set it down to
spite. We can do no¬
thing against him.
Remember, on his part,
the utter absence of
overt motive.”

“ And you mean to
stop on here, in close
attendance on a man
who has attempted your
life?” I cried, really
alarmed for her safety.

“ I am not sure about that,” she answered.

“ I must take time to think. My presence
at Nathaniel’s was necessary to my Plan.
The Plan fails for the present. I have now
to look round and reconsider my position.”

“ But you are not safe here now,” I urged,
growing warm. “ If Sebastian really wishes
to get rid of you, and is as unscrupulous as
you suppose, with his gigantic brain he can
soon compass his end. What he plans he
executes. You ought not to remain within
the Professor’s reach one hour longer.”

“ I have thought of that too,” she replied,
with an almost unearthly calm. “ But there
are difficulties either way. At any rate, I am
glad he did not succeed this time. For to
have killed me now would have frustrated my
Plan. And my Plan ”—she clasped her
hands—“my Plan is ten thousand times
dearer than life to me.”

“ Dear lady,” I cried, drawing a deep
breath, “ I implore you in this strait, listen to

HILDA WADE .

75

what I urge. Why fight your battle alone ?
Why refuse assistance ? I have admired you
so long—I am so eager to help you. If only

you will allow me to call you-”

Her eyes brightened and softened. Her
whole bosom heaved. I felt in a flash she
was not wholly indifferent to me. Strange
tremors in the air seemed to play about us.
But she waved me aside once more. “ Don’t
press me,” she said, in a very low voice.
“ Let me go my own way. It is hard enough

“ 1 don’t press me,’ she said.”

already, this task I have undertaken, without

your making it harder. Dear friend,

dear friend, you don’t quite understand.
There are two men at Nathaniel’s whom I
desire to escape—because they both alike
stand in the way of my purpose.” She took
my hand in hers. “Each in a different
way,” she murmured once more. “ But
each I must avoid. One is Sebastian. The

other-” she let my hand drop again and

broke off suddenly. “ Dear Hubert,” she
cried, with a catch, “ I cannot help it : for¬
give me ! ”

It was the first time she had ever called
me by my Christian name. The mere sound
of the word made me unspeakably happy.

Yet she waved me away. “ Must I go?”
I asked, quivering.

“Yes, yes, you must go. I cannot stand

it. I must think this thing out, undisturbed.
It is a very great crisis.”

That afternoon and evening, by some un¬
happy chance, I was fully engaged in work at
the hospital. Late at night, a letter arrived
for me. I glanced at it in dismay. It bore
the Basingstoke post-mark. But to my alarm
and surprise, it was in Hilda’s hand. What
could this change portend ? I opened it, all
tremulous.

“ Dear Hubert -”1 gave a sigh of

relief. It was no longer “ Dear
Dr. Cumberledge ” now, but
“ Hubert.” That was something
gained, at any rate. I read on
with a beating heart. What
had Hilda to say to me?

“ Dear Hubert, —By the time
this reaches you, I shall be far
away, irrevocably far, from
London. With deep regret, with
fierce searchings of spirit, I have
come to the conclusion that, for
the Purpose I have in view, it
would be better for me at once
to leave Nathaniel’s. Where I
go or what I mean to do, I do
not wish to tell you. Of your
charity, I pray, refrain from ask¬
ing me. I am aware that your
kindness and generosity deserve
better recognition. But, like
Sebastian himself, I am the slave
of my Purpose. I have lived
for it all these years, and it is
still very dear to me. To tell
you my plans would interfere with
that end. Do not, therefore,
suppose I am insensible to your
goodness .... Dear Hubert,
spare me—I dare not say more, lest I say
too much. I dare not trust myself. But
one thing I must say. I am flying from
you quite as much as from Sebastian.
Flying from my own heart quite as much
as from my enemy. Some day, perhaps,
if I accomplish my object, I may tell you
all. Meanwhile I can only beg of you of
your kindness to trust me. We shall not
meet again, I fear, for years. But I shall
never forget you—you, the kind counsellor,
who have half turned me aside from my
life’s purpose. One word more and I should
falter.—In very great haste and amid much
disturbance, yours ever affectionately and
gratefully, “ Hilda.”

It was a hurried sci^wl in pencil, as if
written in a train. I felt utterly dejected.
Was Hilda then leaving England ?

76

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Rousing myself after some minutes, I went
straight to Sebastian’s rooms, and told him
in brief terms that Nurse Wade had dis¬
appeared at a moment’s notice, and had sent
a note to tell me so.

He looked up from his work and scanned
me hard, as was his wont. “ That is well,”
he said at last, his eyes glowing deep: “she
was getting too great a hold on you, that
young woman ! ”

“She retains that hold upon me, sir,” I
answered, curtly.

“ You are making a grave mistake in life,
my dear Cumberledge,” he went on, in his
old genial tone, which I had almost for¬
gotten. “ Before you go further and entangle
yourself more deeply, I think it is only right
that I should undeceive you as to this girl’s
true position. She is passing under a false
name, and she comes of a tainted stock.
.... Nurse Wade, as she chooses to call
herself, is a daughter of the notorious
murderer, Yorke-
Bannerman.”

My mind leapt
back to the in¬
cident of the
broken basin.

Yorke - Banner-
man’s name had
profoundly moved
her. Then I
thought of Hilda’s
face. Murderers,

I said to myself,
do not beget such
daughters as that.

Not even acci¬
dental murderers
like my poor
friend - Le Geyt.

I saw at once
the prima facie

evidence was strongly against her. But I
had faith in her still. I drew myself up
firmly and stared him back full in the
face. “I do not believe it,” I answered,
shortly.

“You do not believe it? I tell you it is
so. The girl herself as good as acknowledged
it to me.”

I spoke slowly and distinctly. “ Dr.
Sebastian,” I said, confronting him, “ let us
be quite clear with one another. I have
found you out. I know how you tried to
poison that lady. To poison her with
bacilli which / detected. I cannot trust
your word : I cannot trust your inferences.
Either she is not Yorke-Bannerman’s daughter
at all, or else .... Yorke-Bannerman was

not a murderer.” I watched his face

close. Conviction leaped upon me. “ And
someone else was,” I went on. “ I might
put a name to him.”

With a stern white face, he rose and
opened the door.
He pointed to it
slowly. “This
hospital is not big
enough for you
and me abreast,”
he said with cold
politeness. “One
or other of us
must go. Which,
I leave it to your
good sense to
determine.”

Even at that
moment of detec¬
tion and disgrace,
in one man’s eyes
at least, Sebas¬
tian retained his
full measure of
dignity.

“this HOSI'ITAL IS NOT UIG ENOUGH FOR YOU AND ME A15REAST.

A nimal A dualities.

Note. — These articles consist of a series of perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal life , illustrated
by Mr. J. A. Shepherd , an artisi long a favourite with readers of The Strand Magazine. While
the stories themselves are matters of fact , it must be understood that the artist treats the subject
with freedom and fancy , more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere representation
of the occurrence.

XIV.

RIP was a very “ sad dog ”—is so
now, in fact, unless, ere these
lines appear in print, he has ex¬
pired in the throes of delirium
tremens, or encountered the death
of the outcast drunkard on a bleak doorstep.
He had good prospects, too, had Grip at one
time, and might have turned out an orna¬
ment and an honour to the canine race, had
it not been for his succumbing to the terrible
temptation of drink. He was a fox-terrier of
good birth—a dog of pedigree, in fact—and
Ipswich was his birthplace. In the summer
of 1894 he came to Bristol a puppy, innocent,

blinking, and wondering. In the winter of
the same year he left the town a confirmed
drunkard, the disgrace and the despair of
his master and his friends.

His master was a pupil in the Ashton
Gate Brewery, and as soon as Grip was a
sufficiently grown dog he trotted at his
master’s heels on the way to business. From
his first entry into the brewery his fall was
instant and deplorable. Small vessels were
placed under the great beer-vats, to collect
leakage and overflow, and once, in a direful,
fatal, thirsty moment, Grip took a drink out
of one of those vessels. At once his fatal

grip’s temptation.

78

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

GOING HOME.

passion seized him, and that day Grip went
home drunk.

It was very shocking, but his master felt
that the slip might be excused. Plainly, he
said, it was a mere vagary of puppyhood.
The poor little chap had been thirsty, and
had innocently drunk as much as possible of
the only liquid available. In future it should
be arranged that
water be kept in the
brewery for Grip’s
refreshment.

The water was
provided accord¬
ingly, but to every¬
body’s astonish¬
ment Grip came
home drunk again
the next day. His
friends were more
shocked than be¬
fore. This time
they did their best
to excuse him on
the ground that he
had not properly
distinguished be¬
tween the pan of
beer and the pan
of water. But, in¬
deed, he had. And
from that day forward he never drank water
when beer was within reach. In fact, he
was never wholly sober. He was always
either drunk, getting drunk, or making ready
to get drunk again. Nothing could reform
him—exhortations, preachings, threats—his
master tried them all without result. Grip
listened with a drunken leer and staggered

off to attempt another debauch, or to sleep
off the effects of the last. Once, indeed,
he did display some desire to forsake beer;
that is to say, he found an occasion to
exhibit his preference for whisky and water
—most of it whisky. But here it was easy
to cut off the supply, and Grip returned to
the vat drippings.

Now as Grip grew a drunker and drunker
dog, so his temper toward the household cat
grew worse. Even in his sober days he had
suspected the cat’s honesty, and had always
made a point of most ostentatiously counting
the bones hidden in his sleeping-basket
whenever the cat came in or out of the
kitchen. But now he also regarded her as

EXHORTATIONS, PREACHINGS, THREATS.

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

79

responsible in some degree for the difficulty
he experienced in finding his basket, after a
bout of beer-lees. Every day at noon Grip
was brought home with more or less difficulty
by his sorrowful and disgraced master, and
arriving at his
destination, he
fell upQn his
dinner in a
heap. Regain¬
ing his un¬
steady legs, he
gobbled his
food as quickly
as possible,
and was imme¬
diately seized
by a desire for
bed. The
sleeping-
basket was in the kitchen, and, having
mistily found the kitchen stairs and
tumbled down them, he tacked riotously this
way and that about the kitchen, to the
intense scandal of the totally abstaining cat,

until he brought up in the neighbourhood of
his bed, and was confronted with the pro¬
blem of getting into it. So innumerable
were the bed-baskets that pranced before his
beery eyes that he made many vain shots

SCANDAL OF THE CAT.

without encountering the real thing, and at
this moment a maniac ambition to stand on
his head would seize him. Perhaps he had
a view of proving to the cook and the cat
that he was not altogether so drunk as he

•>.«■ ,5 >

HIT IT !

So

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

sober and wholly unrepentant, and set
about preparations for another carouse.
Forcible exclusion from the vat - house
was tried, and this Grip would artfully
seek to circumvent
by conveying to his
master, or anybody
else who could un¬
derstand him, the
information that
numerous rats
lurked among the
barrels, which it
was imperatively
necessary for him
to catch instantly.
Once entry was
gained, however,
the result was
the same. Grip
caught no rats,
but he went home drunk. Till at last
the attempt to reform Grip in Bristol
was given up, and he was sorrowfully
directed back to Ipswich, a ruined and a
drunken dog.

the cook and the cat were drunk—disgrace¬
fully drunk—and responsible between them
for his inability to land within the basket.
This spoilt his temper, as we have said.

In the end he would awake, partially

looked; but at any rate his failure was com¬
plete, sprawling, and ignominious. Having
failed and having sprawled several times in
succession, he became convinced that both

RETURNED!

Covent Garden Stars in Their Favourite Rdles.

By Kathleen Schlesinger.

URIOSITY is a trait com¬
monly attributed to the gentler
sex and to children; whether
justly or not, matters little.
There is, however, a certain legi¬
timate curiosity whose motives
are beyond reproach and of which no one
need be ashamed, for it is guilty of no indis¬
cretions ; all it seeks is knowledge which it
intends, according to its lights, to put to a
good use.

The British public has ever shown a thirst
for knowledge where its favourites are con¬
cerned, and is always eager to know every¬
thing about them that will lead to a better
understanding of their characteristics and
their work. Therefore, many will be glad of
a peep behind the veil which conceals that
elusive thing—an operatic singer’s personality
—for the singer is placed in a curious
position, and is valued as an artist according
to the ease with which he steps out. of his
own individuality and assumes with his
costumes and pro¬
perties another
self with different
passions, likes,
and dislikes.

Of course, all
singers, even to
the greatest artists
among them,
have their fav¬
ourite roles which
appeal more par¬
ticularly to their
temperament, to
their musical
taste, or to their
histrionic talent.

It would only be
natural, therefore,
to suppose that
in these parts the
singer surpasses
himself and be¬
comes truly great
because he is en¬
tirely sincere.

Through the
courteous indul¬
gence of many of
our artists at
Covent Garden
in this and past
years, who have
consented to

Vol. xviii.—11

reveal their predilections, the writer is enabled
to gently lift a corner of the veil and to let the
readers judge for themselves whether they
agree with the choice. The singer was asked
in each case to state the favourite role and
the scene or act preferred in the same opera.
The portraits are given in that character, and
they have, moreover, been framed in a few
bars of the chosen music.

The arrangement of the matter is purely
accidental, and in no wise depends upon
precedence or preference, but rather upon
the roles themselves, which fall naturally into
groups.

Gounod’s “ Faust” as a favourite of so
many years’ standing opens the list. Here
we have two Marguerites , Madame Marie
Engle and Madame Suzanne Adams, both of
whom confess to a decided preference for
this part, and for that of Gounod’s Juliette.
It is a strange coincidence that there is also
a certain similarity in the manner in which
both Marguerites made their debut under

very adverse cir-
c umstances,
which might well
have proved dis¬
astrous had not
both young
singers been
plucky and re¬
solute enough to
compel success
to attend them.

Madame Marie
Engle was to
make her first
bow as Juliette at
Chicago, intro¬
duced by Messrs.
Abbey and Grau;
two rehearsals
with piano and
two with orches¬
tra had been
stipulated for, but
somehow or other
she was deprived
of them by cir¬
cumstances over
which it seemed
nobody’s business
to have any con¬
trol, and she was
left to face the
immense audi¬
ence imperfectly

82

THE S TEA HD MAGAZINE.

equipped. She was rewarded for her spirit and
courage, however, by complete success, and
since then the role has ever been dear to her.
Madame Engle, in reply to my letter, says :—

Dear Miss Schlesinger, —I send you a photo¬
graph as Marguerite in “ P'aust,” for all my pictures
as Juliette are gone. I prefer the garden scene, and
believe me, Very sincerely,

May 4th, ’99. Marie Engle.

Round the portrait will be noticed parts of
the well-known ballad, “The King of Thule,”
the “ Jewel Song,” and of the lovely duet
music, all from the garden scene.

Madame Suzanne
Adams made her
debut as Juliette at the
Grand Opera, Paris,
securing a three years’
engagement in con¬
sequence. The occa¬
sion of her first appear¬
ance as Marguerite
was a memorable one.

The management was
in despair, for the five
available Marguerites
were all indisposed,
and Suzanne Adams
had never sung the
part on the stage and
had never even re¬
hearsed it; in the
afternoon she was
begged' to take the
role. “If Madame X.
will sing the first part
I will come in after
the garden scene,” the
young singer said. At
six o’clock, however,

Madame X. was too
ill to appear at all,
and Suzanne Adams
saved the situation by
bravely coming to the
rescue. She had her
reward, and won quite a triumph.

As the “ Jewel Song ” is Madame Adams’s
favourite in the opera, she appears framed
in its familiar strains.

London, May 5th, ’99.

Dear Miss Schlesinger, —It is very difficult for
me to say which idle I prefer, as I find so much
to interest me in all of them. I think perhaps I like
Marguerite the best. My favourite composers are
Gounod and Mozart.

Believe me, yours very truly,

Suzanne Adams Stern.

This Marguerite has made quite a romantic
marriage, as the bridegroom, Mr. Leo Stern,
related to me. Showing me the portrait of

a sweet girl of sixteen, “ That’s the girl I fell
in love with,” he said, with justifiable pride,
and “ I’ve been in love with her for ten
years.” The course of true love did not run
smooth in this case, for Miss Adams’s aunt
set her face against the match, with the
result that one fine day Mr. Stern made his
way over to Paris and brought Miss Adams
right away with him then and there, “ in her
plain little grey dress, just as she was, and
without any luggage, and we were married
by special license in Marylebone Church.”

Three days later, on
October 21st, 1898,
the bride had to start
alone for Chicago,
where she made her
American debut\ but
Mr. Stern joined her
after a while. Cruel
fate separated them
again, however, for on
the very night of her
first appearance at the
Metropolitan Opera
House, New York, the
bridegroom, recalled
by a cable, sailed
back to fulfil engage¬
ments in England.

Pol Plan9011 writes
that his favourite
character is Alephis-
iopheles in Gounod’s
“ Faust,” and as for
the music, he chooses
the whole of his part.
As it cannot all be
quoted, the two fam¬
ous numbers “ Dio
del or’ ” and the Sere-
11 ade have been
chosen for the frame.

On one occasion
our Mephistopheles was
distinctly original, doing a deed which would
make the hair of all past and present
Mephistos bristle with horror. The attitude
of this proverbially red gentleman towards
fire and his interest in keeping it burning
brightly are well known; and yet on one
memorable occasion, whilst Plangon -Mephisto-
pheles , trembling with excitement and delight
at the thought of a new victim, was waiting
outside Faust’s study for his summons, the
unexpected occurred.

“ What a curious and familiar smell ! ”
said Mephislo to himself. “ Is Dr. Faust
burning up all his dry old books ? ”

CO VENT GARDEN STARS.

83

*Covent Garden, June 7th, 1895.

POL PLANQON AS MEPHISTOPHELES IN “ I'AUST,
From a Photo, by Bengue, Paris.

Suddenly a flame shot through the
study wall, and certain indispensable
excrescences on his head were singed.
Mephisto leapt back hurriedly a foot or
two, “ Avaunt ! slave, would’st thou
attack thy master ? Help here, water,
quick ! or I shall lose my victim.”

Plan con - Mephistopheles re-appeared
in the twinkling of an eye with two
buckets full of water, followed by a
fireman with the hose.

“ Look out there, old chap ! you
needn’t drench me ! ” called out
A\\2iXQz-Faust , in colloquial French.

“Bah! who minds a little water?
We shall soon dry down below ! ”

For once the cravings of the
audience for stage effects were more
than satisfied, and the ominous shuffl¬
ing of many feet already announced a
retreat, when a pure, clear voice was
heard : higher and higher it rose ! It
was Melba holding the frightened

audience under a spell. Thus was
a panic avoided, thanks to the
presence of mind of these three
singers.*

This is what had happened:
the red light which always heralds
the approach of Mephistopheles had
been too generously expended, and
the canvas representing the wall of
Faust's study caught fire.

There is another character be¬
longing to the domain of French
opera, Carmen , the favourite role of
Mile. Zelie de Lussan, who thus
replies to the questions :—

My favourite role — Carmen. My favourite
scene in the same opera—“The death
scene.” My favourite recreation—“Listen¬
ing to good music.” My favourite com¬
poser—“ I have none.” My voice was
trained by—“ My mother.” I made my
debut in— “ America.”

(Signed) Zelie de Lussan.

The musical frame, therefore, is
derived from the scene where Don
Jose comes upon Carmen as she is
awaiting the issue of the bull-fight;
he has just pleaded for her love
and been spurned by her.

8 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

heroines. First, Madame
Nordica-Dome, as the
warlike Valkyrie , a role
which she confesses to
be her favourite. On her
shield-frame are many of
her favourite motives from
the “Nibelungen Ring,”
such as the shout of the
Valkyrie , Ho-jo-to-ho! the
motive in which she
pleads so touchingly with
the angered Wotan in
“ Die Walkure,” her
awakening by Siegfried,
Briinnhildis new motive
as a mortal woman filled
with love for Siegfried ,
and her last glorious song
of exultation in the
“ Gotterdammerung.”

Madame Nordica, by
the way, is the possessor
of the only dog that can
boast of having been in¬
side Bayreuth during a
performance; he was
smuggled in under a cloak

HERR ANDREAS DIPPEL AS LOHENGRIN.

From a Photo, by Kitk, Vienna.

MADAME NORDICA AS BRUNNHILDE*
from a Photo.[by Dupont , New York.

The immense scope for
dramatic study afforded by this
impersonation greatly attracted
our Carmen , and in order to
be able to enter more fully into
the part, she spent months in
Seville, observing the sunny,
dark beauties who work in the
cigarette factories of the ancient
Moorish city, and making
mental notes of the mixture
of coyness and wild, uncon¬
trolled passion in their nature.
The keynote of Mile, de
Lussan’s conception of Carmen
is that she was an alien among
the unscrupulous gipsies, and
revolted in her heart against
their wantonness and fierce,
untamed spirit, longing secretly
for better things, but incapable
by nature of thinking seriously.

There remains now a splendid
array of Wagner’s heroes and

CO VENT GARDEN STARS.

by the maid, but the music was too much for
his feelings, and he raised up his voice in
protest; for which he was speedily turned
out. Madame Wagner’s remarks on the
occasion have not been recorded, but she
must have been
very irate.

Herr Andreas
Dippel gives as
his preferences
Siegfried and
Lohengrin; there-

MISS SUSAN STRONG AS
SIEGLINDE.

From a Photo.

fore he appears
in the costume
of the latter,
surrounded by
his favourite
music from
the first act of
“Siegfried,” in¬
cluding, of
course, the
“Forging of Nothung.”

Miss Susan Strong shall speak for
herself as to her preferences in part
of her letter written in 1897, and they
still retain their hold over her, she
assures me, at the present day. This
is what she writes :—

I must acknowledge, however, that with
all due reverence and affection for the role
of Siegliiide , I find it rather bold for me to
choose it above so .many others which are so
dear to me,.

On one occasion, when singing in
this part, Miss Strong found herself
in a fix, and she was observed, after
she was supposed to have made her
exit, to return to the stage, unmindful
of Wotan's wrath, and ascend the
rocky boulders at the back. The

audience wondered what she was doing. This
is what had occurred : When Sieg/inde ,
escorted by Briinnhilde , tried to make her
regulation exit at the back of the wings, she
found it completely blocked up with scenery,
and it was the protecting Valkyrie who, see¬
ing her dilemma, advised the alternative.

Miss Strong won her way to fame with
this role , in which she also made her debut;
for when she had been a professional for
three weeks only she already held in her
hand a contract to sing the part at Bayreuth
the same year.

Mr. David Bispham
wrote as follows to explain
his preferences :—

It is hard to tell you which
is my favourite operatic char¬
acter, but I am inclined to
think that the first Wagner idle
in which I appeared, now five
years ago [the letter is dated
July 20th, 1897], namely, Kur-
wenal in “Tristan and Isolde,”
is perhaps one of the best and
most sympathetic, and one
which the public seems to
admire. The scene in the last
act in which the faithful Kur-
wenal is watching over his
master’s bed, after which he

86

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Mile. Olitzka further con¬
fesses a great partiality for
the characters of Ortrudci in
“Lohengrin,” and Amneris
in “ Aida ”; her favourite
composers are Wagner,
Beethoven, and Mozart,
and her favourite recrea¬
tions studying and walking
or outdoor amusements of
different kinds; she thus
finds happiness in her work
without neglecting her
physical welfare.

Miss Meisslinger, who
has been known at Covent
Garden for the last five
years, tells me that the im¬
personations which give her
the greatest pleasure are
Ortruda in “ Lohengrin,”
Tides in “ The Prophet,”
and Adriano in “ Rienzi.”
She studied under Mme.
Viardot Garcia in Paris,
and made her debut in
Wiesbaden.

The next in our portrait
gallery is Parsifal\ as sung
by Ernest van Dyck, and

MLLE. OLITZKA AS BRANGANE IN “ TRISTAN.
From a Photo.

fights for and dies at the feet of Tristan , is
perhaps one of the most moving situations
in the whole work. It gives me much
pleasure to inclose my photograph, as you
request. Very sincerely yours,

David Bispham.

What more natural than to turn
from one faithful servant of the ill-
fated lovers to the other, Brangdne ?
This is the favourite impersonation of
Mile. Olitzka, who is represented in
her photograph holding the cup from
which Isolde and Tristan have just
drunk the love-potion, believing it
to be the draught of death. The
bars of music forming the frame are
taken from the first act of the drama,
as that is Mile. Olitzka’s favourite.
This time last year this Brangdne was
singing in St. Petersburg, with MM.
Jean and Edouard de Reszke as
Tristan and King Marke , before the
Czar, who always appeared punctually
before the overture and remained till
the end of the opera in his box, which
looks straight on to the stage and
cannot be seen from the auditorium.

CO VENT GARDEN STARS.

87

asked the magistrate, peering at him
over his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“ Why, with a 4 c,’ to be sure,” was
the tenor’s emphatic reply ; 44 what
would a tenor do at the opera with¬
out the famous 4 C ’ ? ”

Herr Anton van Rooy gives as his
preference the first role he sang at
Bayreuth, and indeed on any stage
—that of Wo tan; and his portrait
is surrounded by a few bars of the
beautiful music he sings as he bids
farewell to Briinnhilde , and kisses
from her her godhood before leav¬
ing her on her fire-girt rock.

M. Jean de Reszke has sent a
photograph of himself as Tristan ,
which is one of his favourite im¬
personations. The bars of music
given are from the favourite 44 lovers’
duet ” in the second act; and also
Tristan's last words in Act III., when,
hearing Isolde's voice outside calling
out, 44 Tristan, Beloved,” he springs
up to go to her, and dies in her
arms with her name on his lips.
Mile. Felia Litvinne, who is Jean
de Reszke’s sister-in-law, tells me
the part of Isolde is
by far her favourite ;
in fact, she loves it
passionately, and she
cannot say that she
prefers any one
scene, for the whole
role is so complete.
Unfortunately, Mile.
Litvinne has no
photograph in the
character at present.
Some familiar figures
will be missed from
these pages, but,
unfortunately, some
of the artists did
not reach London
in time to be com¬
municated with,
while the photos,
of others, again,
arrived too late
to be included.

MERR ANTON VAN ROOY AS WOTA
From a Photo, by Dupont ,

New York.

some of the music
from the Good Friday
spell, as his favourite,
forms the frame. No
man has been more
persistently misspelt
than Van Dyck ; but
he settled the point
once and for all in
court, where he was
upon one occasion
called into the
witness-box during
hi's residence in
Vienna. 44 Do you
spell your name with
or without a 4 c’?”

From a Photo. ?>//!

M. JEAN DE RESZKE AS TRISTAN.

[Dupont, New York.

A Master of Craft.

By W. W. Jacobs.

V.

HE same day that Flower and
his friends visited the theatre,
Captain Barber gave a small
and select tea-party. The
astonished Mrs. Banks had re¬
turned home with her daughter
the day before to find the air full of rumours
about Captain Barber and his new house¬
keeper. They had been watched for hours
at a time from upper back windows of houses
in the same row, and the professional opinion
of the entire female element was that Mrs.
Church could land her fish at any time she
thought fit.

“Old fools are the worst of fools,” said
Mrs. Banks, tersely, as she tied her bonnet-
strings ; “the idea of Captain Barber thinking
of marrying at his time of life.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” inquired her
daughter.

“ Why, because he’s promised to leave his
property to Fred and you, of course,”
snapped the old lady; “ if he marries that
hussy it’s precious little you and Fred will get.”

“ I expect it’s mostly talk,” said her
daughter, calmly, as she closed the street

People

returning the old lady’s hostile stare with
interest.

“ I’ll take mine off down here, if Captain
Barber doesn’t mind,” said the latter, subsid¬
ing into a chair with a gasp. “ Him and me’s
very old friends.”

She unfastened the strings of her bonnet,
and, taking off that article of attire, placed it
in her lap while she unfastened her shawl.
She then held both out to Mrs. Church,
briefly exhorting her to be careful.

“ Oh, what a lovely bonnet,” said that lady,
in false ecstasy. “ What a perfect beauty !
I’ve never seen anything like it before.
Never! ”

Captain Barber, smiling at the politeness
of his housekeeper, was alarmed and per¬
plexed at the generous colour which suddenly
filled the old lady’s cheeks.

“ Mrs. Banks made it herself,” he said;
“she’s very clever at that sort of thing.”

“ There, do you know I guessed as much,”
said Mrs. Church, beaming; “directly I saw
it, I said to myself; ‘ That was never made
by a milliner. There’s too much taste in the
way the flowers are arranged.’ ”

Mrs. Banks looked at her daughter in a
mute appeal for help.

“ I’ll take yours up
too, shall I ? ” said the
amiable housekeeper, as
Mrs. Banks, with an air

door behind her indignant parent,
used to talk about you and old
Mr. Wilders, and there was
nothing in it. He only used to
come for a glass of your ale.”

This reference to an
admirer who had con¬
sumed several barrels
of the liquor in question
without losing his head
put the finishing touch
to the elder lady’s wrath,
and she walked the rest
of the way in ominous
silence.

Captain Barber re¬
ceived them in the
elaborate velvet
smoking-cap with the
gold tassel which had
evoked such strong en¬
comiums from Mrs.

Church, and in a few
well - chosen words —
carefully rehearsed that afternoon —
presented his housekeeper.

“Will you come up to my room
take your things off?” inquired Mrs. Church,

Copyright, 1899, by W. W. Jacobs, in the United States of America.

THAT WAS NEVER MADE IJY A MILLINER.

A MASTER OF CRAFT

89

of defying criticism, drew a cap from a
paper-bag and put it on.

“ I’ll take mine myself, please,” said Miss
Banks, with coldness.

“ Oh, well, you may as well take them all
then,” said Mrs. Church, putting the mother’s
bonnet and shawl in her arms. “ I’ll go and
see that the kettle boils,” she added, briskly.

She returned a minute or two later with
the tea-pot, and setting chairs, took the head
of the table.

“And how’s the leg?” inquired Captain
Barber, misinterpreting Mrs. Banks’s screwed-
up face.

“ Which one?” asked Mrs. Banks, shortly.

“ The bad J un,” said the captain.

“They’re both bad,”said Mrs. Banks, more
shortly than before, as she noticed that Mrs.
Church had got real lace in her cuffs and was
pouring out the tea in full consciousness of
the fact.

“ Dear, dear,” said the captain, sympa¬
thetically.

“ Swollen ? ” inquired Mrs. Church,
anxiously.

“Swelled right out of shape,” explained
Captain Barber, impressively;

“like pillers a’most they are.”

“ Poor thing,”, said Mrs.

Church, in a voice which
made Mrs. Banks itch to
slap her. “I knew a lady
once just the same, but she
was a drinking woman.”

Again Mrs. Banks, at a
loss for words, looked to her
daughter for assistance.

“ Dear me, how dreadful
it must be to know such
people,” said Miss Banks,
shivering.

“ Yes,” sighed the other.

“It used to make me feel
so sorry for her — they were
utterly shapeless, you know.

Horrid.”

“That’s how Mrs. Banks’s
are,” said the captain, nod¬
ding sagely. “ You look ’ot,

Mrs. Banks. Shall I open the
winder a bit ? ”

“ I’ll thank you not to talk
about me like that, Captain Barber,” said
Mrs. Banks, the flowers on her cap trembling.

“ As you please, ma’am,” said Captain
Barber, with a stateliness which deserved a
better subject. “ I was only repeating what
Dr. Hodder told me in your presence.”

Mrs. Banks made no reply, but created a

Vo!, xviti.— 12 .

diversion by passing her cup up for more tea ;
her feelings, when Mrs. Church took off the
lid of the tea-pot and poured in about a pint
of water before helping her, belonging to that
kind known as indescribable.

“ Water bewitched and tea begrudged,”
she said, trying to speak jocularly.

“ Well, the fourth cup never is very good,
is it?” said Mrs. Church, apologetically.
“I’ll put some more tea in so that your next
cup’ll be better.”

As a matter of fact it was Mrs. Banks’s
third cup, and she said so, Mrs. Church
receiving the correction with a polite smile,
more than tinged with incredulity.

“ It’s wonderful what a lot o’ tea is drunk,”
said Captain Barber, impressively, looking
round the table.

“ I’ve heard say it’s like spirit drinking,”
said Mrs. Church; “they say it gets such a
hold of people that they can’t give it up.
They’re just slaves to it, and they like it
brown and strong like brandy.”

Mrs. Banks, who had been making noble
efforts, could contain herself no longer. She
put down the harmless beverage which had

just been handed to her, and pushed her
chair back from the table. “ Are you speak¬
ing of me, young woman?” she asked,
tremulous with indignation.

“ Oh, no, certainly not,” said Mrs. Church,
in great distress. “ I never thought of such
a thing. I was alluding to the people

“‘that’s HOW MRS. BANKS’S ARE,’ SAID THE CAPTAIN.”

9 o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Captain Barber was talking of—regular tea-
drinkers, you know.”

“ I know what you mean, ma’am,” said
Mrs. Banks, fiercely.

“ There, there,” said Captain Barber, in¬
advisedly.

“ Don’t you say 4 there, there,’ to me,
Captain Barber, because I won’t have it,”
said the old lady, speaking with great
rapidity ; “ if you think that I’m going to sit
here and be insulted by—by that woman,
you’re mistaken.”

“ You’re quite mistook, Mrs. Banks,” said
the captain, slowly. “ I’ve heard everything
she said, and, where the insult comes in, I’m
sure I don’t know. I don’t think I’m want¬
ing in common sense, ma’am.”

He patted the housekeeper’s hand, kindly,
and, in full view of the indignant Mrs. Banks,
she squeezed his in return and gazed at him
affectionately. There is nothing humorous
to the ordinary person in a tea-cup, but

of them. Mrs. Banks, apparently realizing
this, laughed again with increased acridity,
and finally became so very amused that she
shook in her chair.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, ma’am,”
said Captain Barber, loftily.

With a view, perhaps, of giving his guest
further amusement he patted the house¬
keeper’s hand again, whereupon Mrs.
Banks’s laughter ceased, and she sat re¬
garding Mrs. Church with a petrified stare,
met by that lady with a glance of haughty
disdain.

“ S’pose we go into the garden a bit,”
suggested Barber, uneasily. The two ladies
had eyed each other for three minutes with¬
out blinking, and his own eyes were watering
in sympathy.

Mrs. Banks, secretly glad of the interrup¬
tion, made one or two vague remarks about
going home, but after much persuasion
allowed him to lead her into the garden, the

SHE ALLOWED HIM TO LEAD HER INTO THE GARDEN.”

Mrs. Banks, looking straight into hers, broke
into a short, derisive laugh.

“ Anything the matter, ma’am ? ” inquired
Captain Barber, regarding her somewhat
severely.

Mrs. Barber shook her head. “ Only
thoughts,” she said, mysteriously.

It is difficult for a man to object to his
visitors finding amusement in their thoughts,
or even to inquire too closely into the nature

solemn Elizabeth bringing up the rear with a
hassock and a couple of cushions.

“ It’s a new thing for you, having a house¬
keeper,” observed Mrs. Banks, after her
daughter had returned to the house to assist
in washing up.

“Yes, I wonder I never thought of it
before,” said the artful Barber ; “ you wouldn’t
believe how comfortable it is.”

“ I daresay,” said Mrs. Banks, grimly.

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

9i

“It’s nice to have a woman about the
house,” continued Captain Barber, slowly,
“ it makes it more home-like. A slip of a
servant-gal ain’t no good at all.”

. “ How does Fred like it? ” inquired Mrs.
Banks.

“ My ideas are Fred’s ideas,” said Uncle
Barber, somewhat sharply. “What I like he
has to like, naturally.”

“‘its nice to have a woman about the house,’ continued captain barber.’

‘ I was thinking of my darter,” said Mrs. a little surprise.

Banks. “The arrangement was, I think, that
when they married they was to live with you ? ”

Captain Barber nodded acquiescence.

“ Elizabeth would never live in a house
with that woman, or any other woman as
housekeeper in it,” said the mother.

“ Well, she won’t have to,” said the old
man ; ‘ when they marry and Elizabeth comes
here, I sha’n’t want a housekeeper—I shall get
rid of her.”

Mrs. Banks shifted in her chair, and gazed
thoughtfully down the garden. “ Of course
my idea was for them to wait till I was gone,”
she said at length.

“Just so,” replied the other, “and more’s
the pity.”

“ But Elizabeth’s getting on and I don’t
seem to go,” continued the old lady, as
though mildly surprised at Providence for its
unaccountable delay ; “and there’s Fred, he
ain’t getting younger.”

Captain Barber puffed at his pipe. “None
of us are,” he said, profoundly.

“ And Fred might get tired of waiting,”
said Mrs. Banks, ruminating.

“ He’d better let me hear him,” said the
uncle, fiercely; “leastways, o’ course, he’s
tired o’ waiting, in a sense. He’d like to be
married.”

“ There’s young C*ibson,” said Mrs. Banks,
in a thrilling whisper.

“ What about him ? ” inquired Bar¬
ber, surprised at her manner.

“ Comes round after Elizabeth,” said
Mrs. Banks.

“No ! ” said Captain
Barber, blankly.

Mrs. Banks pursed up
her lips and nodded
darkly.

“ Pretends to come and
see me,” said Mrs. Banks ;
“always coming in bring¬
ing something new for
my legs. The worst of
it is, he ain’t always care¬
ful what he brings. He
brought some new-fangled
stuff in a bottle last week,
and the agonies I suffered
after rubbing it in wouldn’t
be believed.”

“ It’s like his impu¬
dence,” said the captain.

“ I’ve been thinking,”
said Mrs. Banks, nodding
her head with some ani¬
mation, “ of giving Fred
What do you think he’d
do if I said they might marry this autumn?”
t “Jump out of his skin with joy,” said
Captain Barber, with conviction. “ Mrs.
Banks, the pleasure you’ve given me this day
is more than I can say.”

“ And they’ll live with you just the same ? ”
said Mrs. Banks.

“ Certainly,” said the captain.

“They’ll only be a few doors off then,”
said Mrs. Banks, “ and it’ll be nice for you
to have a woman in the house to look after
you.”

Captain Barber nodded softly. “ It’s
what I’ve been wanting for years,” he said,
heartily.

And that huss—housekeeper,” said Mrs.
Banks, correcting herself—“ will go ? ”

“O’ course,” said Captain Barber. “I
sha’n’t want no housekeeper with my nevy’s
wife in the house. You’ve told Elizabeth, I
s’pose ? ”

9 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“Not yet,” said Mrs. Banks, who as a
matter of fact had been influenced by the
proceedings of that afternoon to bring to
a head a step she had hitherto only vaguely
contemplated.

Elizabeth, who came down the garden
again a little later, accompanied by Mrs.
Church, received the news stolidly. A feel¬
ing of regret that the attentions of the
devoted Gibson must now cease certainly
occurred to her, but she never thought of
contesting the arrangements made for her,
and accepted the situation with a placidity
which the more ardent Barber was utterly
unable to understand.

“ Fred’ll stand on his ’ed with joy,”
the unsophisticated mariner declared, with
enthusiasm.

“ He’ll go singing about the house,”
declared Mrs. Church.

Mrs. Banks regarded her unfavourably.

“ He’s never said much,” continued Uncle
Barber, in an exalted strain; “that ain’t
Fred’s way. He takes arter me: he’s one o’
the quiet ones, one o’ the still deep waters
what always feels the most. When I tell
’im his face’ll just light up with joy.”

“ It’ll be nice for you, too,” said Mrs.
Banks, with a side glance at the housekeeper;
“ you’ll have somebody to look after you and
take an interest in you, and strangers can’t
be expected to do that even if they’re nice I

“ We shall have him standing on his head,
too,” said Mrs. Church, with a bright smile;
“ you’re turning everything upside down, Mrs.
Banks.”

“There’s things as wants altering,” said the
old lady, with emphasis. “ There’s few
things as I don’t see, ma’am.”

“ I hope you’ll live to see a lot more,” said
Mrs. Church, piously.

“ She’ll live to be ninety,” said Captain
Barber, heartily.

“Oh, easily” said Mrs. Church.

Captain Barber regarding his old friend
saw her face suffused with a wrath for which
he was utterly unable to account. With a
hazy idea that something had passed which
he had not heard, he caused a diversion by
sending Mrs. Church indoors for a pack of
cards, and solemnly celebrated the occasion
with a game of whist, at which Mrs. Church,
in partnership with Mrs. Banks, either through
sheer wilfulness or absence of mind, contrived
to lose every game.

VI.

As a result of the mate’s ill-behaviour at the
theatre, Captain Fred Flower treated him

with an air of chilly disdain, ignoring, as far
as circumstances would permit, the fact that
such a person existed. So far as the social
side went the mate made no demur, but it
was a different matter when the skipper acted
as though he were not present at the breakfast
table, and being chary of interfering with the
other’s self-imposed vow of silence, he rescued
a couple of rashers from his plate and put
them on his own. Also, in order to put
matters on a more equal footing, he drank
three cups of coffee in rapid succession,
leaving the skipper to his own reflections
and an empty coffee-pot. In this sociable
fashion they got through most of the day,
the skipper refraining from speech until late
in the afternoon, when, both being at work
in the hold, the mate let a heavy case fall on
his foot.

“ I thought you’d get it,” he said, calmly,
as Flower paused to take breath ; “it wasn’t
my fault.”

“ Whose was it, then ? ” roared Flower,
who had got his boot off and was trying
various tender experiments with his toe to
see whether it was broken or not.

“ If you hadn’t been holding your head in
the air and pretending that I wasn’t here, it
wouldn’t have happened,” said Fraser, with
some heat.

The skipper turned his back on him, and
meeting a look of inquiring solicitude from
Joe, applied to him for advice.

“ What had I better do with it ? ” he
asked.

“Well, if it was my toe, sir,” said Joe, re¬
garding it respectfully, “ I should stick it in
a basin o’ boiling water and keep it there as
long as I could bear it.”

“ You’re a fool,” said the skipper, briefly.
“ What do you think of it, Ben ? I don’t
think it’s broken.”

The old seaman scratched his head. “ Well,
if it belonged to me,” he said, slowly,
“there’s some ointment down the fo’c’s’le
wot the cook ’ad for sore eyes. I should
just put some o’ that on. It looks good
stuff.”

The skipper, summarizing the chief points
in Ben’s character, which, owing principally
to the poverty of the English language, bore
a remarkable likeness to Joe’s and the mate’s,
took his sock and boot in his hand, and
gaining the deck limped painfully to the
cabin.

The foot was so painful after tea that he
could hardly bear his slipper on, and he went
ashore in his working clothes to the chemist’s,
preparatory to fitting himself out for Liston

A MASTER OF CRAFT

93

Street. The chemist, leaning over the
counter, was inclined to take a serious view
of it, and shaking his head with much

“ I SHOULD PUT SOME O* THAT ON.’

“ Let me see it again as soon as you’ve
finished the medicine,” he said, as he handed
the articles over the counter.

Flower promised, and hobbling towards
the door turned into the street. Then the
amiable air which he had worn in the shop
gave way to one of unseemly hauteur as he
saw Fraser hurrying towards him.

“Look out,” cried the latter, warningly.

The skipper favoured him with a baleful
stare.

“ All right,” said the mate, angrily, “ go
your own way then. Don’t come to me when
you get into trouble, that’s all.”

Flower passed on his way in silence.
Then a thought struck him and he stopped
suddenly.

“You wish to speak to me?” he asked,
stiffly.

“ No, I’m hanged if I do,” said the mate,
sticking his hands into his pockets.

“If you wish to speak to me,” said the
other, trying in vain to conceal a trace of
anxiety in his voice, “it’s my duty to
listen. What were you going to say just
now ? ”

The mate eyed him wrathfully, but as the
pathetic figure with its wounded toe and
cargo of remedies stood there waiting for
him to speak, he
suddenly softened.

“ Don’t go back,
old man,” he said,
kindly; “she’s
aboard.”

Eighteenpenny-
worth of mixture
to be taken thrice
daily from table¬
spoons spilled over
the curb, and the
skipper, thrusting
the other packets
mechanically into
his pockets, limped
hurriedly round the
corner.

“It’s no use
finding fault with
me,” said Fraser,
quickly, as he
stepped along be¬
side him, “ so don’t
try it. They came
down into the
cabin before I knew
they were aboard
even.”

“ They ? ” re¬
peated the distressed Flower. “ Who’s
they ? ”

“ The young woman that came before and
a stout woman with a little dark moustache
and earrings. They’re going to wait until
you come back to ask you a few questions
about Mr. Robinson. They’ve been asking
me a few. I’ve locked the door of your state¬
room, and here’s the key.”

Flower pocketed it and, after a little
deliberation, thanked him.

“ I did the best I could for you,” said the
other, with a touch of severity. “ If I’d
treated you as some men would have done, I
should have just let you walk straight into
the trap.”

Flower gave an apologetic cough. “I’ve
had a lot of worry lately, Jack,” he said,
humbly; “ come in and have something.
Perhaps it’ll clear my head a bit.”

“ I told ’em you wouldn’t be back till
twelve at least,” said the mate, as Flower
rapidly diagnosed his complaint and ordered
whisky, “perhaps not then, and that when
you did turn up you’d sure to be the worse
for liquor. The old lady said she’d wait all

solemnity, pre¬
pared a bottle
of medicine, a
bottle of lotion,
and a box of
ointment.

94

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

night for the pleasure of seeing your bonny
face, and as for you being drunk, she said
she don’t suppose there’s a woman in London
that has had more experience with drunken
men than she has.”

“ Let this be a warning to you, Jack,” said
the skipper, solemnly, as he drained his glass
and put it thoughtfully on the counter.

“ Don’t you trouble about me,” said Fraser;
“you’ve got all you can do to look after
yourself. I’ve come out to look for a police¬
man ; at least, that’s what I told them.”

“‘they’re STILL DOWN BELOW; SIR,’ SAID JOE.”

“ All the police in the world couldn’t do
me any good,” sighed Flower. “ Poppy’s
got tickets for a concert to-night,, and I was
going with her. I can’t go like this.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”
inquired the other.

Flower shook his head and pondered.
“You go back and get rid of them the best
way you can,” he said, at length, “ but what¬
ever you do, don’t have a scene. I’ll stay
here till you come and tell me the coast is
clear.”

“ And suppose it don’t clear ? ” said
Fraser.

“ 1 hen I’ll pick you up at Greenwich in
the morning,” said Flower.

“ And suppose they’re still aboard ? ” said
Fraser.

“ I won’t suppose any such thing,” said
the other, hotly; “ if you can’t get rid of two
women between now and three in the morn¬
ing, you’re not much of a mate. If they
catch me I’m ruined, and you’ll be respon¬
sible for it.”

. The mate, staring at him blankly, opened
his mouth to reply, but being utterly unable
to think of anything adequate to
the occasion, took up his glass
instead, and, drinking off the
contents, turned to the door. He
stood for a moment at the thresh¬
old gazing at Flower as though
he had just discovered points
about him which had hitherto
escaped his notice, and then
made his way back to the wharf.

“ They’re still down below,
sir,” said Joe, softly, as he stepped
aboard, “ and making as free
and as comfortable as though
they’re going to stay a month.”

Fraser shrugged his shoulders
and went below. The appear¬
ance of the ladies amply con¬
firmed Joe’s remark.

“ Never can find one when you
want him, can you ? ” said the
elder lady, in playful allusion to
the police.

“ Well, I altered my mind,”
said Fraser, amiably. “ I don’t
like treating ladies roughly, but
if the cap’n comes on board and
finds you here it’ll be bad for me,
that’s all.”

“ What time do you expect
him?” inquired Miss Tipping.

“ Not before we sail at three
in the morning,” said the mate,
glibly ; “ perhaps not then. I often have
to take the ship out without him. tie’s
been away six weeks at a stretch before
now.”

“ Well, we’ll stay here till he does come,”
said the elder lady. “ I’ll have his cabin,
and my step-daughter’ll have to put up with
your bed.”

“ If you’re not gone by the time we start,
I shall have to have you put off,” said Fraser.

“ Those of us who live longest’ll see the
most,” said Mrs. Tipping, calmly.

An hour or two passed, the mate sitting
smoking with a philosophy which he hoped

A MASTER OF CRAFT

95

the waiting mariner at the Admiral
Cochrane would be able to imitate. He lit
the lamp at last, and going on deck, ordered
the cook to prepare supper.

Mother and daughter, with feelings of
gratitude, against which they fought strongly,
noticed that the table was laid for three, and
a little later, in a somewhat awkward fashion,
they all sat down to the meal together.

“Very good beef,” said Mrs. Tipping,
politely.

“Very nice,” said her daughter, who was
exchanging glances with the mate. “ I sup¬
pose you’re very comfortable here, Mr.
Fraser?”

The mate sighed. “ It’s all right when the
old man’s away,” he said, deceitfully. “ He’s
got a dreadful temper.”

“ I hope you didn’t get into trouble
through my coming aboard the other night,”
said Miss Tipping, softly.

“ Don’t say anything about it,” replied the
mate, eyeing her admiringly. “ I’d do more
than that for you if I could.”

Miss Tipping, catching her mother’s eye,
bestowed upon her a glance of complacent
triumph.

“ You don’t mind us coming down here, do
you ? ” she said, languishingly.

“ I wish you’d live here,” said the un¬
scrupulous Fraser; “ but of course I know
you only come here to try and see that fellow
Robinson,” he added, gloomily.

“I like to see you too,” was the reply. “I
like you very much as a friend.”

The mate in a melancholy voice thanked
her, and to the great annoyance of the cook,
who had received strict orders from the
forecastle to listen as much as he could, sat
in silence while the table was cleared.

“ What do you say to a hand at cards ? ” he
said, after the cook had finally left the
cabin.

“ Three-handed cribbage,” said Mrs. Tip¬
ping, quickly ; “ it’s the only game worth
playing.”

No objection being raised, the masterful
lady drew closer to the table; and concentrat¬
ing energies of no mean order on the game,
successfully played hands of unvarying good¬
ness, aided by a method of pegging which
might perhaps be best described as dot and
carry one.

“ You haven’t seen anything of this Mr.
Robinson since you were here last, I
suppose?” said Fraser, noting with satisfac¬
tion that both ladies gave occasional uneasy
glances at the clock.

“No, an’ not likely to,” said Mrs. Tipping;-

“ fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, and a
pair’s eight.”

“ Where’s the fifteen six ? ” inquired Fraser,
glancing over.

“ Eight and seven,” said the lady, pitching
the cards with the others and beginning to
shuffle for the next deal.

“ It’s very strange behaviour,” said the
mate ; “ Robinson’s, I mean. Do you think
he’s dead ? ”

“ No, I don’t,” said Mrs. Tipping, briefly.

“ Where’s that capt’in of yours ? ”

Fraser, whose anxiety was becoming too
much for his play, leaned over the table as
though about to speak, and then, apparently
thinking better of it, went on with the
game.

“Eh?” said Mrs. Tipping, putting her
cards face downwards on the table and catch¬
ing his eye. “ Where ? ”

“Oh, nowhere,” said Fraser, awkwardly.

“ I don’t want to be dragged into this, you
know. It isn’t my business.”

“ If you know where he is, why can’t you
tell us ?” asked Mrs. Tipping, softly. “There’s
no harm in that.”

“ What’s the good ? ” inquired Fraser, in a
low voice; “ when you’ve seen the old man
you won’t be any forwarder—he wouldn’t tell
you anything even if he knew it.”

“Well, we’d like to see him,” said Mrs.
Tipping, after a pause.

“ You see, you put me in a difficulty,”
said Fraser; “if the skipper doesn’t come
aboard, you’re going with us, I under¬
stand ? ”

Mrs. Tipping nodded. “ Exactly,” she
said, sharply.

“That’ll get me into trouble, if anything
will,” said the mate, gloomily. “ On the
other hand, if I tell you where he is now,
that’ll get me into trouble, too.”

He sat back and drummed on the table
with his fingers. “Well, I’ll risk it,” he said,
at length; “you’ll find him at 17, Beaufort
Street, Bow.”

The younger woman sprang excitedly to
her feet, but Mrs. Tipping, eyeing the young
man with a pair of shrewd, small eyes, kept
her seat.

“ And while we’re gone, how do we know
the capt’in won’t come back and go off with
the ship ? ” she inquired.

Fraser hesitated. “ Well, I’ll come with
you, if you like,” he said, slowly.

“And suppose they go away and leave
you behind ? ” objected Mrs. Tipping.

“ Oh, well, you’d better stay then,” said
the mate, wearily, “ unless we take a couple

9 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

of the hands with us. How would that suit
you ? They can’t sail with half a crew.”

Mrs. Tipping, who was by no means as
anxious for a sea-voyage as she tried to make
out, carefully pondered the situation. “ I’m
going to take an arm of each of ’em and
Matilda’ll take yours,” she said, at length.

“ As you please,” said Fraser, and in this
way the procession actually started up the
wharf, and looking back indignantly over its

and then sat down suddenly before they could
unwind themselves, and, with a compas¬
sionate “ click ” to his horse, started up the
road. Except for a few chance wayfarers
and an occasional coffee-stall, the main streets
were deserted, but they were noisy compared
with Beaufort Street. Every house was in
absolute darkness as the cab, with instinctive
deference to slumber, crawled slowly up
and down looking for No. 17.

liW/S

1 %

“the procession started up the wharf.”

shoulder saw the watchman and Ben giving
way to the most unseemly mirth, while the
cook capered joyously behind them. A
belated cab was passing the gate as they
reached it, and in response to the mate’s
hail pulled sharply up.

Mrs. Tipping, pushing her captives in first,
stepped heavily into the cab followed by her
daughter, while the mate, after a brief dis¬
cussion, clambered on to the box.

“ Go on,” he said, nodding.

“ Wot, ain’t the rest of you cornin’ ? ” in¬
quired the cabman, eyeing the crowd at the
gate, in pained surprise.

“ No. 17, Beaufort Street, Bow,” said
Mrs. Tipping, distinctly, as she put her head
out of the window.

“ You could sit on ’er lap,” continued the
cabman, appealingly.

No reply being vouchsafed to this sugges¬
tion, he wrapped himself up in various rugs

It stopped at last, and the mate, springing
down, opened the door, and handing out the
ladies, led the way up a flight of steps to the
street door.'

“ Perhaps you won’t mind knocking,” he
said to Mrs. Tipping, “ and don’t forget to
tell the cap’in I’ve done this to oblige you
because you insisted upon it.”

Mrs. Tipping, seizing the knocker, knocked
loud and long,- and after a short interval
repeated the performance. Somebody was
heard stirring upstairs, and a deep voice cried
out that it was coming, and peremptorily
requested them to cease knocking.

“That’s not Flower’s voice,” said Fraser.

“Not loud enough,” said Miss Tipping.

The bolts were drawn back loudly and the
chain grated ; then the door was flung open,
and a big, red-whiskered man, blinking
behind a candle, gruffly inquired what they
meant by it.

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

97

“ Come inside,” said Mrs. Tipping to her
following.

“Ain’t you come to the wrong house?”
demanded the red-whiskered man, borne
slowly back by numbers.

“ I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Tipping,
suavely; “I want to see Captain Flower.”

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong house,”
said the red-whiskered man, shortly, “ there’s
no such name here.”

“ Think,” said Mrs. Tipping.

The red-whiskered man waved the candle
to and fro until the passage was flecked with
tallow.

“ Go away directly,” he roared ; “how dare
you come disturbing people like this ? ”

“You may just as well be pleasant over
it,” said Mrs. Tipping, severely; “ because we
sha’n’t go away until we have seen him.
After all, it’s got nothing to do with
you.”

“ We don’t want anything to say to you,”
affirmed her daughter.

“Will—you—get—out—of—my—house?”
demanded the owner, wildly.

“ When we’ve seen Capt’in Flower,” said
Mrs. Tipping, calmly, “and not a moment
before. We don’t mind your getting in a
temper, not a bit. You can’t frighten us.”

The frenzied and reckless reply of the red-
whiskered man was drowned in the violent
slamming of the street-door, and he found
himself alone with the ladies. There was a
yell of triumph outside, and the sounds of a
hurried scramble down the steps. Mrs.
"flipping, fumbling wildly at the catch of the
door, opened it just in time to see the cab¬

man, in reply to the urgent entreaties of the
mate, frantically lashing his horse up the
road.

“So far so good,” murmured the mate,
as he glanced over his shoulder at the
group amazed on the steps. “ I’ve done
the best I could, but I suppose there’ll be a
row.”

The watchman, with the remainder ot
the crew, in various attitudes of expectant
curiosity, were waiting to receive them at
the wharf. A curiosity which increased in
intensity as the mate, slamming the gate,
put the big bar across and turned to the
watchman.

“ Don’t open that to anybody till we’re off,”
he said, sharply. “ Cap’in Flower has not
turned up yet, I suppose ? ”

“ No, sir,” said Ben.

They went aboard the schooner again,
and the mate, remaining on deck, listened
anxiously for the return of the redoubtable
Mrs. Tipping, occasionally glancing over the
side in expectation of being boarded from
the neighbouring stairs ; but with the excep¬
tion of a false alarm caused by two maddened
seamen unable to obtain admittance, and
preferring insulting charges of somnolency
against the watchman, the time passed quietly
until high water. With the schooner in mid¬
stream slowly picking her way through the
traffic, any twinges of remorse that he might
have had for the way he had treated two
helpless women left him, and he began to
feel with his absent commander some of the
charm which springs from successful wrong¬
doing.

(To be continued.)

Vol. xviii .—13

The Arks of Arktown.

By Laura B. Starr.

Illustrations from Photographs by Chas. Weidner , San Francisco.

N Eastern fad becomes a poetic
fancy when carried out by the
picturesque-loving Californians.
The gracious climate, the re¬
sources of the country which
furnish everything man can
desire, and the universal heritage of energy,
ambition, and love of novelty which comes
to them from their immediate forebears, are
among the many factors which combine to
bring about this result.

It was when they had become a little weary
of the annual “camping-out,” during the long,

Who first conceived the idea of the
California ark deponent sayeth not, but ten
to one it originated in the fertile brain of
some member of the Bohemian Club, that
fountain-head of novelty and unique ideas.
The shape it took was much the same as the
one Noah built in obedience to the Lord’s
commandment, little thinking he was starting
a fashion that would come sailing down the
rivers of the world to the present time. The
Nautilus , with a flat bottom and a deck¬
house built of four abandoned street-cars set
end to end, two and two in a solid square,

THE AKK “ NAUTILUS,” AT BELVIDERE, CALIFORNIA, CONSTRUCTED OF FOUR STREET-CARS.

sunny, and cloudless summer, and the semi-
occasional “ jinks,” both “ high ” and “ low,”
of the Bohemian Club had paled somewhat,
that someone suggested house-boats. The
idea took root and grew, and the blossoming
was a novelty.

The Californian house - boat should be
called an “ ark,” and it should be modelled
upon lines differing very materially from the
“ broad, square-nosed sloop ” of the Chinese
house-boat, or the more graceful sampan of
the Japanese, or the solid, substantial house¬
boat of the Thames, though possessing the
best qualities of all of them.

was the first one, quickly followed by the
Alameda and others, built on the same lines.

The partitions of the cars were removed,
making two lovely rooms with windows
galore, and sliding doors at each end;
stationary lamps were built into the wall,
and the transoms arranged for ventilation.
The long seats flanking the walls on either
side were upholstered and plentifully
cushioned, making comfortable beds by
night, and ease-inviting lounging-places by
day.

A stationary table in each room was the
common centre across which the events of

THE ARKS OF ARKTOWN.

99

SITTING-ROOM IN THE NAUTILUS, SHOWING THE STREET-CAR FRAMEWORK.

the day and plans for the morrow might be
discussed, as well as other things besides
liquid air. Oriental hangings and the neces¬
sary culinary outfit gave the quaint craft an
air of home.

Within is found all the comfort, yea, even
the luxury, of Dives; while without is the
simplicity of green fields, the grandeur of
mountain heights, the lulling, soothing gurgle
of lapping waves
and health - giving
ozone. The deep
green of the red¬
wood trees forms
a pleasing back¬
ground for the
golden eschscholt-
zias, the sweet-
scented violets,
and delicate fronds
of the wild maiden-
hair fern which
carpet the fields
almost within arm’s
reach.

The first “ ark ”
was such a success
that others ap¬
peared almost by
magic, although
the Nautilus still
bears the palm for
uniqueness. Imita-

form of flattery—
soon created a
“ town of arks ” on
the west side of San
Francisco Bay, just
over the way from
the city of that
name, within full
view of the Golden
Gate. If you are
looking on the map
for it, you will find
it spelled “ Belvi-
dere.”

During the sum¬
mer there are thirty
or forty “arks”
moored within easy
reach of each other,
and the constant
stream of visitors
coming and going
for the “week end,”
and other stated
times, prove the
popularity of the “ark ” system. One of the
pleasantest things about them is their power
to expand : like the omnibus, there is always
room for one more: the unexpected visitor
never fails of a welcome and a bed some¬
where, even though it may be on the top of
the dining-room table.

There is an indescribable charm about
the life: one has the pleasures of boating

tion—thatsincerest

DINING-ROOM OF THE “NAUTILUS.”

IOO

THE S TEA NT MAGAZINE.

combined with
the “comforts of
home”; sea baths
are at one’s very
threshold; fish
are caught and
cooked while you
wait, in a manner
that would give
pleasure to any
disciple of Izaak
Walton, or even
to that king of
fishermen him¬
self.

The monotony
of the scenery is
varied by the
swinging of the
ark, as it turns
four times a day
with the tide.

There are neigh¬
bours, thirty or
forty families of
them, within easy
reaching distance
if one can pull a
stroke, for there
is always a follow¬
ing of row-boats
lazily resting
upon the water in the wake of each “ ark.”

The economy of filthy lucre and the
friction of daily life are evident when it is

remembered that
one has neither
rent to pay nor
taxes, only the
inevitable bills of
“ the butcher, the
baker, and the
can dle - stick -
maker,” which he
must meet daily
wherever he takes
his stand on this
wide globe.

The butcher,
the baker, and
others of that ilk
who supply the
needs of daily
life have each his
little boat, which
he sends around
every morning at
the usual hour
for his customary
order, and the
joint for dinner
and the ice-cream
for dessert are
delivered as
promptly to the
“ark” dwellers
as they are to
those who are still in the city.

The majority of “ arks ” in this little town
are built with a square deck-house, which is

CORNER OF BEDROOM IN THE “ NAUTILUS.'

THE ARKS OF ARKTOWN

IOI

divided into rooms according to the size of
the “ark” and the family of the owner.
Some of them present that “curious com¬
bination of flat-bottomed punt and tasteful
bijou residence, which finds its more florid
expression on the reaches of the Thames ”;
others are more pretentious, with resplendent
upholstery, paint and varnish, and a look of
newness that is rather a discordant note in
an otherwise harmonious creation.

To the generality of Americans this little
town of “ arks ” would be, perhaps, more of
a novelty than to the ordinary Englishman,
for the reason that house-boats have been
more or less of an institution in England
since 1884. The boat-life on the Thames is
an ideal existence; a joy and delight for the
time being, and a rose-coloured memory for
all time to come.

The American rivers are too characteristic¬
ally busy to encourage house-boating, though
efforts in that direction are being made at
the present time. Few of our people have
yet sufficiently learned the delight of dolce
far niente to introduce that acme of aquatic
luxury. Most of us when we go in for
aquatics at all want a boat with twin screws,
triple expansion engines, and all the other
means of “getting there.”

True, there are rare souls here and there, in
our bustling commercial crowd, who steal away
companioned congenially and earn for them¬
selves the criticism of being “queer,” by taking
a trip in a canal-boat through the various
waterways of New York, Pennsylvania, and
Delaware, but, compared to the great army of
holiday-seekers, they are in a small minority.

A few years ago. several members of the
Tile Club fitted up a canal-boat with all the
comfort of city studios and the luxury of
beautiful hangings and odd bric-a-brac, and
drifted lazily and happily away in the track
of the setting sun. The result was health
regained, a fine collection of sketches, and a
most fascinating narrative of the trip pub¬
lished in one of the magazines.

Later a quartette of artists—why is it that
artists always do the nicest things?—went
“ Snubbing Through New Jersey ” with a
“ plain, white-painted, three-hatched and
pooped-cabined canal-boat, with two mules
ahead and a rudder behind. There was a
skipper to steer and his wife to help cook ;
a deck-hand forward to ‘snub’ the boat in
the locks and take a line to the tow-path.”

“ Snubbing ” is a term used by boatmen
for checking the impetus of boats on enter¬
ing a lock; it is a common expression used
by canallers. The advantage of a canal-
boat, as stated by one of the four, is that if
you come up against a stone wall or any
other immovable obstacle, you can hitch the
mules to the rudder-post and go home back¬
wards.

None of the house-boats mentioned have
adopted the plan of decorating the border
line of the deck-house with pots of flower¬
ing plants, which is one of the most pic¬
turesque features of the Thames boat.
Many of them have awnings and deck
chairs and settees, but there is lacking that
cosy arrangement for afternoon tea which is
such an important and pleasing feature of
English boats.

Sand Art.

By Thomas E. Curtis.

Illustrations from Photographs taken expressly for George Newnes, Litnited.

T is worth a trip to America
merely to see Mr. James
Taylor model in sand. He
works on the beach at Atlantic
City, one of the most famous
watering-places in the world,
about sixty miles from Philadelphia, on the
coast of New Jersey. Here, throughout the
summer, Mr. Taylor, who stands head and
shoulders above all his imitators in sand art,
manipulates the dull and unadhesive material,
turning it into veritable gems of sculpture.

Unhappily, however, the labour of this
clever man is ephemeral. The waves of old
ocean ruthlessly wash away the artist’s handi¬
work. There is a touch of sentiment in it,
and the many thousands who have watched
the artist moulding his fleeting figures within
reach of the onward tide have not been
less interested in the work because its life is
short.

The variety of subjects which have sprung

from the worker’s fertile brain is astonishing.
Hardly a thing happens in the world, such
as the blowing up of the Maine , or the death
of a noted man, but what some reproduction
of it may be made with sand. The photo¬
graphs in this article show how varied Mr.
Taylor’s talents are, and how quick he is to
seize upon the subject of momentary note
for the interest of his countless onlookers.
His last subject, recently done expressly for
this Magazine, as shown by the illustration
below, touches, we think, the highest he has
yet reached in sand art. The beautiful figure
on the sand, with its flowing drapery, is
really amazing in the naturalness of its lines.
When we consider the haste with which it
must have keen made, and the material of
which it is composed, it is certainly a cause
of admiration.

The tools with which the work is performed
are two in number—a piece of wood and
brains. In the centre of his circle of

RECUMBENT FEMALE FIGURE, MODELLED IN SAND AT ATLANTIC CITY EXPRESSLY FOR THIS MAGAZINE B\

MR. JAMES TAYLOR.

SAND ART

103

pleasure - seekers, the artist unassumingly
collects a pile of damp sand, and, taking a
small bit of wood from the beach, begins to
carve his subject in the rough. If it is a
bas-relief, such as the model of Gladstone,
or “ Love Rules the World,” the tailpiece to
our article, he first flattens the damp sand
on one side, and then picks out his design
with the sharp end of the stick. No matter
what the subject, the touch of the artist is
true, and the constant practice of years
shows itself in the skill and rapidity with
which the designs are concluded. When one
is finished, no time is lost in beginning

another, and thus between the tides we are
likely to have made for us half-a-dozen sculp¬
tures, each successful, and each the cynosure
of the passing throng. In 'the illustration
above we see four of these models : the two
at the right representing President McKinley
and General Lee, who, during the troublous
times last year, were the two most-talked-of
men in the country. At the left is a fanciful
reproduction of the American summer girl,
with her gay “ shirt-waist ” and her jaunty air.

When Gladstone died, over a year ago, a
most speaking likeness of him in sand stood
against one of the pier supports of Atlantic

GLADSTONE.

104

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

ADMIRAL GEORGE DEWEY.

Beach. When the war broke out with Spain
the American battleship was a popular subject
for reproduction. No sooner did Hobson
burst into heroic prominence than his now
familiar features appeared on the Jersey sand,

reproduce herewith. Others, of which we
are unable, through limitations of space, to
reproduce the photographs, show classic and
portrait subjects. One called “ Late Arrivals ”
shows a mound of sand with three figures

SAND SEAL AT SHANKLIN, I.W.

and the memorable victory at Manila was of people well known along the beach,

quickly followed by a model of Admiral Many of the photographs resemble our final

Dewey in uniform. Some of these we have illustration in showing the piers near which

been able to catch with the camera and the sculptures are modelled.

SAND ART

One of the most interesting things about
our Atlantic City artist is that he has never
had training of any sort. Like many of
the pavement artists in London, he fell into
occupation by chance, guided to good results
by an artistic instinct. But what a difference
between this man and the pavement artist.
The one is up-to-date, versatile, and always
moving forward with the times. The other,
with just enough ingenuity to bring him a few
daily pennies, rests content with the same
pictures in coloured chalk from day to day
until the passer-by gets weary of lighthouses,
ships, and moons. A little more enterprise
would doubtless make pavement art as profit¬
able as sand art is upon the American
beach.

This, of course, is not to say that the sand
artist is not known in England. On the
south coast he is not an unfamiliar figure. At
Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight, the seal which
we show on the previous page, sent to us by

10 S

Mr. A. Hugh Harper, Addiscombe Lodge,
Thornton Heath, Surrey, was moulded by
one of these men, and it certainly pos¬
sesses a naturalness which makes it come
a close second to the American work. But
on the English beaches one does not see
variety in sand art. Here and there a man
portrays a cathedral, a bridge, a castle, or
perhaps a portrait of some celebrity. But it
is usually done on the flat surface of the
sand. This is more back-breaking, but less
difficult, and Jess effective than the other.

In any event, the art of sand modelling is
not so easy as it looks—a fact that many of
our readers may discover. Should they not
fear the difficulties in the way, and should
they be successful in sand art, we should
welcome the privilege of looking over any
snap-shots of their handiwork which they
might care to send to us, and may publish
a selection of the best in some future
number.

Vol, xviii,—14

By E. Nesbit.

HE dark arch that led to the
witch’s cave was hung round
with a black and yellow fringe
of live snakes. As the Queen
went in, keeping very carefully
exactly in the middle of the
arch, all the snakes lifted their wicked, flat
heads and stared at her with their wicked,
yellow eyes. You know it is not manners
to stare, even at a Queen. And the snakes
had been so badly brought up that they
even put their tongues out at the poor lady.
Nasty, thin, sharp tongues they were, too.

Now, the Queen’s husband was, of course,
the King. And besides being a King he
was an enchanter, and considered to be
quite at the top of his profession : so he was
very wise, and he knew that when Kings and
Queens want children, the Queen always
goes to see a witch. So he gave the Queen
the witch’s address, and the Queen called on
her, though she was very frightened and did
not like it at all. The witch was sitting by
a fire of sticks, stirring something bubbly in
a shiny, copper cauldron.

“ What do you want, my dear ? ” she said
to the Queen.

“ Oh, if you please,” said the Queen, “ I
want a baby—a very nice one. We don’t
want any expense spared. My husband
said-”

“ Oh, yes,” said the witch ; “I know all
about him . And so you want a child ? Do
you know it will bring you sorrow ? ”

“It will bring me joy first,” said the
Queen.

“ Great sorrow,” said the witch.

“ Greater joy,” said the Queen.

Then the witch said, “Well, have your
own way. I suppose it’s as much as your
place is worth to go back without it ? ”

“ The King would be very much annoyed,”
said the poor Queen.

“ Well, well,” said the witch; “ what will
you give me for the child ? ”

“ Anything you ask for, and all I have,”
said the Queen.

“ Then give me your gold crown.”

The Queen took it off quickly.

“ And your necklace of blue sapphires,”

THE SEVEN DRAGONS

107

The Queen unfastened it.

“ And your pearl bracelets.”

The Queen unclasped them.

“ And your ruby clasps.”

And the Queen undid the clasps.

“ Now the lilies from your breast.”

The Queen gathered together the lilies.

“And the diamonds of your little bright
shoe-buckles.”

The Queen pulled off her shoes.

Then the witch stirred the stuff that was
in the cauldron, and, one by one, she threw
in the gold crown, and the sapphire necklace,
and the pearl bracelets, and the ruby clasps,
and the diamonds of the little bright shoe-
buckles, and, last of all, she threw in the
lilies.

And the stuff in the cauldron boiled up in
foaming flashes of yellow, and blue, and red,
and white, and silver, and sent out a sweet
scent, and presently the witch poured it out
into a pipkin and set it to cool in the door¬
way among the snakes.

Then she said to the Queen : “Your child
will have hair as golden as your crown, eyes
as blue as your sapphires. The red of your
rubies will lie on its lips, and its skin will be
clear white as your pearls. Its soul will be
white and sweet as your lilies, and your
diamonds will be no clearer than its wits.”

“ Oh, thank you, thank you,” said the
Queen, “ and when will it come ? ”

“You will find it when you get home.”

“And won’t you have something for your¬
self ?” asked the Queen. “Any little thing
you fancy—would you like a country, or a
sack of jewels ? ”

“ Nothing, thank you,” said the witch.
“ I could make more diamonds in a day than
I could wear in a year.”

“ Well, but do let me do some little thing
for you,” the Queen went on. “Aren’t you
tired of being a witch ? Wouldn’t you like
to be a duchess or a Princess, or something
like that ? ”

“ There is one thing I should rather like,”
said the witch, “but it’s hard to get in my
trade.”

“ Oh, tell me what,” said the Queen.

“ I should like someone to love me,” said
the witch.

Then the Queen threw her arms round the
witch’s neck and kissed her half a hundred
times. “ Why,” she said, “ I love you better
than my life. You’ve given me the baby—
and the baby shall love you, too.”

“Perhaps it will,” said the witch, “and
when the sorrow comes send for me. Each
of your fifty kisses will be a spell to bring me

to you. Now, drink up your medicine, there’s
a dear, and run along home.”

So the Queen drank the stuff in the pipkin,
which was quite cool by this time, and she
went out under the fringe of snakes, and they
all behaved like good Sunday-school children.
Some of them even tried to drop a curtsy to
her as she went by, though that is not easy
when you are hanging wrong way up by your
tail. But the snakes knew the Queen was
friends with their mistress ; so, of course,
they had to do their best to be civil.

When the Queen got home, sure enough
there was the baby lying in the cradle, with
the Royal arms blazoned on it, crying as
naturally as possible. It had pink ribbons
to tie up its sleeves: so the Queen saw at
once it was a girl. When the King knew
this he tore his black hair with fury.

“ Oh, you silly, silly Queen ! ” he said.
“Why didn’t I marry a clever lady? Did
you think I went to all the trouble and
expense of sending you to a witch to get a
girl? You knew well enough it was a boy I
wanted—a boy, an heir, a Prince—to learn
all my magic and my enchantments, and to
rule the kingdom after me. I’ll bet a crown
— my crown,” he said, “ you never even
thought to tell the witch what kind you
wanted ! Did you now ? ”

And the Queen hung her head and had to
confess that she had only asked for a child.

“Very well, madam,” said the King, “ very
well—have your own way. And make the
most of your daughter, while she is a child.”

The Queen did. All the years of her life
had never held half so much happiness as
now lived in each of the moments when she
held her little baby in her arms. And the
years went on, and the King grew more and
more clever at magic, and more and more
disagreeable at home, and the Princess grew
more beautiful and more dear every day she
lived.

Th$ Queen and the Princess were feeding
the gold-fish in the courtyard fountains with
crumbs of the Princess’s eighteenth birthday
cake, when the King came into the court¬
yard, looking as black as thunder, with his
black raven hopping after him. He shook
his fist at his family, as indeed he generally
did whenever he met them, for he was not a
King with pretty home manners. The raven
sat down on the edge of the marble basin
and tried to peck the gold-fish. It was all
he could do to show that he was in the same
temper as his master.

“ A girl indeed ! ” said the King, angrily.

“ I wonder you can dare to look me in the

io8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

HE SHOOK HIS FIST AT HIS FAM

face, when you remember how your silliness
has spoiled everything.”

“ You oughtn’t to speak to my mother
like that,” said the Princess. She was
eighteen, and it came to her suddenly and all
in a moment that she was a grown-up : so she
spoke out.

The King could not utter a word for
several minutes. He was too angry. But
the Queen said, “ My dear child, don’t inter¬
fere,” quite crossly, for she was frightened.

And to her husband she said, “ My dear,
why do you go on worrying about it ? Our
daughter is not a boy, it is true—but she
may marry a clever man who could rule your
kingdom after you, and learn as much magic
as ever you cared to teach him.”

Then the King found his tongue.

“ If she does marry,” he said, slowly, “ her
husband will have to be a very clever man—-
oh, yes, very clever indeed I And he will
have to know a very great deal more magic

than I shall ever
care to teach him.”

The Queen knew
at once by the
King’s tone that he
was going to be
disagreeable.

“Ah,” she said,
“don’t punish the
child because she
loves her mother.”

“ I’m not going
to punish her for
that” said he;
“ I’m only going
to teach her to
respect her father.”

And without
another word he
went off to his
laboratory and
worked all night,
boiling different
coloured things in
crucibles, and copy-
ing charms in
curious twisted
letters from old
brown books with
mould stains on
their yellowy pages.

The next day
his plan was all
arranged. He
took the poor
Princess to the
Lone Tower, which
stands on an island in the sea, a thousand
miles from everywhere. He gave her a
dowry, arjd settled a handsome income on
her. Pie engaged a competent dragon to
look after her, and also a respectable griffin
whose birth and bringing-up he knew all
about. And he said :—

“ Here you shall stay, my dear, respectful
daughter, till the clever man comes to marry
you. Pie’ll have to be clever enough to sail
a ship through the Nine Whirlpools that spin
round the island, and to kill the dragon and
the griffin. Till he comes you’ll never get
any older or any wiser. No doubt he will
soon come. You can employ yourself in
embroidering your wedding gown. I wish
you joy, my dutiful child.”

And his car, drawn by live thunderbolts
(thunder travels very fast), rose in the air and
disappeared, and the poor Princess was left,
with the dragon and the griffin, in the
Island of the Nine Whirlpools,

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

The Queen, left at home, cried for a day again, and the witch said the spell, and

and a night, and then she remembered the on each side of the door there was now a

witch and called to her. And the witch stone lady. One of them had a stone crown

came, and the Queen told her all. on its head and a stone sceptre in its hand ;

“For the sake of the twice twenty-five but the other held a stone tablet with words

kisses you gave me,” said the witch, “ I will on it, which the griffin and the dragon could

help you. But it is the last thing I can do, not read, though they had both had a very

and it is not much. Your daughter is under good education.

a spell, and I can take you to her. But, if I And now all days seemed like one day
do, you will have to be turned to stone, and to the Princess, and the next day always
to stay so till the spell is taken off the child.” seemed the day when her mother would

“ I would be a stone for a thousand years,” come out of the stone and kiss her again,

said the poor Queen, “if at the end of them And the years went slowly by.

I could see my Dear again.” The wicked King died, and someone else

So the witch took the Queen in a car took his kingdom, and many things were

drawn by live sunbeams (which travel more changed in the world ; but the island did not

quickly than anything else in the world, and change, nor the Nine Whirlpools, nor the

much quicker than thunder), and so away griffin, nor the dragon, nor the two stone

and away to the Lone Tower on the Island ladies. And all the time, from the very first,

of the Nine Whirlpools.

And there was the
Princess sitting on the
floor in the best room of
the Lone Tower, crying
as if her heart would
break, and the dragon
and the griffin were
sitting primly on each
side of her.

“ Oh, mother, mother,
mother,” she cried, and
hung round the Queen’s
neck as if she would
never let go.

“Now,” said the witch,
when they had all cried
as much as was good
for them, “ I can do one
or two other little things
for you. Time shall not
make the Princess sad.

All days will be like one
day till her deliverer
comes. And you and
I, dear Queen, will sit
in stone at the gate of
the tower. In doing this
for you I lose all my
witch’s powers, and when
I say the spell that
changes you to stone,

I shall change with you,
and if ever we come out
of the stone, I shall be
a witch no more, but
only a happy old
woman.”

Then the three kissed

each other again and “ the lone tower on the island of the nine whirlpools, *

IIO

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

the day of the Princess’s deliverance was
coming, creeping nearer, and nearer, and
nearer. But no one saw it coming except
the Princess, and she only in dreams. And
the years went by in tens and in hundreds,
and still the Nine Whirlpools spun round,
roaring in triumph the story of many a good
ship that had gone down in their swirl, bear¬
ing with it some Prince who had tried to win
the Princess and her dowry. And the great
sea knew all the other stories of the Princes
who had come from very far, and had seen
the whirlpools, and had shaken their wise
heads and said : “ ’Bout ship ! ” and gone
discreetly home to their nice, safe, comfort¬
able kingdoms.

But no one told the story of the deliverer
who was to come. And the years went by.

Now, after more scores of years than you
would like to add up on your slate, a certain
sailor-boy sailed on the high seas with his
uncle, who was a skilled skipper. And the boy
could reef a sail, and coil a rope, and keep
the ship’s nose steady before the wind. And
he was as good a boy as you would find in a
month of Sundays, and worthy to be a
Prince.

Now there is Something which is wiser
than all the world—and it knows when
people are worthy to be Princes. And this
Something came from the farther side of the
seventh world, and whispered in the boy’s
ear.

And the boy heard, though he did not
know he heard—and he looked out over the
black sea with the white foam horses gallop¬
ing over it, and far away he saw a light. And
he said to the skipper, his uncle :—

“ What light is that ? ”

Then the skipper said, “All good things
defend you, Nigel, from sailing near that
light. It is not mentioned in all charts ; but
it is marked in the old chart I steer by,
which was my father’s father’s before me, and
his father’s father’s before him. It is the
light that shines from the Lone Tower that
stands above the Nine Whirlpools. And
when my father’s father was young he heard
from the very old man, his great-great-grand¬
father, that in that tower an enchanted
Princess, fairer than the day, waits to be
delivered. But there is no deliverance: so
never steer that way ; and think no more of
the Princess, for that is only an idle tale.
But the whirlpools are quite real.”

So, of course, from that day Nigel thought
of nothing else. And as he sailed hither
and thither upon the high seas he saw from

time to time the light that shone out to sea
across the wild swirl of the Nine Whirlpools.
And one night, when the ship was at anchor
and the skipper asleep in his bunk, Nigel
launched the ship’s boat and steered alone
over the dark sea towards the light. He
dared not go very near till daylight should
show him what, indeed, were the whirlpools
he had to dread.-

But when the dawn came he saw the Lone
Tower stand dark against the pink and prim¬
rose of the east—and about its base the
sullen swirl of black water, and he heard the
wonderful roar of it. So he hung off, and
all that day and for six days besides. And
when he had watched seven days he knew
something. For you are certain to know
something if you give for seven days your
whole thought to it, even though it be only
the first declension, or the nine-times table,
or the dates of the Norman Kings.

What he knew was this : that for five
minutes out of the 1,440 minutes that make
up a day the whirlpools slipped into silence,
while the tide went down and left the yellow
sand bare. And every day this happened,
but every day it was five minutes earlier than
it had been the day before. He made sure of
this by the ship’s chronometer, which he had
thoughtfully brought with him.

So on the eighth day at five minutes
before noon Nigel got ready. But when the
whirlpools suddenly stopped whirling and
the tide sank, like water in a basin that has a
hole in it, he stuck to his oars and put his
back into his stroke, and presently beached the
boat on the yellow sand. Then he dragged
her into a cave, and sat down to wait.

By five minutes and one second past noon,
the whirlpools were black and busy again, and
Nigel peeped out of his cave. And on the
rocky ledge overhanging the sea he saw a
Princess as beautiful as the day, with golden
hair and a green gown—and he went out to
meet her.

“ I’ve come to save you,” he said. “ How
darling and beautiful you are ! ”

“You are very good, and very clever, and
very dear,” said the Princess, smiling and
giving him both her hands.

He shut a little kiss in each hand before
he let them go.

“ So now, when the tide is low again, I will
take you away in my boat,” he said.

“But what about the dragon and the
griffin?” asked the Princess.

“ Dear me,” said Nigel; “ I didn’t know
about them. I suppose I can kill them ? ”

“ Don’t be a silly boy,” said the Princess,

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

Til

pretending to be very grown-up, for, though
she had been on the island Time only knows
how many years, she was still only eighteen,
and she still liked pretending. “You haven’t
a sword, or a shield, or anything ! ”

“ Well, don’t the beasts ever go to
sleep ? ”

“ Why, yes,” said the Princess, “ but only
once in twenty-iour hours, and then the
dragon is turned to stone. But the griffin
has dreams. The griffin sleeps at tea-time
every day, but the dragon sleeps every
day for five minutes, and every day it
is three minutes later than it was the day
before.”

“ What time does he sleep to-day ? ” asked
Nigel.

“ At eleven,” said the Princess.

“Ah,” said Nigel, “can you do sums?”

“No,” said the Princess, sadly. “I was
never good at them.”

“Then I must,” said Nigel. “I can; but
it’s slow work, and it makes me very un¬
happy. It’ll take me days and days.”

“ Don’t begin yet,” said the Princess;
“you’ll have plenty of time to be unhappy
in when I’m gone. Tell me all about your¬
self.”

So he did. And then she told him all
about herself.

“ I know I’ve been here a long time,” she
said, “ but I don’t know what time is. And
I am very busy sewing silk flowers in a
golden gown for my wedding-day. And the
griffin does the housework—his wings are so
convenient and feathery for sweeping and
dusting; and the dragon does the cooking:
he’s hot inside, so, of course, it’s no trouble
to him ; and though I don’t know what time
is I’m sure it’s time for my wedding-day,
because my golden gown only wants one
more white daisy on the sleeve, and a lily on
the bosom of it, and then it will be ready.”

Just then they heard a dry, rustling clatter
on the rocks above them and a snorting
sound.

“ It’s the dragon,” said the Princess,
hurriedly. “ Good-bye. Be a good boy,
and get your sum done.” And she ran away
and left him to his arithmetic.

Now the sum was this : “ If the whirlpools
stop and the tide goes down once in every
twenty-four hours, and gets five minutes
earlier every twenty-four hours, and if the
dragon sleeps every day, and does it three
minutes later every day, in how many days

11 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE,

and at what time in the day will the tide go
down three minutes before the dragon falls
asleep ? ”

It is quite a simple sum, as you see : you
could do it in a minute because you have
been to a good school, and have taken pains
with your lessons ; but it was quite otherwise
with poor Nigel. He sat down to work out
his sum with a piece of chalk on a smooth
stone. He tried it by practice and the
unitary method, by multiplication, and by
rule-of-three-and-three-quarters. He tried it
by decimals and by com¬
pound interest. He tried
it by square-root and
by cube-root. He tried
it by addition, simple
and otherwise, and he
tried it by mixed ex¬
amples in vulgar frac¬
tions. But it was all
of no use. Then he
tried to do the sum
by algebra, by simple
and by quadratic equa¬
tions, by trigonometry,
by logarithms, and by
conic sections. But it
would not do. He got
an answer every time, it
is true, but it was always
a different one, and he
could not feel sure which
answer was right.

And just as he was
feeling how much more
important than anything
else it is to be able to do
your sums, the Princess
came back. And now it
was getting dark.

“ Why, you’ve been
seven hours over that
sum,” she said, “ and
you haven’t done it yet.

Look here, this is what
is written on the tablet
of the statue by the lower gate. It has
figures in it. Perhaps it is the answer to
the sum.”

She held out to him a big white magnolia
leaf. And she had scratched on it with
the pin of her pearl brooch, and it had
turned brown where she had scratched it, as
magnolia leaves will do. Nigel read :—

AFTER NINE DAYS

T ii. 24

D 11. 27 Ans.

F.S.—And the griffin is artificial. R.

He clapped his hands softly.

“ Dear Princess,” he said, “ I know that’s
the right answer. It says R, too, you see.
But I’ll just prove it.” So he hastily worked
the sum backwards in decimals and equa¬
tions and conic sections, and all the rules he
could think of. And it came right every
time.

“So now we must wait,” said he. And
they waited.

And every day the Princess came to see
Nigel and brought him food cooked by the

dragon, and he lived in his cave, and talked
to her when she was there, and thought about
her when she was not, and they were both as
happy as the longest day in summer. Then
at last came The Day. Nigel and the
Princess laid their plans.

“ You’re sure he won’t hurt you, my only
treasure ? ” said Nigel.

“ Quite,” said the Princess. “ I only wish
I were half as sure that he wouldn’t hurt
you A

“ My Princess,” he said, tenderly, “ two

z Zh '

' EVERY DAY THE PRINCESS CAME TO SEE NIGEL AND BROUGHT
HIM FOOD.”

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

TI 3

great powers are on our side: the power of
Love and the power of Arithmetic. Those
two are stronger than anything else in the
world.”

So when the tide began to go down
Nigel and the Princess ran out on to the

engines all letting off steam at the top of
their voices inside Cannon Street Station.

And the two lovers stood looking up at
the dragon. He was dreadful to look at.
His head was white with age—and his beard
had grown so long that he caught his claws

. ■

■ ■

' i ; 'V K}

HE BREATHED FIRE TILL THE WET SAND HISSED AGAIN.

sands, and there, full in sight of the terrace
where the dragon kept watch, Nigel took his
Princess in his arms and kissed her. The
griffin was busy sweeping the stairs of the
Lone Tower, but the dragon saw, and he
gave a cry of rage—and it was like twenty

Vol. xviii.—15

in it as he walked. His
wings were white with
the salt that had settled
on them from the spray
of the sea. His tail
was long and thick and
jointed and white, and
had little legs to it, any
number of them—far too
many — so that it looked like a
very large fat silkworm ; and his
claws were as long as lessons,
and as sharp as bayonets.

“Good-bye, love!” cried
Nigel, and ran out across the
yellow sand towards the sea.
He had one end of a cord tied
to his arm.

The dragon was clambering
down the face of the cliff, and
next moment he was crawling
and writhing and sprawling and
wriggling across the beach after
Nigel, making great holes in the sand with
his heavy feet—and the very end of his tail,
where there were no legs, made as it dragged
a mark in the sand such as you make when
you launch a boat; and he breathed fire till
the wet sand hissed again, and the' water of

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

114

the little rock pools got quite frightened,
and all went off in steam.

And still Nigel held on and the dragon
after him.

The Princess could see nothing for the
steam, and she stood crying bitterly, but still
holding on tight with her right hand to the
other end of the cord which Nigel had told
her to hold ; while with her left she held the
ship’s chronometer, and looked at it through
her tears as he had bidden her look, so as to
know when to pull the rope.

On went Nigel over the sand, and on went
the dragon after him. And the tide was low,
and sleepy little waves lapped the sand’s
edge.

Now at the lip of the water Nigel paused
and looked back, and the dragon made a
bound, beginning a scream of rage that was
like all the engines of all the railways in
England. But it never uttered the second
half of that scream, for now it knew suddenly
that it was sleepy—it turned to hurry back
to dry land, because sleeping near whirlpools
is so unsafe. But before it reached the
shore sleep caught it and turned it to stone.
And Nigel, seeing this, ran shoreward for his
life—and the tide began to flow in, and the
time of the whirlpool’s sleep was nearly
over, and he stumbled and he waded and
he swam, and the Princess pulled for dear
life at the cord in her hand, and pulled him
up on to the dry shelf of rock just as the
great sea dashed in and made itself once
more into the girdle of Nine Whirlpools all
round the island.

But the dragon was asleep under the
whirlpools, and when he woke up from being
asleep he found he was drowned, so there
was an end of him.

“ Now, there’s only the griffin,” said Nigel.
And the Princess said :—-

“ Yes—only-” And she kissed Nigel

and went back to sew the last leaf of the
last lily on the bosom of her wedding gown.
And she thought and thought of what was
written on the stone above the griffin being
artificial — and next day she said to Nigel -

“ You know a griffin is half a lion and
half an eagle, and the other two halves when
they’re joined make the leo-griff. But I’ve
never seen him. Yet I have an idea.”

So they talked it over and arranged every¬
thing.

Then when the griffin fell asleep that after¬
noon at tea-time, Nigel went softly behind
him and trod on his tail, and at the same
time the Princess cried : “ Look out! there’s
a lion behind you.”

And the griffin, waking suddenly from his
dreams, twisted his large neck round to look
for the lion, and saw a lion’s flank, and
fastened its eagle beak in it. For the griffin
had been artificially made by the King-
enchanter, and the two halves had never
really got used to each other. So now the
eagle half of the griffin, who was still rather
sleepy, believed that it was fighting a lion,
and the lion-part, being half asleep, thought it
was fighting an eagle, and the whole griffin in
its deep drowsiness hadn’t the sense to pull
itself together and remember what it was
made of. So the griffin rolled over and over,
one end of it fighting with the other, till the
eagle end pecked the lion end to death, and
the lion end tore the eagle end with its claws
till it died. And so the griffin that was made
of a lion and an eagle perished, exactly as if
it had been made of Kilkenny cats.

“ Poor griffin,” said the Princess, “ it was
very good at the house-work. I always liked
it better than the dragon : it wasn’t so hot-
tempered.”

And at that moment there was a soft,
silky rush behind the Princess, and there was
her mother, the Queen, who had slipped out
of the stone statue directly the griffin was
dead, and now came hurrying to take her
dear daughter in her arms. The witch was
clambering slowly off her pedestal. She was
a little stiff with standing still so long.

When they had all explained everything
over and over to each other as many times
as was good for them, the witch said :—

“ Well, but what about the whirlpools ? ”
And Nigel said he didn’t know. Then the
witch said : “ I’m not a witch any more.
I’m only a happy old woman, but I know
some things still. Those whirlpools were
made by the enchanter-King’s dropping
nine drops of his blood into the sea. And
his blood was so wicked that the sea has
been trying ever since to get rid of it, and
that made the whirlpools. Now you’ve only
got to go out at low tide-”

So Nigel understood and went out at low
tide, and found in the sandy hollow left by
the first whirlpool a great red ruby. And
that was the first drop of the wicked King’s
blood. And next day Nigel found another,
and next day another, and so on till the
ninth day, and then the sea was as smooth
as glass.

The nine rubies were used afterwards in
agriculture. You had only to throw them
out into a field if you wanted it ploughed.
Then the whole surface of the land turned
itself over in its anxiety to get rid of some-

THE SEVEN DRAGONS .

thing so wicked, and in the morning the field
was found to be ploughed as thoroughly as
any young man at Oxford. So the wicked
King did some good after all.

When the sea was smooth, ships came from
far and wide bringing people to hear the
wonderful story. And a beautiful palace was
built, and the Princess was married to Nigel
in her gold dress, and they all lived happily
as long as was good for them.

The dragon still lies, a stone dragon on
the sand, and at low tide the little children
play round him and over him. But the

1 *5

pieces that were left of the griffin were
buried under the herb-bed in the palace
garden, because it had been so good at
house-work, and it wasn’t its fault that
it had been made so badly and put to
such poor work as guarding a lady from
her lover.

I have no doubt that you will wish to
know what the Princess lived on during the
long years when the dragon did the cooking.
My dear, she lived on her income : and that
is a thing which a great many people would
like to be able to do.

LITTLE CHILDREN PLAY ROUND HIM AND OVER HIM.'

Curiosities*

[We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted .]

A BATTLEFIELD

The battlefield scene shown in the two photographs
reproduced on this page is not a phase of the Hispano-
American War, but a clever miniature worked out in
sand with toy soldiers, by Mr. Edward R. Jackson,
i, 379 > 8th Avenue, Oakland, California. It only
occupied a small platform about 6ft. square, and was
constructed in the open air. With his hands as tools
Mr. Jackson built a range of hills as a background,
scooped out a valley in front of them, constructed a
road from the left down the valley, and extended it
toward the centre of the foreground, finishing the
topography of his sand-pile by making a small "knoll
to the right of the centre of the foreground. The
soldiers he used in the first instance were cut out of
pictures relating to the war with Spain, published in the
magazines, but from a photographic point of view they
were not a success. However, a small boy of his ac¬
quaintance came forward with the offer of his toy

IN MINIATURE.

soldiers, and placed at Mr. Jackson’s command three or
four batteries of light artillery, a battery of heavy artil¬
lery, three or four troops of cavalry, nearly a regiment
of infantry, tents, and even a small grove of lead trees
and a few lead rocks and shrubs. With such an
amount of material at his disposal it was quite an
easy matter to complete the scene, additional realism
being imparted to it by the introduction of a few
hurriedly constructed wood fences. “With every¬
thing in position,” Mr. Jackson adds, “ there
remained but one thing to be done. The sun,
which had favoured me so far in my work,
now turned traitor, and hid itself behind a huge
black cloud. The sky, in fact, was heavily overcast,
and threatened to produce a shower at any moment,
so I photographed the miniature battlefield without
delay. Half an hour later, all that was left of it was
a shapeless pile of sand.”

* Copyriirht:. iRng, bv George Newne.s. Limbed.

CURIOSITIES.

t

117

A “DOUBLE-

FACED” MAN.

The particularly
humorous feature
about our next photo¬
graph is the grinning
caricature of a face
worn by the man
standing in a stooping
position the second
from the right. The
explanation lies in
the fact that being
baldheaded he has
had another face
painted on the top
of his scalp, and in
the photograph he is
merely bending down
in order to show the
curious effect to full
advantage. The
photograph was for¬
warded by Mr. D. F.
Campbell, Old Hun¬
stanton, Norfolk.

A NOVELTY IN JUGS.

An extremely interesting
novelty in jugs is shown in our
next photograph, which has
been taken by Mr. Robert F.
Day, 31, New York Avenue,
Brooklyn, N.Y. The pitcher
or jug is about 8in. high and
4j4in. diameter at the top. It
will hold a little over a quart of
liquid. The neck or narrow
part is of open fretwork, which
prevents its usage as an ordinary
jug. On the outside of the bowl
are the following lines, written
in Old English style :—

Here, gentlemen, come try your skill:
I’ll hold a wager if y ? ou will
That you don’t drink this liquor all
Without you spill or let some fall.

The innocent, thirsty traveller
who ventures to drink out of
this pitcher from the top or usual
place will have the contents

spilled upon his shirt-front unless
he happen to understand the
secret. The handle is a hollow
tube, although outwardly bear¬
ing no indication of the fact,
whilst inside the bowl of the
pitcher near the bottom is a
small hole through which the
liquid passes into the handle and
around the top to the nose.
There are also two openings in
the sides of the pitcher at the
top. Whoever essays to drink
must cover these two holes
with his fingers, holding the
jug perpendicularly, and then
suck through the nose, where
there is a small hole.

A BILL-POSTING RACE.
The accompanying photo¬
graph, sent by Mr. J. A. Reid,
of Cutcliffe Grove, Bedford,
was taken by Mr. Lewis Med-
land, of North Finchley,
at the annual tradesmen’s
fete at Whetstone, N. It
depicts an incident in the
bill - posting race. The
competitors had to stand
on a given line 1 ooyds.
from the boards, each
with a pail of paste, a
brush, and a poster.
They then had to race to
the boards, paste and
stick up their bills, and
run back to the starting
point, the prize going to
the competitor who suc¬
ceeded in pasting up his
bill in the neatest and
quickest manner. The
competitor on the right
promises to be a likely
winner.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

118

BEARDING AND

PHOTOGRAPHING THE LION.

Few photographers of the present
day, amateur or otherwise, have the
opportunity of snap - shotting the
King of Beasts as he stands free and
fearlessly out on open ground. Yet
the intrepid photographer seems to
have had such an opportunity here,
and, what is more, availed himself
of it to the fullest extent. There
seems, in fact, such an air of realism
about the picture, we confess*to a
feeling of hesitancy in having to
admit that the noble lion here is but
a foot and a half high, and does not
roam till a string in his side is pulled
with considerable force. In short, it
is a beautiful Parisian toy, with a
hide-covered body, an exquisitively
coloured tawny mane, a head that
wags at the slightest touch, and a
jaw that opens and shuts in quite a
hungry manner, whilst the “jungle”
from which he appears to be so
majestically emerging is composed of
pampas grass placed against a hedge. The photograph
was sent in by Miss Emmons, care of Lady Hardman,
55, Carlisle Place Mansions, Victoria Street, S.W.

A MAN’S ATTITUDE WHEN THROWING.

This is not a snap-shot of a contortionist, nor of a
man making vain attempts to fly. It represents
J. S. Ewen, of Aberdeen, a well-known Highland
athletic champion, just after delivering a light ball

from a 7^ft. spring in a throwing competition. The
ball has left the hand about 6ft. or 7ft., and the
thrower is in the act of balancing himself in order to
prevent a follow-over the mark. The camera caught
him just as he was swinging round to the left on the
one leg, and it is in this long and rapid stroke that
the secret of this athlete’s prowess is said to lie.
The action is partly natural and partly acquired,
through long practice with Gideon Perrie, the
American champion. The photo, was taken and sent

in by Mr. Harry S. Lumsden, 18, Bon-Accord Cres-

cent, Aberdeen. -

A SPECTRAL HORSE.

All sorts of curious and unlooked-for effects can be
obtained by focusing objects with the camera held in
a perpendicular position. In this instance Mr. N.
Powell, of Lower Beeding Vicarage, Horsham,
Sussex, placed his camera on the ground and pointed
it upwards at a horse’s neck and head. The effect as
seen in the photograph is somewhat of a cross
hetween a camel and a giraffe, though in neither case
do the features come out very clearly ; in fact, there is
such a shadowy vagueness about the spectral-like
creature, it might stand for almost anything—from a
blotch of ink to a passing cloud of smoke.

CURIOSITIES.

119

a Ki^tUKU US ANCIENT LIGHTS.’’

The house shown in the accompanying illustration
does not present a very imposing spectacle for the

parade of a fashionable seaside resort, never- ,__

theless it may be seen at the little east coast j
watering-place of Felixstowe, Suffolk, where
its peculiar surroundings have made it an ,
object of curiosity to many visitors. Adjoin¬
ing the house on either side there is a plot of
building ground for sale, and as the house
belongs to a different owner the holder of the
plots has erected these hoardings in order to j
claim his right to the use of “ light and air, 55 j
so that no objection may be lodged when the
adjacent sites are built upon. The hoardings
run the entire length of the house at each 1
end, and extend to the upper windows, so
that the occupiers have to rest content with !
taking their view of the outside world from i
the front only. Photo, by W. Girling, Strad- j
brooke, sent by Mr. E. Bond, The Rookery,

Eye, Suffolk. _

TREE GROWING OUT OF A CHIMNEY.

Mr. E. N. St. Stephens, Thyra House,

North Finchley, the sender of this photo

graph, writes: “At
Pachim, on the Bang-
pakong River, in Siam,
there was formerly a
mill for the extraction
of gold from quartz ob¬
tained from a mine up
country. The works
were afterwards removed
to the mine itself, and
the buildings at Pachim
demolished with the ex¬
ception of the chimney.
Since then a tree has
grown up from the base
inside the chimney, and
now spreads out its
branches from the top,
as can be seen in the
photograph. The chim¬
ney is approximately
40ft. high, and the
interior almost entirely filled by the trunk. The
photo, was taken by Mr. R. de Stephen in January
last, when we were leaving the country.”

THE MOLE-CATCHER’S TROPHY.

The next photograph we reproduce
depicts a not uncommon sight in parts of
the country where moles abound. Here
we see the manner in which the mole-
catcher strings his victims up when cap¬
tured, “chalking up his score,” so to
speak, against the farmer, who is thus
enabled to see that he has faithfully done
his work. In this instance the moles
have been fastened by string to a dead
bough, but sometimes one sees them
simply suspended on a hawthorn hedge
by running a thorn through the animal’s
nose. It is really wonderful the dexterity
the mole-catcher displays in tracking his
quarry, which in itself is a task requiring
much keenness of perception and the
exercise of no end of patience. Our
photograph, which has been sent in by
Mr. T. R. Hodges, of 24, Payton Street,
Stratford-on-Avon, conveys but an in¬
adequate conception of the extent of the
“kill” a really expert mole-catcher will
accomplish in the course of a day.

120

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

AN EASTERN HORSE-SHOE.

It is not too much to say that horse-shoes
vary in some particular or another in
almost every country. The accompanying
photograph shows the style of shoe affected
in Palestine, and a very substantial, durable
piece of footgear it looks, to be sure. Notice
the size of die plate, and the position of
the nail-holes. On the stony tracks in
Palestine, which fulfil the purpose of roads
for all except Emperors, a horse is less
liable to injury when shod in this fashion.
Sender of photo., Mr. Wm. Herrington,
Cuckfield, Sussex.

AN ARTIST IN
SAND.

The curious orna¬
mentation seen in
the bottle shown
herewith has been
worked out in sand
of variegated
colours by Mr.
W. S. O’Brien,
McGregor, Iowa.
The sand was pro¬
cured from the
Pictured Rocks,
but Mr. O’Brien
says that it is im¬
possible to expect
a photo, to do jus¬
tice to the brilliant,
unfadable colours
he has used, of
which there are no
fewer than sixteen.
The sand is put
into the bottle
loose and dry, and
is packed so tightly
that no amount of
jarring can mix it.

Photo, by A. Horning , McGregor , Iowa.

of 7 ,

face. Mr. C. F. Collier,

S.W., is the sender. -

A CURIOUS WHIM.

Our next photo, shows us the back of a large house in
Co. Westmeath, Ireland, the particular feature about which
is the curiously designed windows, which were built that
shape in accordance with a whim of the owner because he
wanted them to match the backs of the arm-chairs in his
dining-room. The sender of the photograph, Mr. Richard
Reynell, 37, Wilfred Street, Rose Hill, Derby, states that
the house is now going to ruin.

LEAPING UP A

WALL. t

This is a snap-shot of a dog jumping after a ball, which was fastened
upon the wall, but which has not come inLo the picture. The effect is
strikingly curious, for the fox-terrier has all the appearance of crawling
up the wall. A still more surprising result would have been attained had
the chair on the left, from which no doubt the jump was made, been
removed, but of course there would not be time to do this. If the photo¬
graph is held sideways,
the dog appears to be
running on a level sur-
Chelsea Embankment,

Painted by\ “ a sailor’s sweetheart.” [Marcus Stone, R.A.

Copyright , 1S95, by Photographische Gesellschaft.—By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, London, W.

The Strand Magazine.

Vol. xviii.

AUGUST, 1899.

No. 104.

Illustrated Interviews.

LXVL—MR. MARCUS STONE, R.A.

DRAMATIST in colour.
That, in a word, is Marcus
Stone. No one who looks,
even cursorily, at one of his
pictures can fail to realize
the effect or to discover the
play upon the emotions which the drama¬
tist in words uses in the evolution of his
more diffuse, but not less highly specialized,
art.

The son of an artist, an Associate of the
Royal Academy, of which he has himself
been for twelve years a full member, the
student of heredity may see the reason for
Mr. Stone’s allegi¬
ance to art. His
difficulty will arise
when he has to
explain the fact
that Mr. Stone
never had any so-
called real tuition
in his life, and
owes none of the
early bias which
he showed to¬
wards his profes¬
sion to direct in¬
fluence, for at the
time when he
decided to be a
painter he was
practically a
stranger to the
arena of the
studio—even his
father’s.

The first step
in any direction is
always an interest¬
ing one to dis¬
cover, so the day
Mr. Stone re¬
ceived me in the
studio in his magnificent house in the
Melbury Road, my first question was,
naturally, when he first began to draw.

“ I can’t tell you,” he said ; “ I have no
recollection of the time when I did not draw.

Vol. xviii.—16

I know I was scribbling when I was four
years old, and I have some sketches which
were preserved from my very youthful days,
before I had ever even seen a picture. I
was looking over them only a few days ago,
and I confess that though they do not appear
*to me at all remarkable as sketches, even for
a child of my then years, they were remark¬
able for the particular child that I was, for of
art education I had had absolutely none.
What of the artist I have in me was developed
by circumstances, for although my father was
an artist, I saw nothing of him as such until
I was ten years of age. My father’s studio

was in London,
and we as child¬
ren lived in the
country, or what
was then the
country, in the
north of London
— Bushey, Hen¬
don, and Finchley.
In those days—
for I am speaking
of half a century
ago — locomotion
was difficult, and
my father came
down only two
or three times a
week, and we
never went to
London. Even
then, the meanest
little picture-book
was a prize to
me, and I trea¬
sured every scrap
of pictorial illus¬
tration which I
could possibly pro¬
cure, for I could
count on the
fingers of my two hands the picture-books
of my childhood. There was no Strand
Magazine then, and no wealth of graphic
representation such as exists now for the
delight of childhood.

MR. MARCUS STONE, R.A.

From a Photo, by George Names, Limited.

124

THE S TEA AH MAGAZINE.

Painted by]

“the first love-letter.”

liy permission of Arthur Lucas, 38, Baker Street, IF., proprietor of the Copyright.

[Marcus Stone, R.A.

“ When I was about ten years old I went
to live in London. My great recreation was
to go to the Royal Academy, and no week
of my life passed without my seeing pictures,
so that I soon got a world of art of my own.”

“ Pictor nascitur non fit,” I murmured,
changing the quotation slightly. “ When did
you decide on becoming an artist?”

“I always decided on that. Certainly I never
desired to be anything else than a painter.
At ten I was allowed to go into my father’s
studio ; but it was not until I was sixteen
that I began to take up the pursuit of art
seriously. My time before then was devoted
to my general education. I fancy, though,
I put more into my books in those days than
I took out of them, for I filled them with
sketches, as I filled every available scrap of
paper that came into my possession. 1 re¬
member when I was quite a little fellow that
one day a bill came in from the local shoe¬
maker, which my mother was sure had been
paid. The receipt was searched for high and
low, but it was not forthcoming. At length
I was interrogated on the subject. I over¬
hauled my sketches, and on the back of the
receipt was a picture which might have been
inscribed, ‘ Marcus Stone fecit.’

“ The first studio except my father’s I ever
was in was Frith’s. On one occasion I went
to him with a message, and as a great kind¬
ness he allowed me to stay and watch him
while he was at work. He was painting

some drapery which lay on a piece of paper
on the dais, or throne, in his studio, as it re¬
presented a robe on the floor of his picture.

I went roaming about from place to place,
and accidentally kicked the paper with my
foot and turned it completely round. Frith
groaned aloud, but he was kindness itself,
and didn’t say anything. I was fully alive
to the enormity of the offence I had com¬
mitted, and expected to be forthwith ordered
out of the room, but happily that fate was
not meted out to me, and by a little re¬
arrangement Frith found that I had not done
very much harm.

“ On another occasion I went to see
Landseer, when he was finishing his picture
k Saved’—you remember the subject: a dog
who has saved the life of a little boy.
Landseer was painting the pebbles on the
beach, and, to my youthful imagination, they
seemed far more like potatoes than stones.
That impression still remains with me as the
result of a recent inspection of the picture.

“ Landseer I remember as a remarkable
talker, with that extraordinary power of
telling a story which makes it impossible for
anyone to tell it after him. A few weeks
before he was seized with the mental malady
which practically killed him, three years
before he died, I saw him, and he told me a
story. -He had been at Windsor, where he
was always received with special distinction,
and the train in which he was travelling

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

125

back to London was invaded at a quiet
station by a party returning from a prize¬
fight. The officials were unable to cope
with them, and the defeated combatant
and his second were put into the carriage
which had been specially reserved for
Landseer. ‘ What was the man like ? 5 I
asked; £ was he badly knocked about ? 5
‘ He looked very pale, 5 replied Landseer;
‘ he was wrapped up in a blanket, and he
moaned a good
deal. He was very
wet and he smelt
of lemon. 5 The way
in which the last
four words were
spoken was inimit¬
able, and conveyed
in a most lucid
manner the idea of
the prize-fighter
of those days,
who was revived
between the rounds
by being sponged
and having a suck
at a lemon. 55

“ When did you
paint your first pic¬
ture ? 55 was my next
interrogation.

“The first which
was exhibited at the
Academy was done
when I was seven¬
teen, although it
was not exhibited
until the spring of
1858. I had long
before this, however,
been painting in
oils, and I tried my
hand at everything,
from the family
milk-jug upwards.

My father’s health
began to fail for
some years before
he died, and so I
was allowed to work
as I pleased. That
picture was called
‘ Rest, 5 and repre-
sented an old
knight in a suit of
armour, reclining
under a tree, with
some children look¬
ing at him. It found

a purchaser, and as he was an absolute
stranger to me, it must have had some sort
of merit in it. It was not a large picture,
the size known in the profession as a
‘kitcat, 5 3ft. by 2ft. 55

With a sudden impulse of curiosity I asked
a decidedly impertinent question. “Will
you tell me what you got for it, Mr. Stone ? 55

“ Certainly, 55 he replied, in such away that
I no longer felt that, in the interests of the

LOVE or COUNTRY.” [Marcus Stone, R.A.

Painted by J

By permission of I. P. Mendoza, St. James's Galleries, King Street, St. James's , the ovmer
oj the Copyright .

126

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

By permission of Arthur Lucas. 38, Baker Street, IF., proprietor of the Copyright.

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

127

equally curious public, I had committed a
faux pas. “Forty pounds was the price.”

“ And what happened after that? ”

“ Then I began to work very hard at self-
imposed tasks. I began attending a life-
school of an exceedingly interesting character.
It was got up by some of the men at
the top of the tree in order that they
might resume the studies of their youth.
They were good enough to allow me to join
them. Among them were Frith, Mulready,
Holman Hunt, John Phillip, Augustus Egg,
and other well-known painters, and I drew
side by side with Mulready, who was a
contemporary of Wilkie. He was then a
very old man, as you may judge by the fact
that if he were alive now he would be one
hundred and thirteen. He made the most
beautiful drawings you can imagine, which were
always being bought up for schools of design
throughout the country. I naturally derived
a great deal of benefit from watching the
methods of such men. Indeed, had I a young
artist to train, the thing I would desire most
for him would be that he should be among
his seniors and see the development of their
work. Painting is an imitative art, and if an
apt pupil he can do well what he has seen
others do, and so save a great deal of time
puzzling out things for himself.”

“How long did you remain at the life-
school ? ”

“About a couple of years. My father
died when I was nineteen, and it then
became necessary that I should earn my
living. Work as well as study had to go on
simultaneously, as they have since gone on
until the present time.”

When a man begins his work at so early
an age, the influence of those who have
“arrived ” more or less counts for something
in the formation of his character and his
career, so I asked Mr. Stone who had
influenced him most.

“ As a man Dickens influenced my life
enormously,” he replied. “A great deal
of the origin of my effort to deal with
human sympathy in the way I have done
is due to him, .for that was the sheet-
anchor of his whole life. He was a great
friend of my father's. I constantly saw him
under all conditions. There never was a
man who gave himself more trouble and
took more infinite pains in the pursuit of his
art than did Dickens, and every detail and
incident and character in the multitudinous
personages in his books was given the
greatest consideration. It was his example
which was always before me which taught

me habits of punctuality, diligence, and the
like, and it was his example which saved me
from, the possibility of becoming an idler or
dilettante, of whom there are too many in all
arts.”

“Everybody remembers your illustrations
of ‘ Our Mutual Friend 5 and other of
Dickens’s novels,” I said. Mr. Stone smiled.

“ 4 Our Mutual Friend ’ was not the first of
the Dickens novels which I illustrated,” he
replied, “for I began when I was quite a
little boy. When ‘Bleak House’was coming
out I was about ten. Jo always appealed
most vividly to my childish imagination, and
I remember that when the part came out with
that famous eleventh chapter in which, as
every reader of the book will recall, Jo
sweeps the step of the gateway of the grave¬
yard in which, the man who had been ‘ werry
good ’ to him was buried, I was so impressed
with the reality of the scene that I sat down
at a table, took up a sheet of paper, and
tried to draw it as I saw it. Dickens hap¬
pened to call upon my father—my sketch
caught his eye. He recognised the subject
at once, and, taking it up, said, ‘That is very
good, Marcus ; you will have to give it to me.’
It was given to him, and a year after he wrote
me a letter, of which I need hardly say I was
inordinately proud, and with the letter came
the first copy of a book I ever had given to
me by the author. It was Dickens’s ‘ Child’s
History of England.’

“When my father died I had only ex¬
hibited two pictures, and as I had no inherit¬
ance from him, my prospects were decidedly
gloomy. I thought if I could get some
illustrations to do it would be a resource
which would be valuable. I therefore went
to Dickens, and he wrote me letters to three
publishers, Murray, Longmans, and Chapman
and Hall. None of them bore fruit, however,
but that to the last-named firm, who after
a long interval, in 1861, gave me a frontis¬
piece to do for the first cheap edition of
‘ Little Dorrit.’ After two or three years
came an offer for illustrating ‘ Our Mutual
Friend.’ Of course I accepted it, and the
drawings were done, as well as others, such
as the frontispiece for the first cheap edition
of the ‘Tale of Two Cities,’eight illustrations
for the library edition of the ‘ Child’s Flistory
of England,’ four for the library edition of
‘ American Notes,’ and as many for ‘ Pictures
from Italy,’ and eight illustrations for the
library edition of ‘ Great Expectations.’”

“A friend of yours told me that you dis¬
covered the original of Mr. Venus for Dickens.
How did it happen?” I asked Mr. Stone.

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“ I was painting a picture in which I
required a begging dog. The ordinary dog
is not at present sufficiently highly educated
as a model, so I was recommended to go to a
Taxidermist named Willis, in the Seven Dials,
who wbuld supply my wants. He did, as a
matter of fact, for he found the dog, killed it,
and stuffed it in the attitude I needed. The
day I called on him Dickens sent me an
invitation to go to the theatre with him.
During an interval between the acts he told me
that he wanted a very striking and unusual and
peculiar vocation to be introduced into the
new story he was writing. ‘I know the very
man/ I replied. ‘Take me to him/ said

illustrated, and as I knew Wilkie Collins,
and most of the other literary men of my
day. I heard that Thackeray was about to
publish the Cornhill Magazine , in which
there were to be illustrations. I thought I
might perhaps get some work to do, so I
called on him at his house. He was in bed
with a sprained ankle, and I was shown up
into his room. His man was bandaging his
foot at the time, and he was surrounded with
proofs of the first number. He showed
them to me. One of the articles was illus¬
trated by Thackeray himself. His people all
had muffs instead of heads. ‘Do you know
what I mean by that ?’ he asked, in his

Painted by]

“a passing cloud.”

By permission of Arthur Lucas, :i8, Baker Street , 1 V.,proprietor of the Copyright.

[Marcus Stone, R.A.

Dickens. The next day we went to call on
Willis. He was out, and while waiting for
him Dickens sat down and absorbed all the
•details of the establishment, although he
made not a single written note of the sur¬
roundings. Willis did not come back in
-time, and Dickens went away without see¬
ing him, but the interior of the shop was
.that which he so vividly described as Mr.
Venus’s.”

“ You knew Thackeray as well as Dickens,
did you not ? ”

“ Not as well as Dickens; but I knew
Thackeray as I knew Anthony Trollope,
whose story, ‘ He Knew He Was Right/ I

characteristic fashion. Before giving me
time to reply he answered the question him¬
self. ‘ I mean that they are muffs.’ He
talked for a few minutes, and I showed him
my sketches. ‘ Where do you get your
pencils ? ’ he asked me; ‘ mine don’t draw
like that.’”

“ Happily for art, you did not long remain
in the field of black and white?”

“ No, it was merely a means to an end,
and luckily for me that end came sooner
than I expected. My pictures began to make
a certain headway, and all of them sold.”

“ When did you make your first great
popular success ? ”

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

129

“ In 1863. It was exhibited at the Royal
Academy, and called { From Waterloo to
Paris.’ It was what the French call genre
historique , and it was the line which I
continued painting for ten years and more.”

“Then what I may call the ‘Stone age,’
the period with which the later manifestation
of your art is so intimately associated, did
not materialize for a long time? What
brought it about ? ”

“ I had always been a great student of
history,” said Mr. Stone, “ but a student
with a political bias. I had come to the
conclusion that history as written by the
historian was a very different thing from that
which was written by the people who made
it. It seemed to me very much like the
Court Circular, and the people were repre¬
sented as they were at Astley’s Theatre : the
kings and nobles were very great and grand,
and quite different from ordinary human
beings. I felt that I could no longer con¬
form to the prevailing ideas, as I also felt
that the number of historical people who
would appeal to the popular public taste was
very limited indeed. I had for a long time
been so struck with this thought that I used
to clothe my modern thoughts in ancient
dresses. One example will show you what I
mean. When I was reading ‘ Dorn bey and
Son/ I was greatly struck with the dramatic
idea of Mr. Dombey’s paternal pride in the
birth of his heir, while he cared little or
nothing for his first-born daughter. I
determined to paint a picture on this
subject, but nobody in those days would
have cared for a literal representation of
the subject. While turning over the matter
in my mind, and wondering where I
could place it, I came across the incident
which is related of Henry VIII.’s visit to see
Edward VI., while he ignored the little
Princess Elizabeth, who was in the room at
the time. There was the Dombey incident in
characters which everyone would recognise,
for Henry VIII. is one of the few historical
personages familiar to the man in the street.
I painted my picture of the ‘ Royal Nursery.’
It was a historical picture, but it was Paul
Dombey for all that.”

“ But for the £ Stone age ’ ? ” I queried.

“ That came about in this way. I believe
that the best and most valuable art work is
done by the man who treats his own period.
He knows his subject as, in a general way,
he can know no other. He sees his people,
he knows their thoughts, their feelings,
and, in addition, everybody else knows what
he knows. It is, of course, impossible in
Yoi, xviii,—17

England, from what I may call the hourly
change of fashion, to paint men and women
in the costume of a given year. The dress
would be out of fashion before the picture
was finished. I therefore determined to get,
if I could, some period in which the fashion
would remain constant, while the thoughts
and sympathies of the men and women
would be sufficiently close to be readily
sympathized with by the public. I saw this
in the early days of the century, the days
of our grandmothers, and so I adopted
that for my general work. Had I been
a Frenchman instead of an Englishman,
however, I should have painted the peasant
life of the moment, for that is exceedingly
picturesque. We have, however, no peasant
life in England, and no typical peasant dress,
so that was impossible. In the same way,
were I a writer of fiction I would never treat
of any subject but that of to-day. Dickens
and Thackeray both did this, departing from
their custom very rarely indeed, and Shake¬
speare was in the same sense a modern writer,
for he wrote of the things of his own time.”

“ Did any painter exercise a conscious in¬
fluence over you in the early days of your
career ? ” was my next question.

“ No one,” replied Mr. Stone. “ It was at
once my good and ill fortune, and left me
catholic in my tastes. Whenever I saw a
great work of art, and it is equally so to-day,
I always tried to see the artist’s aim and
purpose, and was never drawn to one point
to the exclusion of others. In this way I have
always loved Van Eyck and Velasquez, who
in painting are as opposite as the poles, but
I always have been equally enthusiastic over
other great painters. Millais I always counted
the greatest man of my time, as well as one
of the greatest painters of all time; but there
is no evidence of my admiration of his work
in my art, so far as I am aware, although I
could well wish it were otherwise.”

“ You and he were great friends, were you
not?”

“ I knew him from the time I was a child,
though he was my senior by eleven years, and
was famous before I ever began to paint.
As a young man he was an Apollo, and I
remember seeing him and his wife, just after
they were married, at a party at Dickens’s,
when I thought they were the most beautiful
couple I had ever set eyes on.”

“ In your own case, Mr. Stone,” I said,
“ can you tell me how your pictures come to
be painted ? ”

“ Only vaguely. I get some story which
can be told in a picture, in much the same

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THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

way as a playwright gets the germ of the idea
for his drama. 1 ‘chew’ on it, as I may say,
until I have evolved that scene which has
gone before, as well as that which will come
after. These ideas are put down in the note¬
book of my mind, and I make very elaborate
studies in my head, and devote a great deal
of time and trouble to my picture in that
way. Then on a sheet of note-paper I make
a sketch of the idea, with ovals for faces, so
that the telling of my story may not depend
on the faces of the characters.”

Mr. Stone exemplified his meaning by
taking some pieces of gummed paper and
blotting out the faces of the characters in his
pictures, “ Two’s Company, Three’s None,”
and “ A Peacemaker.” Attitude and com¬
position tell everything that there is to be
told, as anyone may prove for himself by
doing the same with the pictures which are
here reproduced.

“And after the sketch on note-paper?”

“ Then I make a very accurate sketch to
scale, after having decided exactly what size
my picture is going to be when finished. I
consult Nature always and verify the possi¬
bilities, to see that the design is sound in
every way and does not depend upon matters
which are incompatible with truth. Then I
have models to sit, and begin to work at my
picture. At the same time, I keep on work¬
ing at my sketch equally with my picture, so
that, if necessary, I may make experiments

on it and avoid painting out and painting in
on the picture itself, too much of which one
is compelled to do in the ordinary way.
Unless my sketch were like the picture it
would, of course, be impossible to do this,
so that at times my sketches are very
elaborate indeed.”

“ Do you paint your models as they are ?”

“Never,” said Mr. Stone, emphatically.
“ I have never painted and never would paint
a recognisable portrait of a model. I may
have half-a-dozen models for a single figure
in a picture. What one has to do is to paint
one’s imaginary man or woman, not a picture
of a given man or woman. So strongly do I
feel on this subject that if I see my picture is
getting like my model the illusion is gone for
me, for my picture was not a picture of Miss
—whatever her name happens to be, my
model—but a picture of someone whom I
have seen acting in the drama which I was
endeavouring to evolve.”

“ When once you get to work, do you work
rapidly ? ” I asked.

“Rapidly?” echoed Mr. Stone. “I am
the slowest man who ever held a brush. Of
course, one can cover a canvas rapidly with
colour, but in painting, as in writing, although
the public does not usually appreciate this
fact, there are times when you don’t know
how to say what you have to say.”

As Mr. Stone said these words my eyes
alighted on two packs of cards piled together

Painted by] “a PEACEMAKER.” [Marcus btone, It. A.

By permission of Arthur Lucas , SS t Baker Street , If''., proprietor of the Copyright.

ILL USTRA TED INTER VIE I VS.

on his table. With a sort of Sherlock
Holmes power of deduction I hazarded my
next question.

“You find Patience helps you, then?”

“Very much,” he replied, with a smile.
“ When I get into a tangle I find that the
gentle stimulation of the mind which Patience
necessitates produces a decidedly helpful
effect, and so, you will probably be interested
in knowing, do a great many of my brother
painters.”

All the time we had been talking I had
noticed that anything in the nature of a
picture or an easel was conspicuous by its
absence, although we were in the studio. In
reply to my question, Mr. Stone’s explanation
was pleasantly forthcoming.

“ I rarely show anything I do to friends or
casual visitors,” he said, “ for it really dis¬
tresses me to have people looking at my
work. If I had not had to earn my living
with my brush, I doubt if I should ever have
exhibited at all.”

“ Still, I suppose people do occasionally see
your work when you are engaged at it ? ”

“ Occasionally, certainly, but very occa¬
sionally. In this connection I remember an
incident which always gives me a great deal
of pleasure when I think of it, for I found
one of my most sympathetic critics in a
most unusual fashion. A gas-fitter was at
work at the lamps over there while I was
painting. After a time he stopped and came
over to me, saying, 4 I beg your pardon, sir,
but will you let me look at the picture you
are painting ? ’ It was my picture, 4 A
Sailor’s Sweetheart.’ He looked at it long
and silently—in itself a great satisfaction to
me—and then I hazarded a question, for I
had always wanted to find out exactly, from
personal knowledge, whether my effects were
as clear to men of that class as they were for
the more cultivated or the artistic. 4 Do you
know what I mean by it ? ’ I asked, after he
had talked a good deal about it. 4 Yes, sir,’ he
replied, 4 there’s no mistaking that. She’s
thinking about somebody in foreign parts.’ I
could have danced with delight at the ‘foreign
parts,’ for the effect of the sea in the back¬
ground of the picture had produced on him
exactly the effect I had desired to convey.
He went over the picture with the utmost
care, and presently his eye lighted on the
little bunch of blue forget-me-nots in the girl’s
hand. Immediately a smile played all over
his face, and turning to me he said, 'He
won’t forget her, sir.’ I could have blessed
that gas-fitter for his acumen, for it is extra¬
ordinary the amount of obtuseness one meets

I 3 1

with in people from whom one would expect
better things. I have treasured the memory
of that gas-fitter, and have often longed for his
criticism on other pictures, though I have
never seen him since. If the world were full
of such gas-fitters it would be a much more
satisfactory place for painters to live in.”

44 To go for a moment from your art to
your early life. You knew some of the
actors of the past ? ” I asked.

44 1 met Macready,” he replied, 44 and one
day he gave me some advice about speaking.

4 1 do not think there is very much to teach,’
he said. 4 1 can tell, you all about it in five
minutes, but there is a great deal to do.
Articulate every syllable, raise your voice at
the end of every sentence, and as a matter of
exercise try to see how many lines of verse you
can say without taking a breath.’ Then with
a look of pride in his eyes, he added, slowly,

4 I can speak fourteen lines of 44 Paradise
Lost” with only one breath.’

44 1 knew Hechter, too. He used sometimes
to ask me about the reading of a line, as
he was not at all comfortable in his English
when he first came here. Indeed, he actually
proposed to me that I should go on the
stage and act with him. He promised, if I
would, to have a part written which would
make a 4 personage ’ of me. I need hardly
say, however, that, great as the temptation
was, my allegiance to my own art prevented
the possibility of my accepting so flattering
an offer.”

Then I turned to matters of the moment,
and glancing round the studio, rich with rare
tapestries and hangings, I learnt that Mr.
Stone was the first to build a studio for the
painting of outdoor effects, for until about
thirty years ago painters did not trouble
about plein air effects, but painted their
models in their studio, and afterwards added
a background. The studio is one of the
largest in London, and like the house was
built from Mr. Stone’s own plans. “With
that reverence which we professional men
have for one another,” he quickly added, as
he told me this fact, 44 1 took my plans to
Norman Shaw, who was good enough to
approve them as a working basis, and I left
the whole building of the house in his hands,
so that it is his house—architecturally. In
this studio I can verify all my effects, even
out-of-door effects, for I can put my model
on the balcony if necessary, as it is quite
shut out from the outside world.”

Mr. Stone led the way and I followed him
on to the balcony, where looking through the
trees one could see the late Lord Leighton’s

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THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Copyright, ms, by Photographische Gesellacha/t.-By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, London, W.

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

133

house across the lawn, while
the greening trees made it
practically as much cut off
as if it were a detached
house in the country.

“ I have been living here
for twenty-two years,” Mr.

Stone said, answering my
question; “ before that I
lived in Langham Chambers
and in Tavistock Square,
two doors from Dickens’s
house. It is a curious thing,
but my wife and I went to
Langham Chambers only
for a few months, on our
return from our honeymoon
on the Continent, and we
stayed there six years —
stayed there, in fact, looking
for a suitable house, but in
vain, and at last we decided
to have this one built.”

Referring to the hangings
and furniture, Mr. Stone
continued:—

“The tapestry in the
studio was made probably
before Shakespeare was
born, while there is nothing
in the room that does not
represent a certain period.

“ That chair you are
sitting in,” said Mr. Stone,

“was the chairman’s seat in
the Hell Fire Club, while
the other chairs came from
Medmenham Abbey. That
looking-glass on the wall be¬
longed to the beginning of
the last century, and whenever I look into
it I can fancy I see Henry Esmond sitting
there, arranging his wig in front of it.”

On a cabinet stands a very precious object,
one of the largest pieces of turquoise crackle
ware ever produced. It is four hundred
years old, and gains greater value from the
fact that the art which produced it is obsolete.
Just outside the studio there is an enormous
wardrobe, some 12ft. to 14ft. long, reaching
from the floor to the ceiling, in which Mr.
Stone keeps the costumes which he paints in
his pictures. They are real old, short-waisted
dresses, picked up here and there. One of
Mr. Stone’s hobbies is the collection of old
brass, and in his dining-room there is a
splendid pair of fifteenth - century plaques,
which have a curious history. Some five-
and-twenty years ago, or so, he picked up

By permission of Arthur Lucas , ss , Baker Street, IT., proprietor of the Copyright.

one piece in Wardour Street. Some years
later he happened to be in Venice, and
stopping at an art-seller’s shop he noticed
an almost facsimile reproduction of his plate
at home. He bought it, and after having
been separated probably for some centuries,
these two pieces now hang on each side of
the sideboard, in company with pictures by
Velasquez, Etty, and other masters.

Though insignificant perhaps to the out¬
sider, it is significant of Mr. Stone’s admira¬
tion for Dickens that one of the most
prized of his treasures, reposing in a cabinet
full of beautiful art objects, in a delightful
room which is Mrs. Stone’s boudoir, is the
pocket corkscrew Dickens used always to
carry himself when travelling, which was
given to Mr. Stone when the great novelist
died.

Stories of the Sanctuary Club .

By L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace. Told by Paul Cato.
II.—A VISIBLE SOUND.

N the second year of the exist¬
ence of the Club I received a
letter from a gentleman in
the county of Kent. He
signed himself Walter Royal,
and lived in a large place
which went by the name of Court Royal.
He was anxious to be admitted as one of
our members, and further expressed a desire
that his niece, a girl of about two-and-twenty,
who lived with him, should also become a
member of the Sanctuary Club. He inclosed
a cheque for the entrance-fees for himself
and his niece, and begged to know how
soon the ceremony of his election might take
place.

I wrote to him immediately, asking a few
questions, and finally said that at the next
meeting of the committee he and his niece
would be duly elected. To this he replied
by a somewhat longer letter.

“ Your news has given me relief, Dr. Cato,”
he wrote : “ I am an old man, and one never
knows what may happen. I have heard a
great deal of your Club from people who
have derived benefit from your peculiar
mode of treatment, and it is quite possible
that in the future the institution which you
have been good enough to inaugurate
may be of use to my niece Primrose. In
the present case it will undoubtedly be
of service to me. I do not think that I
shall last much longer, but while I am in the
world I wish to keep as well as possible, and
as I arn suffering from various phases of a
nervous disorder, I should like to put myself
into your care as soon as possible. I shall
probably be with you early next week. Before
coming, however, it is as well for you to
know that I am the victim of a very extra¬
ordinary malady, which is both overpowering
and overmastering, and has such a curious
effect on my nerves that I am obliged to
yield to certain inclinations, knowing all the
time that mischief will occur from my doing
so. I will tell you more about this when I
have the pleasure of meeting you.”

In reply to this letter I wrote to Mr. Royal
to say that the following Wednesday would
suit Dr. Chetwynd and myself for his re¬
ception, and he replied to the effect that
he and his niece would be with us on that
date.

It was early in the spring of the year 1892
when he arrived, accompanied by his niece.
He was a very tall and thin old man, with
white hair hanging down over his shoulders,
piercing, deeply-set black eyes, and aquiline
features. There was an eagerness in his
gaze which I have not often seen in anyone
so advanced in life, and which I put down
partly to the complaint from which he un¬
doubtedly suffered.

His niece to a certain extent resembled
him. She had the same bright, alert look,
but her features were small, her figure graceful,
and she had the rounded limbs and soft
complexion of early youth. She had a
gentle, affectionate manner, and I saw at
once that she was a particularly amiable girl.

I noticed, however, from the first that she
was very anxious about the old man. At the
first possible opportunity she hastened to tell
me the cause of this anxiety.

“ My uncle has not the slightest idea, Dr.
Cato,” she said, ‘‘that he is suffering from
what almost amounts to mania; but, never¬
theless, I who have known him all my life
am certain that such is the case.”

“What do you mean ?” I asked.

“Well, in the first place, he will not
consult his family physician. He has abso¬
lutely refused to see Dr. Winstanley for the
last two years, and it is since then that the
curious phase of nervous disorder to which
I allude has become so manifest. I cannot
tell you how relieved I was when he declared
his intention of becoming a member of the
Sanctuary Club, and of putting himself under
your treatment.”

“ Pray describe the symptoms which give
you uneasiness,” I interrupted.

She paused for a moment, then said,
slowly, “You do not know perhaps that
my uncle, Mr. Royal, is one of the
greatest authorities on archaeology and
Roman relics in England. About three
months ago he sent some magnificent
Roman pottery to the British Museum. This
he had himself excavated in the neighbour¬
hood of Court Royal out of a Roman villa,
which he discovered within three miles of his
estate. I trace the growth of his disorder
almost from the day when he first discovered
this villa. Since then he has scarcely lived
for anything else, employing workmen in the

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

i 35

task of excavation, and wet or fine, early and
late, has spent his time at the villa. During
the long winter evenings he has been hunt¬
ing up the records of the place, and he told
me not long ago that he believed the
ruins in question had belonged to one of the
Quaestors of Customs in the reign of the
Emperor Hadrian, when Britain was a Roman
colony. He has searched through many old
county records, and found that an old
chronicler made mention of this very place,
and said that it contained buried treasure of
great value. Since reading this account my
uncle’s excitement has become greater and
greater, and the one object of his life now is
to discover the treasure which he believes
to be hidden away in the old villa. I
bitterly regret for his sake that he ever
knew anything of its existence. He has
certainly lost both health and sleep since that
date.”

“ What has brought things to a crisis? ” I
asked.

“I will tell you,” she answered. “Two
months ago he returned home in a state of
breathless and painful excitement. It was
just about Christmas time, and the weather
was bitterly cold. I think he had got a chill
in body, but his excitement of mind almost
passed all bounds. He
brought with him an old
bronze disc, which he had
found deeply embedded in
the clay. There was some
Latin writing on it, and
night after night he shut
himself up with his old disc
trying to make out the
inscription round the edge.

Whether he has ever done
so or not is more than I
can tell you ; but a few
days ago, just after you had
consented to admit him here,

I found him in a state of
unconsciousness in his
study. The bronze was
lying on a table near, and
he had evidently fainted
while struggling to possess
himself of its secret. I
locked the bronze disc up
in one of the cupboards in
the study, and took im¬
mediate steps to bring my
uncle here. I am most
anxious about him.”

“He certainly looks ex¬
tremely ill,” I replied, “ but

I trust the treatment and the great quiet of
the place will go far to restore him. Has
he shown any other eccentricities, Miss
Sea field ? ”

She hesitated, then said, slowly, “ There is
one other craze which has manifested itself
to an extraordinary degree. For nearly a
year he has been hiding things of value in all
sorts of unexpected places. Not long ago we
could not find the old jewelled hunting watch
which he always wore in his waistcoat-pocket.
He himself seemed to have forgotten where
he put it, and was in a terrible state about it.
We eventually recovered it in an unused well
in the garden. Some jewels left to me by
my mother were also put by him into other
as unlikely places, and of late I have been
obliged to have a special attendant to follow
him about in order to prevent his hiding
things in daily use.”

“ Well,” I answered, “ he could not do
better than come here. I am glad you have
spoken so frankly about him. My friend
Chetwynd and I will do our utmost to pro¬
mote his recovery, and in the meantime I
hope you will enjoy yourself. You at least
look well and strong.”

“ I am fairly well,” she replied ; “ but what
with one thing and another, I have gone

^ .. n*

" I FOUND HIM IN A STATE OF UNCONSCIOUSNESS.”

136

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

through many anxieties. Perhaps I ought
to tell you that my uncle has had a very sad
story. He had three children, the elder two
being sons. The eldest son died when quite
young, and he has quarrelled with the other
so effectually that nothing will induce him
to see him again. He has not only
quarrelled with him, but he has also dis¬
inherited him. The son in question, James
Royal, is a very bad man, and has led
a most reckless and extravagant life. My
uncle has paid his debts
many times and given
him very large sums of
money, but within the last
five years he has abso¬
lutely refused to allow him
to come near Court Royal,
and has assured me that
he will not leave him a
farthing. James Royal,
who used to terrify me
when I was a little child
by coming to the house
and making fearful dis¬
turbances, has taken his
father at his word, and we
neither of us now know
where he is or whether
he is in existence at all.”

“ And who will inherit
the property ? ” I ventured
to ask.

“ I do not mind telling
you,” she answered, her
eyes growing bright; “ my
uncle has often told me
that he will leave Court
Royal to me. I am not
particularly anxious to be
rich, but I hope, if I do
find myself possessed of
so fine a property, that I
shall know how to do my
duty. I am the daughter
of his only sister, who
was very much younger
than himself. My mother
died when I was a baby,
and my father soon followed her. Since
then I have lived at Court Royal, and my
uncle has been both father and mother to
me.”

At that moment my conversation with
Miss Seafield was interrupted, and I did not
renew it again. I repeated to Chetwynd
what the young lady had told me, and we
soon came to the conclusion that Walter
Royal’s malady was hopeless, and that, in all

probability, the old man was not long for this
world. He was a very gentle and agreeable
person, and did not show the slightest sign
of oddity when joining in general conversa¬
tion, but his bodily weakness grew apace, and
he was soon confined to his room.

Royal and his niece had been about a
fortnight at the Sanctuary Club, when one
day a visitor called. It was, I remember,
early in the afternoon, and I was doing
something in the hall. Miss Seafield was

standing near helping me. Suddenly she
almost dropped a valuable china plate which
she was assisting me to move into a more
prominent position, the colour fled from her
face, and her hands trembled. A tall, eager-
looking man of about thirty years of age was
announced. Miss Seafield started forward,
holding out both her hands.

“ Jack ! ” she cried, “ how did you know
we were here?” Then she turned and intro-

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUE.

137

duced him to me. “ Mr. Kelvin—Dr. Cato,”
she said.

I bowed to the stranger. He had an un¬
common face, and I found myself looking at
him with great interest. There was a certain
untamed fire in his eyes, joined to some
indications of weakness round his lips, which
seemed at a first glance to point him out as
the victim of hereditary nervous weakness,
but the breadth of his brow and the rare
sweetness of his smile immediately dissipated
this first impression. I felt certain that he
was a man of remarkable genius, and had
not led an ordinary career. It also needed
but a glance at the face of the beautiful girl
who now stood close to his side to show
that the pair loved each other, and were in
all probability engaged.

“ I must let Uncle Walter know that you
have come, Jack, and then I will come back
to you,” was Primrose’s next eager remark.

“ Shall I do that for you ?” I interrupted ;
“ I am going to visit Mr. Royal in about half
an hour, when he awakens after his nap.”

“ Oh, will you?” she asked, her eyes full
of smiles, and her cheeks glowing with
happiness ; “ then in that case we can go into
the grounds. I have a good deal to say to
Mr. Kelvin, Dr. Cato, and I am very much
obliged to you.”

I went upstairs to the old man. In the
course of conversation I delivered his niece’s
message.

“ Ah ! ” he said, “ so Jack has found us out.
Has Primrose told you anything more ? ”

“No,” I answered; “what do you mean ?”

“ She is engaged to Kelvin, and more or
less against my will. He is a clever fellow,
very clever, almost a genius ; he has written
some books of rare distinction, and is also a
poet of no mean order; but he is poor and
rash and extravagant, and my impression is
that he got himself into a serious scrape early
in his life.”

“ In your niece’s case you ought to be
very careful,” I said. “You are a man of
large property, and if you mean her to
inherit it, she must not be a prey to fortune-
hunters.”

“ Oh, Kelvin is nothing of that sort,” he
said, somewhat impatiently. “ If anything,
he is too unworldly; he loves my girl
devotedly, and she fairly worships the ground
he walks on. I am not surprised, and when
you know him better, Cato, you will yourself
yield to his many fascinations.”

That evening Miss Sen field asked me if
her uncle had said anything with regard to
Kelvin.

Vol. xviii.—18

“ He told me that you and he are
engaged,” I said.

She looked steadily at me for a moment,
and then her dark-grey eyes filled with tears.

“ It is my great privilege to love him, and
to be loved back in return,” she said. “ He
is the most wonderful man I have ever met.
He is very clever, more than clever; his
writings are beautiful. He will make his
mark in the world of letters if he goes on,
but he has had a sad life, and has had much
trouble. Dr. Cato, I don’t mind telling you,
he put himself some years ago into the power
of my cousin, James Royal.”

“ How so ?” I asked.

“I don’t quite know myself, but it has cast
a shadow over his life. It is in my cousin’s
power to ruin him, and why he has not done
so long ago is a marvel; but Jack’s hope now
is that he will never push things to extremities.
Ah, I have told you too much—pray forget
what I have said, but always remember that
I regard myself as one of the most fortunate
women in the world to have won the love of
so good, so great a man.”

Within a week from that date old Mr.
Royal passed quietly away in his sleep. His
illness had been hopeless from the first—but
none the less was the shock a severe one to
Miss Seafield. The old man was taken back
to Court Royal to sleep in the vault of his
ancestors, and in the rush of other work I
almost forgot Primrose Seafield and her story.

Nearly six months passed, when I received
the following letter

“ Court Royal, Wrenhurst, Kent.

“Dear Sir, — My name I know will be
familiar to you as the son of the late Mr.
Walter Royal, who was a member of your
Club, and died under your roof. As I am
rather anxious about, myself in view of my
father’s malady, and as I hope to be married
within a week, and there is no time to spare,
I shall be exceedingly glad if you wili come
down and see me at your earliest convenience.

“ \ T ours faithfully,

“James Royal.”

I re’ad this letter with a good deal of
astonishment. Had the reckless and wicked
son who had more or less ruined his father’s
life turned up at Court Royal on hearing of
the old man’s death? Beyond doubt this
had happened. But why was he staying
there, when Primrose Seafield was the heiress ?
And whom was he going to marry imme¬
diately, and why had he requested me, of all
persons under the sun, to diagnose his
special symptoms?

Apprehending, I could not tell why, foul

THE S TEA ND MAGAZINE.

138

play of some sort, I was about to reply to
this letter, when by the very next post I
received one from Miss Seafield herself.

“ Dear Dr. Cato,” it ran, “ I have just
heard that my cousin, James Royal, has
written asking you to come down here, and I
am writing now to beg of you as a personal
friend of my own to grant his request if
possible. The fact is, I want to see you
myself, and it is impossible for me to visit
you at the Club just at present. I am in
great and terrible trouble, and I want to ask
your advice. I believe you can help me if
you will. When you meet my cousin, please
do not mention to him that I have written,
nor speak about anything special in his
presence. In particular, I hope you will not
allude to Mr. Kelvin. I will tell you all
when we meet.—Yours sincerely,

“ Primrose Seafield.”

“ I will go down by the earliest train
to-morrow morning,” I reflected, “and find
out for myself how matters really stand.”

Soon after eleven o’clock on the following
day I reached Wrenhurst. A well-appointed
carriage had been sent to meet me. I
learned from the coachman that Court Royal
was about three miles away, but the spirited
chestnuts were not long in getting over the
ground. I presently found myself in a fine
avenue, which con¬
tained some magnifi¬
cent timber, and a sharp
corner in the avenue
brought the old house
into full view, with its
quaint gable-ends and
Norman turrets.

Just as the carriage
drew up before the front
entrance, Primrose Sea¬
field hurried to meet
me. She was in deep
black, and her shady
hat was slightly pushed
away from her face.

“You have come—

I thought you would,”
she said. “ I cannot tell
you how thankful I
am. My cousin is out,
but there is no time
to say much to you ; he
may be back at any
moment. Oh, Dr. Cato,

I am in (earful trouble
—I wonder my senses
do not give way. I
must take an oppor¬

tunity of speaking to you, and in private. Will
you come to my uncle’s study after lunch ? ”

“ Shall I find you there ? ” I asked.

“ Yes; I have no chance of having a word
alone with you before. My cousin will
prevent it, but Mrs. Hall, my old governess,
is staying with me, and she will bring you to
the study if you ask her. After lunch my
cousin, as a rule, goes away for a nap by
himself. Ah, and here he is approaching.”

She turned as she spoke and pointed in
the direction of the shrubberies, through
which I saw a tall, loosely-made man coming
towards us. I scarcely glanced at him at
first, however, so dismayed was I by the
change in the girl’s own bright face. She
was now painfully thin, and her dark-grey
eyes were almost too large for absolute beauty.
There were heavy shadows under them, and
her lips—beautiful and proud lips they used
to be—were tremulous as though she had
often indulged in heavy fits of crying. She
looked sadly nervous, too, and as though her
mental equilibrium had, in some curious way,
got a severe shock.

“ Come with me to meet my cousin,” she
said. She walked
forward, and I fol¬
lowed her.

The man who had

now no you po,

STORIES OF TEE SANCTUARY CLUB.

i 39

now almost reached us was above the
middle height ; he was followed by a
bulldog, and wore a Norfolk suit and
carried a rook-rifle in his hand. In some
particulars his features resembled those
of his father, being aquiline and thin;
but the colour on his cheeks was. fixed,
and his mouth was completely hidden by
a heavy moustache. His eyes were sunken
into his head, and were too bright. They
had a watchful gleam in them, too, which I
have often connected with nervous disorder.
It needed scarcely a glance to tell me that
the man indulged in too much alcohol.

“ How do you do, Dr. Cato ? ” he said,
as we came up. “ I presume this is Dr.
Cato, Primrose ? ” he added, glancing at his
cousin.

She bowed, without speaking.

“ Ah ! so I guessed. Your train must
have been punctual, Doctor. I am sorry I
was not on the premises when you drove up.
Will you come into the house now?”

He did not take any further notice of
Primrose. She left us and went slowly in
the direction of the shrubbery. We entered
a large hall, and Royal, opening a door on
the right, took me into the dining-room.

“ Have something before lunch, won’t
you ? ” he said, opening a door in a massive
oak sideboard, and taking out a bottle of
brandy.

“ No, thank you,” I answered.

“You had better,” he said.

I shook my head.

“ I never take stimulants except with
meals,” I said.

“ All the worse for you,” was his retort.
“Well, you don’t mind if I help myself?”
He poured out a stiff glass of brandy and
drank it off.

“ Shall we go to my late father’s smoking-
room for our talk ? ” he said.

Without waiting for me to reply he led the
way, crossing a large conservatory as he did
so. We soon found ourselves in a small,
cpmfortably furnished room; the French
windows were open, and the soft summer air
was coming gently in. Royal drew a chair
forward for me, and sank himself into another
nearly opposite.

“Well,” he said, “to plunge into the
matter without further delay, I am about to
be married. You may think it rather soon
after my father’s death, but the wedding will
be a very quiet one, and there are reasons
that make it inexpedient to allow any further
delay. This day week, I hope to see myself
united to as good a girl as ever breathed.

You guess, of course, that I allude to my
cousin, Primrose Seafield.”

“ You astonish me very much,” I said;
“ you engaged to Miss Seafield ? ”

“And why not?” he answered, his brow
darkening, and an angry scowl passing across
his features.

I was silent. Angry as I felt, I knew that
the matter was scarcely my affair. He gazed
at me steadily for a moment; then his eyes
fell, he shuffled uneasily on his seat, and I
saw his large hands tremble.

“ It is these beastly nerves,” he said.
“ Certainly, this age has its drawbacks, and
the way we poor mortals are troubled by all
kinds of out-of-the-way feelings is past a joke.
Now, I don’t pretend that I have led the
most immaculate life in the world, and what
with one thing and another, things are telling
on me. I have heard much of you and your
wonderful cures, Dr. Cato, and it has occurred
to me that by-and-by I cannot do better than
become a member of your Club, and put
myself completely under your treatment.”

“ I shall be pleased to enter your name on
my roll of members,” I answered. “ I will
send you a form to fill up, and-”

He waved his hand to interrupt me.

“ Presently, presently,” he said; “ those
matters are for the future. I have sent for
you now to consult you as an ordinary
physician. I want to ask you a plain
question. Is—in your opinion—my father’s
insanity (for he doubtless was insane in the
latter years of his life) hereditary ? ”

“Your father was insane for the last six
months of his life; certainly not longer,” I
answered. “ My friend Dr. Chetwynd and I
studied his case most carefully. He had a
peculiar mania, but it was not of long
duration, and was itself of quite an innocent
character.”

“Ah,” he said; “well, I don’t agree with
you. I have known the old man intimately
for some time, and can prove that he was very
queer for several years; but now for my
question. My father died at the age of
eighty—I am a man of five-and-fifty : am I
likely to be similarly affected?”

“ No,” I replied, boldly; “ if your father
was insane, it by no means follows that his
insanity was hereditary. But tell me what
you complain of.”

“ I am oppressed at times by an overpower¬
ing sense of fear, and since I came into this
fine property I have in a most remarkable
way lost every interest in life. I have gone
through ups and downs in my rough-and-
tumble existence, and I assure you there have

140

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

been moments in my miserable life when I
have scarcely known how to provide for my
next meal. You will scarcely credit this,
seeing that I am the son of one of the richest
men in the county; but he was peculiar, my
dear sir, peculiar from the very first. Now,
indeed, things have righted themselves, and
in an extraordinary and providential manner.
You see before you a rich man, Dr. Cato. I
have many thousands at my credit in the bank,
and, as you see for yourself, am the owner of
a large estate and a fine house. I am also
about to be married to a very pretty girl, and
one I have long been fond of. It seems un¬
accountable, does it not, that with all these
advantages, these showers of blessings, so to
speak, I am still thoroughly wretched ? I
sleep badly, and am troubled by dreams
and nightmares of a terrifying description.
Knowing what I do about my father, I have
been getting quite fidgety of late, and
thought I had best consult you at once.
Naturally, before mar¬
riage, a man thinks of
these things. Can you
relieve my mind?”

“Your symptoms
are not quite pleasant
ones,” I said, “ but at
the same time there is
nothing to be seriously
alarmed about. Granted
that your father did
suffer from mania, it
behoves you to be more
careful than ordinary
men, and a quiet, open-
air life is what will suit
you best. Avoid all
excitement, and, what
is far more important,
excess of every kind.”

“Well, I do that,”
he said, with a laugh ;

“ there is devilish little
excitement here, and
plenty of open air, so
that’s all right.”

“ Do you take much
alcohol ? ” I asked.

“ Oh, a nip now and
then, and wine with
meals.”

“ Have your wine with meals, by all
means,” I answered, “but I should stop the
nips. A man who gets drunk once a month,
and takes nothing in the interval, will live
longer than a man who is never the worse
for liquor but is constantly tippling; but pray

remember, the man who does neither will
outlive them both.”

“ I have no doubt that is so,” he answered,
“ but I could not exist without wine, and
I never drink to excess. I am much obliged
to you for your opinion, Dr. Cato. You can
assure me there is no present cause for
alarm ? ”

“ None, if you will be moderate,” was my
reply.

“ I will tell Primrose what you say ; she
will be relieved, poor girl. I think I quite
frightened her a couple of evenings ago.
I was in a somewhat mirthful state, and she
did not think I showed sufficient respect for
my late father’s memory. After all, Dr. Cato,
I have nothing to thank him for. I should
not be the owner of this property had he not
over-reached himself and died intestate. But
for that little fact Primrose would have been
the heiress, and I should have been nowhere.
Now matters are reversed, and I think I am

behaving extremely well to the girl by marry¬
ing her.”

“ But what does she say herself? ” I asked.

“ Say ? What can she say ? She is natur¬
ally delighted—who would not be? It is not
every girl who has the chance of being

“ ‘do YOU TAKE MUCH ALCOHOL?’ I ASKED.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

mistress of a fine property like this. The
fact is, the whole thing is a most lucky escape
for her. Had my father made a will, she
would have inherited Court Royal and
thrown herself away upon a fellow in town,
of the name of Kelvin, an imbecile sort of
chap. He poses as a maker of poetry, and
writes a lot of silly stuff; you must know the
sort of fellow for yourself. Primrose thought
herself in love with him, and would have
married him, had I not stepped in to inter¬
fere. Our wedding-bells will ring in a week ;
and, now that you have quite relieved
my mind, I can do what is left of my court¬
ship with a light heart.”

As he spoke he left the room. I sat, feel¬
ing almost stunned, by the open window. I
had now got the secret of Primrose’s trouble.
But what hold had such a man over the poor
girl? Why had she, even for a single
moment, consented to marry him ? Why
was there no will ? What did all this dark
and inexplicable shadow mean ?

Miss Seafield was not present at lunch ;
but the old lady, Mrs. Hall, whom she had
already mentioned, took the head of the table.
Royal was in high spirits, both eating and
drinking freely. He made loud jokes, and did
not seem to miss his cousin in the very least.
As soon as the meal was over he rose abruptly.

“ What train do you take back to town ? ”
he said, looking at me.

“There is a good train, is there not, at
3.30 ? ” was my reply.

“I should recommend the 4.30—that is an
express. I am sure Mrs. Hall and my cousin
Primrose will be glad to take you round the
grounds. I will join you in an hour or so ;
I always have a nap after lunch—I acquired
the habit when in the East. Good-bye for
the present.”

He left the room, waving his hand as he
did so in the direction of Mrs. Hall.

“ Look after him,” he said to her.

The moment the door closed behind my
host, the good lady turned to me.

“ Will you come at once to Primrose
Seafield?’’she said. “We both knew that
this would happen. He takes more wine than
he can stand, and always goes away for his
nap, as he expresses it. Dr. Cato, I know
that you have been good to Primrose, and
that she has in part confided her story to
you. If you can help her, do, in the name
of Heaven ; no girl ever wanted someone to
guide her more than she does at present.
She is very unhappy and, unless matters can
be quickly put right, will have a miserable
life in the future.”

141

As Mrs. Hall spoke, she led me from the
dining-room down a long corridor, and a
moment later we found ourselves in the late
Mr. Royal’s study. It was a beautiful room,
lined with books from floor to ceiling, and
was situated in the west wing of the building.
Primrose Seafield was already there. She
was standing in one of the deep windows,
her hands clasped loosely behind her
back. As soon as I appeared she started
forward.

“ Ah, thank you,” she said. “ Mrs. Hall,
will you leave us ? ”

The old lady withdrew, closing the door
softly behind her.

“ There is not a moment to waste,” said
Miss Seafield, speaking eagerly. “Take a
chair, Dr. Cato, and please do not lose a
word of what I am going to tell you.”

I sat down in the nearest chair.

“ Won’t you sit, too ? ” I said to her.

“No, I cannot ; I am too restless to
remain still for a moment. Please listen.”

“ I am all attention,” I answered.

“ Do you remember my telling you early
in the spring about my dear uncle’s great
passion for Roman relics ? ”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Well, the wretched story which I am
about to confide to you has something to do
with that fact, but I must start from another
point. You know how suddenly my uncle
died ; his funeral took place from the
Sanctuary Club, and I came back here. The
lawyers immediately searched for the will,
but no will could be found. Knowing my
uncle’s peculiarity with regard to hiding
things of value, the search was most thorough
and complete : not a corner of the old house
was left without a complete investigation ;
the gardens and grounds were searched
from end to end, but nowhere up to the
present has there been the smallest clue to
any will. Two months after the death my
cousin, James Royal, appeared. He brought
a London lawyer with him, said that he had
heard that his father had died intestate, and
that he was going to take possession of every¬
thing. I need not go into particulars, nor
tell you all that he said and that the lawyers
on my side said, and the amount of angry
words that passed between them. All that
mattered little or nothing to me. I was
stunned. I could not believe that my cousin
was to be the owner of the property, and that
I myself was penniless. It was not, as I
have already told you, that I wanted money
for its own sake; but, oh ! I)r. Cato, you
do not know him. He will drag this noble

142

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

property through the very mire—there will be
nothing of it left in a year or two.”

She paused as she spoke; the light from
outside fell all over her figure, and lit up her
pale face, bringing out strong bronze lights in
her rich hair. She looked almost ethereal,
and very beautiful—the suffering on each
feature but accentuated her loveliness. As I
watched her I trembled for her health.
Would she long endure the severe strain to
which she was now exposed ?

44 Oh, money is of so little value,” she
continued, “and yet what tragedies it causes ;
but I must go on—please listen. You know,
of course, that when I was at the Sanctuary
Club I was engaged, with the full sanction of
my own heart, and with every prospect of
happiness, to the man I love best on earth,
Jack Kelvin. You remember my telling you
that once, some years ago, he got him¬
self into my cousin’s power—he had alluded
to this once or twice, but I did not know any
particulars. I was to learn them all too
soon. Jack, as I have told you, has very
strong literary tastes, and is already making
a name for himself in London ; but in his
early days he had serious troubles, and was
once in severe money difficulties. At that
time he knew my cousin, James Royal, well,
and there was even a sort of friendship
between them. Jack, in order to meet his
liabilities, had borrowed money at very heavy
interest from different money-lenders.

“ One evening he confided the state of
affairs to my cousin. It was just then that
he and I had first met. He had fallen in
love with me, and had even mentioned the
hope that some day we should be husband
and wife. James Royal discovered his
feelings with regard to me. I cannot quite
tell whether Jack confided in him or not,
but James had a strange power in those
early days of drawing people out; he could
be full of tact when he pleased. Anyhow,
he appeared then to be a very angel of
sympathy. He had some money at the time,
and told Jack that for my sake he would pay
off some of his heaviest debts. He did so,
taking over the mortgages himself, although
the security they represented, if realized,
would not have covered half the debts.

“ This happened three years ago, but
since then James Royal’s career has gone
from bad to worse, and, as you know, my
uncle often said that he would not leave
him a penny. The existence of no will,
however, completely changed the aspect of
affairs, and he inherits all. He arrived at the
Court, as I told you, and about two months

after his arrival came to me one day and
explained the position. He said he had always
thought it highly improbable that he would
inherit the property. The fact of there being
no will was an unforeseen contingency.
There was, however, he said, always the
possibility of a will being found, in which
case he knew well that the estates would
be mine.

“ ‘ I always guessed you would be the
heiress,’ he said, 4 and I meant when the
time came to marry you.’

“ I laughed in his face when he said the
words, but he proceeded, looking me full in
the eyes.

44 4 1 have got Kelvin in my power,’
he cried. 4 1 can foreclose on those mort¬
gages, and unless he pays up, which he
cannot by any possibility do, some of his
early speculations will be exposed—by no
means to his credit—and he himself dragged
through the Bankruptcy Court. Be sure of
one thing—I shall have no mercy.’

44 Oh, Dr. Cato, I knew his words were
true—he looked the fiend he was as he
spoke.

44 4 1 have waited years for this moment,’
he said, and he laughed. 4 When you marry
me I will destroy the mortgages, but not an
hour before. It is for you to choose whether
I ruin Kelvin or not.’

44 1 was nearly wild with misery. That
very morning I had heard that Jack expected
to be offered the post of editor on a new and
important paper, but his chance of this long-
looked-for success would be over if my cousin
did his worst.

44 1 went on my knees to my cousin; I did
all I could to implore his mercy, but I might
as well have spoken to a stone.”

Suddenly she turned and faced me.

44 And I have yielded,” she said ; 44 under
the horrible pressure, I have yielded. I have
told Jack the truth. He is nearly mad with
misery, but I know it will be best for him in
the long run. I cannot be the cause of his
utter ruin.”

As she spoke she burst into painful sobs.
I turned my head aside. After a moment
or two she recovered herself.

• 44 Your story is a most painful one,” I said,
44 and what I have already felt with regard to
your cousin is abundantly confirmed by your
words. Believe me, I think you are doing
very wrong in yielding to the entreaties of a
man like James Royal. He has lived a
wicked and dissolute life, and is, I also fear,
a confirmed drunkard.”

44 1 know it, I know it! ” she said, clasping

i 43

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

and unclasping her hands. “ But,” she added,
“ Jack owes him ^20,000. If he forces
Jack to pay now, all his prospects are ruined.
Oh, what a terrible power my cousin holds
over him ! If I could only get ^20,000, I
should be a free girl ! ”

“ Then there is nothing whatever for it,” I
said, “ but to find the will. When the will
is found, and it is proved that you are the
heiress, you can defy your cousin, for you
can pay Kelvin’s debts yourself.”

u Ah, yes, yes; and now I am coming to
the real point of this interview. Please
listen with all your might. Do you remem¬
ber my telling you about the curious bronze
disc which my uncle had discovered ? ”

“I do,” I replied; “but how can it
possibly help you now?”

In a position like mine one clutches even
at straws,” she

said. “I want to f -

show you the
disc.”She crossed
the room, un- j
locked the cup¬
board, and drew
out what looked
like a large metal
plate. “Have
you ever seen
anything like this
before ? ” she
asked.

I took the disc
in my hand, turn¬
ing it over with
some interest.

“ It looks like
a very curious
piece of old
bronze of an early
date,” I said.

“ I see you un-
derstand some¬
thing of these
things ! ” she ex¬
claimed. “That
is exactly what
my uncle told
me. I shall never
forget the even¬
ing he found it.

Look at the in-

I HELD THE DISC OBLIQUELY,

scription round the edge. It is very early
Latin—can you read it ? ”

I held the disc obliquely, and deciphered
the following words with some difficulty :—

“ HIC ORBIS CELAT THESAURUM OBRUITUM
RECOGNOSCE TRIA DIGITOS ARCUM SAI ULUM.”

“If this is genuine it is interesting,” I ex¬
claimed ; “ do you know the translation ?”

“ I am not quite sure of some of the
words,” she said, “and my uncle never would
read them to me. Can you translate that
inscription, and, if so, will you, Dr. Cato?”

I looked again carefully at the old Latin,
and then translated as follows :—

“ This Disc holds the Key to Buried
Treasure. Remember three things: Fingers
—Bow—Sand.”

“ Is that the meaning? ” said the girl, with
great eagerness. “ How wonderful! I knew
my uncle had a reason for his excitement. I
had partly, but only partly, deciphered this
for myself. I had discovered about the buried
treasure ; but what—what does the latter
part mean, Dr. Cato ? What have Fingers—
Bow—Sand to do with buried treasure?”

“I wish I
- knew,” I replied.

“ It seems to
me,” continued
Miss Seafield,
“that here may
t be the key to get

j me out of my

difficulty. I
1 dream of this

i disc day and

| night, and the

words ‘ buried
treasure ’ are ever
I ringing in my

ears. Now, I
have studied the
laws of treasure-
trove and dis¬
covered that the
finder must hand
over the treasure
to the Crown,
who pays him or
her its intrinsic
value. If this disc
really contains
the key to hidden
treasure, and we
can discover its
meaning and get
—ft the treasure, I
may be able to
pay the debt
which Jack Kelvin owes my cousin, and so
save him and release myself.”

I never saw anything brighter than her
eyes as she spoke—the colour had come into
her cheeks and courage into her voice. She
was leaning against the table, and her fingers

144

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

rested lightly on the disc. She looked down
at it now with a glance of such hope, mingled
with such despair, that all the enthusiasm
within me rose up to try and help her.

“You are to be married in a week ? ” I
said.

“Yes, this day week, unless—unless this
can save me.” Again she touched the disc.
“Is there any hope, Dr. Cato ? ” she asked.

“ Of a visionary character,” I could not
help saying. “ In the first place, we must
find out the meaning of this inscription. In
the next, if there is treasure hidden anywhere
in the old villa it may not be of large amount;
but I tell you what I’ll do—I’ll go and see
the Roman villa myself on my way back to
the station. Does your cousin know about
this disc?”

“ He examined it, as he did everything else
in the house, but evidently placed no value
on it, and I took care not to acquaint him
with its history.”

“ Then I will take possession of the disc
—may I ? ” I said.

“ Why ? ” she asked, reluctance in her
tone.

“ I should like Dr Chetwynd to see it.
He has all kinds of curious knowledge, and
is, I fancy, an authority on this sort of thing.”

“ You will not keep me long in sus¬
pense ? ” she asked.

“ No, you shall hear
from me at the first
possible moment, but
do not build your hopes
too much on this old
thing. Continue to
search for the will. If
it is found, believe me
you are saved.”

Soon afterwards
Royal joined us both
in the grounds.

“ By the way,” I said
to him, “ I have just
heard from Miss Sea-
field of a curious old
Roman villa which has
been excavated near
here. I should like
much to see it. Can I
do so on my way back
to town ? ”

He gave me a care¬
less glance.

“ If you really wish
to see the old villa, there is no objection,”
he said ; “ but there is nothing for you to
look at, except a lot of ruins and the holes

my father dug. I will tell the coachman to
point it out to you on your way to the
station.”

“ Thank you,” I answered. The carriage
came up at that moment. I bade Royal
good-bye, wrung Primrose’s hand, and started
back to London.

After about twenty minutes’ drive the
coachman drew up at a gate on the left-hand
side of the road, from which a path led up a
steep embankment covered with short grass.

“That is the place where the old master
got his death, it seems to me, sir,” said the
man. “ He was always poking round there,
and I never could see that he gained much
by it. The Roman villa is at the other side
of the embankment.”

Telling him to wait for me, I began to
scramble up the mound. When I reached
the top I saw at once the site of the Roman
villa by the extensive excavations all round
it, and hurried up to view it more closely.
A rusty pick-axe and some other tools were
left on the grass, and I was surprised to find
that there was far more to see than I had
anticipated. Of course, nothing approaching
to a structure existed, but the extent of the
ground-plan was well defined, and the tiled
pavement of the atrium, laid in curious
mosaic patterns, was still in a state of preser-

I BEGAN TO SCRAMBLE UR THE MOUNO.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

vation. I walked all round it, trying to
rebuild it in my imagination from the scanty
remains that the ravages of seventeen cen¬
turies had left. Time, however, was passing,
and I was obliged to hurry back to catch the
train.

As soon as I reached home I went in
search of Chetwynd. I found him in his
private laboratory. He looked up as I
approached.

“ I have nearly discovered what has puzzled
me for some time,” he said ; “ but what is the
matter, Cato, you look worried?”

- “ So would you be if you had gone through

the sort of day I have,” was my answer. “ I
have something very important to tell you,
Chetwynd. I have just come back from
Court Royal.”

“Well?” he asked.

I gave him a rapid outline of my ex¬
periences. He listened quietly.

“You must discover this cipher, Chet¬
wynd,” I said.

“ Do you mean this moment?” he asked.

“Yes, now; can you not see for yourself
there is not an hour to lose ? ”

“ I will do my best,” he answered; “ leave
the disc there.”

I left him, and after a restless night
I got up early, determined to see if Chet¬
wynd were awake and to discover the result
of his investigations. I went to his room
and knocked several times, but as there was
no reply I opened the door and went in.
The room was empty—the bed had not been
slept in. What could this mean ? I hurried
down to his study—it was likewise empty.

“ I think Mr. Chetwynd is in his labora¬
tory, sir,” said one of the servants as I passed
him.

“In his laboratory at this hour!” I ex¬
claimed, in some wonder. In a moment I
had reached the door and quietly opened it.
Chetwynd was seated at the bench. Though
it was broad daylight, the blinds were still
down and the electric light burning. Upon
the bench, fastened in an iron vice, was the
disc; beside it lay Chetwynd’s open violin-
case and several books.

“ My dear fellow,” I cried, “what are you
up to ? ”

“ You must not do this again, Cato,” he
said, in a quiet voice, a twinkle coming into
his bright eyes.

“ What ? ” I exclaimed.

“Bring me your abominable enigmas to
solve. You know I cannot leave a thing
when I have once started it, but I have solved
this, at any rate. Whether it will lead to

Vol. xviii.—13

H 5

buried treasure or not is quite another ques¬
tion.”

“You have?” I cried. “How? Tell
me ! ”

“Did you not say that the pavement of
the old Roman villa was in a state of preser¬
vation and in mosaic patterns ? ”

“Yes, certainly; but why do you ask?”

“Fingers—Bow—Sand,” he replied. “If
what I have discovered here is the key to the
cipher, it will be something that will show
the scientists of the present day that the
old Romans knew more about the laws of
acoustics than they give them credit for.”

“But what do you mean ?” I cried, im¬
patiently.

“ Why, Chladni’s sand figures, of course—
you know them, surely ? ”

“Chladni’s sand figures!” I echoed, “of
course, I have heard of them; but explain
yourself, for God’s sake.”

“ Well, see here. I struck the idea at
about four o’clock this morning. You know
when you sprinkle sand on a metal disc,
and draw a violin bow down the edge of the
disc, the sand forms itself into beautiful and
symmetrical patterns, and when you place
your fingers on the edge at places called
Nodes, the pattern is of constant form.
Well, here are the three things—Fingers, Bow,
Sand.”

“ But whatever have they to do with
treasure in a Roman villa? ” I asked.

“Ah! that we have to find out. All I know
is that I get this as a constant figure ”—here
he showed me a sheet of paper with a strange
pattern drawn on it—“and if we find one,of
the mosaics corresponding to this,” he'con¬
tinued, “ I should say there might be a
chance for us.”

I gazed at him for a moment without
speaking, as his extraordinary solution
dawned upon me.

“By Jove ! ” I cried, at last, “ you have
discovered the key. It would be a triumph
if we found something of real value, and so
saved poor Primrose Seafield.”

“ We will start off immediately after break¬
fast,” he cried ; “ I am as keen about the
affair as you are yourself. Now, look here,
Cato, this is what the bow does.”

Some fine sand lay sprinkled on the disc ;
he placed his fingers at certain points on its
edge, marked by indications that I had over¬
looked ; he then drew the bow smartly along
the edge. The musical note rang out, and
the sand, from being .a shapeless heap, fell
into a perfect symmetrical figure, traced as
if by the pencil of some skilled but invisible

146

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

draughtsman, and corresponding exactly to
the copy he had made on paper.

“ It is marvellous,” I said. “ Yes, we will
take this down with us. I will go and look
up the trains ;
there is not a
moment to

Chetwynd and I reached Wrenhurst in
good time. We had already decided to go
first to Court Royal and bring Primrose with
us to the scene of the excavations. When
we got there she hurried to meet us.

“ Have you discovered anything ? ”
she cried. The colour left her face
and then returned to it in a crimson
flood.

‘ IT IS MARVELLOUS,’ I SAID.”

I went into the hall, where the servant
handed me my morning’s post: there was a
letter from Miss Sea field. I tore it open at
once.

“ Dear Dr. Cato,” it ran. “ Immediately
after you left this afternoon my cousin ques¬
tioned me about your desire to visit the old
Roman villa—and an hour or so later dis¬
covered that the bronze disc was gone. He
flew into a frightful rage, and said that you
and I were plotting something against his
interests, and that only sinister motives took
you to the ruins. He finally declared that
he would go to you to get back the disc by
the earliest train in the morning. He is
almost like a madman to-night—what is to
be done ?—Yours sincerely,

“ Primrose Seafield.”

“The brute,” I could not help exclaiming.
“Well, he won’t find me here. I am glad he
will be out of the way while we are over¬
hauling the ruins.”

“ We have news for
you, and want you to
come with us immedi¬
ately,” I said.

“ Have you met my
cousin ? ” she asked. “ He
left by the eight o’clock
train for London—mean¬
ing to go straight out to
Hampstead.”

“Then in that case he
will soon be back,” I
answered ; “ and we have
not a moment to lose.
Dr. Chetwynd has dis¬
covered the key to the
secret of the disc. Will
you come with us at once
to the old Roman villa ? ”
“ We ought to take tools
with us,” said Chetwynd.

“ I noticed some there
yesterday,” I replied, “ left
behind doubtless by the
workmen. Come, Miss
Seafield.”

On our way to the
ruins I told the excited
girl something of what Chetwynd had ex¬
plained to me. From the depths of despair
she seemed suddenly to reach the very
pinnacle of hope.

“Oh, I am certain now I shall be saved, I
am certain of it,” she said. She could
scarcely sit still owing to the feverish excite¬
ment which was consuming her

At last we reached the mound and hurried
to the site of the old Roman villa. Without
a word Chetwynd went forward, gazing
eagerly to and fro with his eyes bent upon
the mosaic of the pavement. Suddenly he
stopped.

“ Look at this, Cato,” he said. He knelt
down and pointed from the paper he held in
his hand to one of the patterns on the pave¬
ment.

“ Line for line the same,” he said ; “ this
is it beyond doubt. Now for one of those
pick-axes—there is something more than mere
coincidence here.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

i 47

I quickly fetched one of the picks, and in¬
serting the point beneath the edge of the tile
levered it up, at once discovering a deep
cavity. My heart sank at the ease with
which it came up. It had evidently been
quite recently disturbed.

“We have been forestalled/’ cried Chet-
wynd; “your
uncle, Miss Sea-
field, must have
found the pot¬
tery here.” He
lay down as he
spoke, and
thrust his arm
into the hole.

“Yes, it is
quite empty,” he
said ; “ but, no,
there is some¬
thing. It is no
Roman treasure,
however, noth¬
ing but a modern
tin case.”

He drew out
a long, symmet¬
rical case, and
tearing off the
top, exposed a
roll of parch¬
ment. He had
scarcely done so
before the sound
of horse’s hoofs
at full gallop
were heard to
our right, and
the next mo¬
ment James
Royal had drawn
up and sprung
from his saddle.

“ What are you doing here, you scoun¬
drels?” he cried. “You have found some¬
thing ; hand it over to me—it is my property.”

His face was literally aflame with passion
and drink.

“ Pardon me,” replied Chetwynd, as he
glanced through the parchment. “ This
belongs to your father’s executors. It is a
holograph will dated three years ago, and
made before his illness. From its contents
I see that he disinherits you, and bequeaths
Court Royal and his whole real and personal
estate to his niece, Primrose Seafield.”

These words fell upon us all like a thunder¬

bolt. The scene of the next few moments
baffles description, and I need not mention
the disgraceful exhibition of frenzied rage
and bad language that Royal gave way to.
Had I not been there, it is almost certain
he would have overpowered Chetwynd and
destroyed the will. We returned, however,

with it to Court
Royal in tri¬
umph, and later
in the day I ex-
plained my
theory with re¬
gard to it to
Primrose Sea-
field.

“Your uncle’s
craze for hiding
things led him
to put the will
here,” I said ;
“ beyond doubt,
his mind was
not right when
he did so. You
had a narrow
shave, Miss Sea-
field, of being
the most un¬
happy woman
in the world, but
things are all
right now.”

“They are,
they are,” she
cried, “ and I
owe it all to you.
I shall never, as
long as I live, be
able to thank
you enough. I
have already
wired to Mr.
Kelvin, and he is coming down here this
evening.”

“ And your cousin ? ” I said.

“He left Court Royal half an hour ago.
Whether he will comeback or not remains to
be proved.”

“ His game is up,” I answered. “ I do not
think you will be troubled with him any more.”

In this conjecture I was partly right.
James Royal died within the year, a hopeless
victim to the worst form of the drink mania.

Primrose, however, long before that event
took place became the happy wife of the
man she loved best in the world.

‘“what are you doing here, you scoundrels?’ he cried.”

Paying an Election Bet.

(Some facts regarding the election wager made between Benjamin Lillard and A\ Pitcher Woodward
in the autumn oj 1S96 , in New York City. Illustrations mainly from Mr. Woodward's own Photographs.)

MR. R. PITCHER WOODWARD, AS HE LOOKED AFTER TRAVELLING
1,000 MILES, SHOWING DILAPIDATED SILK HAT, SWEATER,
AND REGULATION SPECTACLES.

From a Photograph.

N the event of Bryan being
elected President, Mr. Lillard
must pay me

of McKinley, and money, or cash odds, Lillard
declined to give. I must wear a frock-coat,
top-hat, and large spectacles, and my donkey
must wear spectacles too. At the end of my
thousandth mile I was photographed in my
curious rig, and the opening illustration shows
my dilapidated silk hat, and my storm-coat
worn over my frock-coat, also my sweater and
regulation spectacles. I was not required to
take one particular donkey across the conti¬
nent, but I must purchase the first one before
leaving the city, and pay for it from my
earnings after my official : art. I was re¬
quired to traverse certain popular thorough¬
fares in New York City on the donkey in my
route, and besides my clothes and 99 cents
(which was not a dollar) I was allowed one
firearm.

At 2 p.m., Friday, November 27th, 1896,
Mr. Lillard assisted me into the saddle of a
borrowed donkey in front of the Bartholdi
Hotel, Broadway and Twenty-third Street,
and I forthwith retired to the hotel parlour
to sell photographs of myself seated on my
borrowed steed. Several hundred acquaint¬
ances had gathered there to give me a
“ send-off,” and while I sold the pictures I
had secured on credit, the photographer
waited in the parlour to receive his pay.

$5,000 cash.
If McKinley
were elected
I must pay Mr. Lillard
$5,000 cash, or ride a
donkey from New York to
San Francisco within one
year from election day, Nov.
3rd, 1896, starting from
New York within one month
from said date without a
dollar in pocket, and
honestly earning my way to
my destination. I must
not beg, or receive gratuities
in money. I could accept
presents or hospitality.

The opportunity to save
my $5,000 in case of
Bryan’s defeat by accom¬
plishing the proposed extra¬
ordinary feat was given as
a form of odds, as in all
cases of betting at the time
odds were offered in favour

DONKEY AND SLEDGE STUCK IN A SNOWDRIFT AFTER A BLIZZARD.

PAYING AN ELECTION BET

149

CHOPPING WOOD IN OHIO TO PAY FOR A MEAL

Mr. Lillard saw that the contract was
carried out to the letter, and I had reason to
believe I was watched by his agents along my
route of travels. I was unable to sell suffi¬
cient pictures to obtain the price of the
donkey, $25, without engendering much
delay and consequent arrest by the police for
causing a blockade in the street, so, hearing
a newsboy call the afternoon paper, “All
about the Silver-man’s ride,” I rushed to the
door, bought his papers, scribbled my name
on them in blue lead, and sold them for
various sums to the crowd with¬
out. In a few moments I sent
for the donkey, and amid cheers
from the multitude I rode down
Broadway.

It was the most embarrassing
moment of my life. Society
lady friends, club friends, and
college friends were there to
see the “ fun,” as they termed it.

My long-eared steed seemed to
be thoroughly disgusted with
his lot, and particularly his,
rider, and continually placed us
in perilous positions in front
of cable cars. At Poughkeepsie,
on the Pludson, I traded him
for a younger and nimbler
animal, Macaroni II.; and this
little donkey I brought through
to the Golden Gate, over 4,000
miles by trail actually travelled,
within the prescribed time. I
reached San Francisco and re¬
gistered at the hotel twenty-two

hours ahead of time, having
consumed 340 days on the
journey, thus saving my
$5,o°o._

I visited en route the cities
of Canton, O., the home of
McKinley, who was under
doctor’s orders not to receive
visitors, and Lincoln, Neb.,
the home of Bryan, where I
was entertained by his wife at
home. I met Mr. Bryan in
Chicago, en route . The visit¬
ing of McKinley and Bryan
were conditions of my wager.

On the early part of my
journey I was very sensitive
to criticism and ridicule, but
I finally travelled and lived
and thrived on “nerve.” The
blizzards I encountered during
the winter in New York were
a severe menace to my health and progress,
and one of the photographs shows the hard¬
ships in transit over the snow which my
donkey and sledge were forced to overcome.
My donkey is shown stuck fast in a drift.
The hard times were even more menacing to
my success. I could scarcely support myself
and donkey at times. It being a Republican,
or “gold coinage” State, I was discouraged
on every hand by high prices and disappoint¬
ing returns from sales, lectures, bills at the
theatres, etc. I often traded a photo, for a

From rtl IN ILLINOIS—MAKING HEADWAY FOR THE MISSISSIPPI.

[Photo.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

x 5°

milk punch as a sub¬
stitute for a meal, and
paid my last ten cents
for a loaf of bread
for my donkey. Here
and there I chopped
wood to pay for a
meal, and was often
photographed while
at my arduous task.
I sometimes lost my
way, and all winter
long had to walk and
trail or drive my
donkey to keep warm.
I froze my ears twice,
once my nose, and
one night Macaroni
refused to proceed
farther, compelling me

THK DONKEY, MACARONI, REFUSED TO CROSS THE MISSOURI

river Bridge to omaha, and had to be carried
in a wheelbarrow.

and there were nine
more States in my
direct route to tra¬
verse in less than nine
m o n t h s. But the
farther westward I
went, the easier I
made money, and the
more favourable the
weather. Besides, my
steed and myself were
both becoming initi¬
ated to the trials of
the journey.

The plains of
Nebraska were lovely
in May, and the
Rocky Mountains
afforded me a de¬
lightful change of
scenery. From Chi-
I had two donkeys,
and from Central Iowa three,
one of which was ridden by
my valet, whom I had engaged
at Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The
distance began to increase be¬
tween towns and habitations
the farther west I travelled,
and necessitated my camping
out. One of my photographs
shows the outfit, and several
show the faithful mules which
accompanied me. When near¬
ing Omaha, Macaroni refused
to cross the Missouri River
bridge, and had to be bundled
into a wheelbarrow, and
wheeled across by force.

cago

THE MAYOR OF AN INDIANA TOWN, AFTER
RIDING MR. WOODWARD’S DONKEY BEFORE
A CROWD OF SILVER DEMOCRATS, BIDS MR.
WOODWARD GOOD-BYE.

to sleep in a haymow, several
degrees below zero.

It was only the determina¬
tion of my resolve to accomplish
what I set out to do, and the
knowledge of my disgrace before
my friends should I give up the
task, which held me patiently
and persistently to my trying
wager. It took me over eleven
weeks, nearly three months,' to
pass through New York State,

CAMPING ON THE PLAINS.

PAYING AN ELECTION BET.

1

TRAILING THROUGH THE CHIHUAHUA TASS TO EUREKA, NEVADA.

In Omaha I purchased a tent and camp
outfit, and soon after a fowling-piece, with
which I provided game, grouse, quail, doves,
rabbits, etc. As I moved westward, the more
cordial, generous, and hospitable I noticed
the people. I could discard my top-hat at the
Mississippi River, and I did so, substituting
a sombrero. From the commencement of
my overland journey I was entertained at
private residences, at clubs, by mayors and
high officials generally; and many times
mayors rode my
donkey up and down
the street when I had
concluded my out-of-
door lecture to the
amusement and ap¬
plause of the multi¬
tude.

One photograph
shows an Indiana
mayor bidding me
good-bye—an inter¬
esting and affecting
farewell, which had
been preceded by an
exhibition of donkey¬
riding by the mayor
himself, before a
crowd of Silver
Democrats.

I visited the gov¬
ernors and mayors

everywhere, received their best
wishes and their autographs. I
escaped sickness throughout my
journey, save a severe cold I
suffered in the Hudson Valley,
and narrowly averted injury or
death on several occasions, from
a mad bull, from footpads who
shot at me, from a fall through a
bridge, and again down a preci¬
pice in the Rockies, from two des¬
peradoes on the Nevada desert,
and from a storm while crossing
the Sierras; I was also lost in
the desert on two occasions.

On the plains my experiences
w r ere amusing and exciting. The
photograph of my camp on the
plain's shows a band of cowboys
in the background, giving an
exhibition of riding before start¬
ing out on a “round-up.” In
the foreground is my dog Don,
presented to me in New York
State, resting his sore feet.
Through the Chihuahua Pass to
Eureka, Nevada, I was kindly trailed by a
ranchman—another evidence of the helpful¬
ness that met me at nearly every stage of my
journey.

My method of defence against the two
desperadoes is shown below. It took place
at “ Thirty Mile Spring,” on the eastern
border of Nevada, and Macaroni played in
this little drama a quiet but effective part.
I must not omit to mention that when cross¬
ing the dreaded red desert of Utah, which is

MR. WOODWARD’S METHOD OF DEFENCE AGAINST TWO DESPERADOES IN NEVADA.
From a Photo, by Taber, San Francisco.

! 5 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

part of the great Salt Lake Desert,
my store of water gave out. Despera¬
does were but a trifle in comparison
with such a catastrophe, for the
journey across was seventy-five miles,
taking three days. It may be imagined
with what bitterness I drained the last
drop from my canteen.

The goal of my long journey hove
in sight when I arrived in Oakland,
and it was in a dirty and dilapidated
condition that I embarked on the
ferry-boat for San Francisco. The
wager was won, and there was no
longer need for my outlandish costume.
The barber soon took me in hand,
and quickly sheared me into a gentle¬
man again, and the tailor clothed me
in civilized garb. I was then photo-
graphed, as shown
below, and with little
delay began a well-
earned rest.

I had eleven donkeys
from start to finish, five
at one time, when cross¬
ing the great Salt 1 )esert,
but arrived in San Fran¬
cisco with only two.

I wore out ten pairs of
boots, had over 100
shoes put on my
donkeys, sometimes
costing me $i for each
shoe. I lived comfort¬
ably, even luxuriously,
from Chicago westward,

enjoyed good health, and many
pleasant experiences, derived a
more thorough knowledge of
my country than I could have
done by crossing by train a
hundred times, made many
valued friends, and arrived at
my journey’s end with money
in pocket, 2olb. more flesh than
I ever before had registered,
and with the satisfaction of
letting others know that when I
say I shall do a certain thing
I shall do it if it is possible
to be accomplished. I may

MR. WOODWARD CROSSING FROM OAKLAND TO SAN FRANCISCO AT
THE END OF HIS JOURNEY.

add that it is not a
little satisfaction to
know that, in case
reverses should come,
one can rely on his
own resources to pull
him through the
dilemma, even if sud¬
denly stranded with
less than a dollar in
pocket. But I say, for
the benefit of those
who grow enthusiastic
over elections, do not
be led to wager anything
more than a hat on the
result at the polls.

MR. R. PITCHER WOODWARD, IMMEDIATELY AFTER
HIS ARRIVAL IN SAN FRANCISCO.

From a Photo, by Taber , San Francisco.

A Master of Craft.

By W. W. Jacobs.

VII.

E brought up off Greenwich in
the cold grey of the breaking
day. Craft of all shapes and
sizes were passing up and
down, but he looked in vain
for any sign of the skipper.
It was galling to him as a seaman to stay
there with the wind blowing freshly down
the river; but over an hour elapsed before a
yell from Tim, who was leaning over the
bows, called his attention to a waterman’s

iflll -i, 1

£) _.jv

pS fflSj'ligg 1

“OFF GREENWICH.’

skiff, in the stern of which sat a passenger of
somewhat dejected appearance. He had
the air of a man who had been up all night,
and in the place of returning the hearty and
significant greeting of the mate, sat down in
an exhausted fashion on the cabin skylight,
and eyed him in stony silence until they
were under way again.

“.Well,” he said, at length, ungraciously.

Chilled by his manner, Fraser, in place of
the dramatic fashion in which he had in¬
tended tp relate the events of the preceding
night, told him in a few curt sentences what
had occurred. “And you can finish this
business for yourself,” he concluded, warmly;
“ I’ve had enough of it.”

“You’ve made a pretty mess of it,” groaned
the other; “ there’ll be a fine set-out now.

Why couldn’t you coax ’em away ? That’s
what I wanted you to do. That’s what I
told you to do.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of opportunities
of coaxing yourself, so far as I can see,”
retorted Fraser, grimly. “Then you’ll see
how it works. It was the only way of getting
rid of them.”

“You ought to have sent round to me and
let me know what you were doing,” said
Flower. “I sat in that blamed pub till they
turned me out at twelve, expecting you every
minute. I’d only
threepence left by
then, and I crossed
the water with that,
and then I had
to shuffle along to
Greenwich as best
I could with a bad
foot. What’ll be
the end of it all, I
don’t know.”

“ Well, you’re all
right at present,”
said Fraser, glanc¬
ing round; “ rather
different to what
you’d have been
if those two
women had come
to Seabridge and
seen Cap’n Barber.”

The other sat
for a long time in
thought. “ I’ll lay up for a few weeks
with this foot at Seabridge,” he said,
slowly, “and you’ll have to tell the Tipping
family that I’ve changed into another trade.
What with the worry I’ve had lately, I shall
be glad of the rest.”

He made his way below, and turning in
slept soundly after his fatigue until the cook
aroused him a few hours later with the
information that breakfast was ready.

A wash and a change, together with a
good breakfast, effected as much change in
his spirits as in his appearance. Refreshed
in mind and body he slowly paced the deck,
his chest expanding as he sniffed the fresh
air, and his soul, encouraged by the dangers
he had already passed through, bracing itself
for fresh encounters.

Vol. xviii.— 20 .

Copyright, 1899, by W. W. Jacobs, in the United States of America.

154

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ I ’ope the foot is goin’ on well, sir,’’
said Tim, breaking in upon his meditations
respectfully.

“ Much easier this morning,” said the
skipper, amiably.

Tim, who was lending the cook a hand,
went back into the galley to ponder. As a
result of a heated debate in the fo’c’s’le,
where the last night’s proceedings and the
mysterious ap¬
pearance of the
skipper off Green¬
wich had caused
a great sensa¬
tion, they had
drawn lots to
decide who was
to bell the cat,
and Tim had
won or lost ac¬
cording as the
subject might be
viewed.

“You don’t
want to walk
about on it much,
sir,” he said,
thrusting his head
out again.

The skipper
nodded.

“I was alarmed
last night,” said
Tim. “ We was
all alarmed,” he
added, hastily, in
order that the
others might stand in with the risk, “ think¬
ing that p’r’aps you’d walked too far and
couldn’t get back.”

The master of the Foam looked at him,
but made no reply, and Tim’s head was
slowly withdrawn. The crew, who had been
gazing over the side with their ears at the
utmost tension, gave him five minutes’ grace,
and then, the skipper having gone aft again,
walked up to the galley.

“ I’ve done all I could,” said the wretched
youth.

“ Done all ye could ? ” said Joe, derisively;
“ why, you ain't done nothin’ yet.”

“I can’t say anything more,” said Tim. “I
dassent. I ain’t got your pluck, Joe.”

“ Pluck be blowed,” said the seaman,
fiercely; “why, there was a chap I knew once,
shipwrecked he was, and had to take to the
boats. When the grub give out they drew
lots to see who should be killed and eaten.
He lost. Did ’e back out of it? Not a bit

of it; ’e was a man, an’ ’e shook ’ands
with ’em afore they ate ’im and wished ’em
luck.”

“ Well, you can kill and eat me, if that’s
what you want,” said Tim, desperately. “ I’d
sooner ’ave that.”

“Mind you,” said Joe, “till you’ve arsked
them questions and been answered satisfac¬
tory—none of us’ll ’ave anything to do with

you, besides which I’ll give you such a licking
as you’ve never ’ad before.”

He strolled off with Ben and the cook as
the skipper came towards them again, and
sat down in the bows. Tim, sore afraid of
his shipmate’s contempt, tried again.

“I wanted to ask your pardon in case
I done wrong last night, sir,” he said,
humbly.

“ All right, it’s granted,” replied the other,
walking away.

Tim raised his eyes to heaven, and then
lowering them, looked even more beseechingly
at his comrades.

“ Go on,” said Ben, shaping the words only
with his mouth.

“ I don’t know, sir, whether you know what
I was alloodin’ to just now,” said Tim, in
trembling accents, as the skipper came within
earshot again. “I’m a-referring to a cab-
ride.”

“And I told you that I’ve forgiven you,”

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

I 55

said Flower, sternly, “ forgiven you freely.
All of you.”

“ It’s a relief to my mind, sir,” faltered the
youth, staring.

“ Don’t mix yourself up in my business
again, that’s all,” said the skipper; “you
mightn’t get off so easy next time.”

“It’s been worrying me ever since, sir,”
persisted Tim, who was half fainting. “ I’ve
been wondering whether I ought to have
answered them ladies’
questions, and told ’em
what I did tell ’em.”

The skipper swung
round hastily and con¬
fronted him. “Told
them? ” he stuttered, “ told
them what ? ”

“ I ’ardly re-
member, sir,”
said Tim, alarm¬
ed at his manner.

“ Wot with the
suddenness o’ the
thing, an’ the
luckshury o’ rid¬
ing in a cab, my
’ead was in a
whirl.”

“ What did
they ask you ? ”
demanded the
skipper.

“ They asked
me what Cap’n
Flower was like
an’ where ’e
lived,” said Tim,

“an’ they asked
me whether I
knew a Mr. Rob¬
inson.”

Captain Flower,
his eyes blazing,
waited.

“ I said I ’adn’t got the pleasure o’
Mr. Robinson’s acquaintance,” said Tim,
with a grand air. “ I was just goin’ to
tell ’em about you when Joe ’ere gave me
a pinch.”

“ Well ? ” inquired the skipper, stamping
with impatience.

“I pinched ’im back agin, sir,” said Tim,
smiling tenderly at the reminiscence.

“Tim’s a fool, sir,” said Joe, suddenly, as
the overwrought skipper made a move
towards the galley. “ ’E didn’t seem to know
wot ’e was a-sayin’ of, so I up and told ’em
all about you.”

“You did, did you? Curse you,” said
Flower, bitterly.

“ In answer to their questions, sir,” said
Joe, “I told ’em you was a bald-headed chap
marked with the small-pox, and I said when
you was at ’ome, which was seldom, you
lived at Aberdeen.”

The skipper stepped towards him and laid
his hand affectionately on his shoulder.
“You ought to have been an admiral, Joe,”
he said, gratefully,
without intending any
slur on a noble pro¬
fession.

“ I also told George
the watchman to tell
’em the same thing,
if they came round
again worry¬
ing,” said Joe,
proudly.

The skipper
patted him on
the shoulder
again.

“ One o’ these
days, Joe,” he
remarked, “ you
shall know all
about this little
affair ; for the
present it’s
enough to tell
you that a cer¬
tain unfortunate
young female has
taken a fancy to
a friend o’ mine
named Robin¬
son, but it’s very
important, for
Robinson’s sake,
that she should¬
n’t see me or
get to know
Do you understand ? ”

“ Perfeckly,” said Joe, sagely.

His countenance was calm and composed,
but the cook’s forehead had wrinkled itself
into his hair in a strong brain effort, while
Ben was looking for light on the deck, and
not finding it. Flower, as a sign that the
conversation was now ended, walked aft
again, and taking the wheel from the mate,
thoughtfully suggested that he should go
below and turn in for five minutes.

“ I’ll get through this all right after all,” he
said, comfortably. “ I’ll lay up at Seabridge
for a week or two, and after that I’ll get off

I TOI.D ’EM YOU WAS A BALD-HEADED CHAP.”

anything about me.

j 56

THE STRAND MAGAZINE ..

the schooner at Greenwich for a bit and let
you take her up to London. Then Fll write
a letter in the name of Robinson and send
it to a man I know in New York to post
from there to Miss Tipping.”

His spirits rose and he slapped Fraser
heartily on the back. “ That disposes of
one,” he said, cheerily. “ Lor’, in years to
come how I shall look back and laugh over
all this ! ”

“Yes, I think it’ll be some time before
you do any laughing to speak of,” said
Fraser.

“ Ah, you always look on the dark side of
things,” said Flower, briskly.

“ Of course, as things are, you’re going to
marry Miss Banks,” said Fraser, slowly.

“ No, I’m not,” said the other, cheerfully;
“it strikes me there’s plenty of time before
that will come to a head, and that gives me
time to turn round. I don’t think she’s any
more anxious for it than I am.”

“ But suppose it does come to a head,”
persisted Fraser, “ what are you going to
do?”

“ I shall find a way out of it,” said the
skipper, confidently. “ Meantime, just as an
exercise for your wits, you might try and
puzzle out what would be the best thing to
do in such a case.”

Flis good spirits lasted all the way to
Seabridge, and, the schooner berthed, he
went cheerfully off home. It was early after¬
noon when he arrived, and, Captain Barber
being out, he had a comfortable tete-a-tete
with Mrs. Church, in which he was able to
dilate pretty largely upon the injury to his
foot. Captain Barber did not return until
the tea was set, and then, shaking hands with
his nephew, took a seat opposite, and in a
manner more than usually boisterous, kept
up a long conversation.

It was a matter of surprise to Flower that,
though the talk was by no means of a sorrow¬
ful nature, Mrs. Church on three separate
occasions rose from the table and left the
room with her handkerchief to her eyes. At
such times his uncle’s ideas forsook him, and
he broke off not only in the middle of a
sentence, but even in the middle of a word.
At the third time Flower caught his eye, and
with a dumb jerk of his head toward the
door inquired what it all meant.

“ Tell you presently,” said his uncle, in a
frightened whisper. “ Hush ! Don’t take
no notice of it. Not a word.”

“ What is it ? ” persisted Flower.

Captain Barber gave a hurried glance
towards the door and then leaned over the

table. “ Broken ’art,” he whispered, sorrow¬
fully.

Flower whistled, and, full of the visions
which this communication opened up,
neglected to join in the artificial mirth which
his uncle was endeavouring to provoke upon
the housekeeper’s return. Finally he worked
up a little mirth on his own account, and
after glancing from his uncle to the house¬
keeper, and from the housekeeper back to his
uncle again, smothered his face in his hand¬
kerchief and rushed from the room.

“Bit on a bad tooth,” he said, untruthfully,
when he came back.

Captain Barber eyed him fiercely, but Mrs.
Church regarded him with compassionate
interest, and, having got the conversation
upon such a safe subject, kept it there until
the meal was finished.

“What’s it all about?” inquired Flower,
as, tea finished, Captain Barber carried his
chair to the extreme end of the garden and
beckoned his nephew to do likewise.

“ You’re the cause of it,” said Captain
Barber, severely.

“ Me ? ” said Flower, in surprise.

“ You know that little plan I told you of
when you was down here last ? ” said the
other.

His nephew nodded.

“ It came off,” groaned Captain Barber.
“ I’ve got news for you as’ll make you dance
for joy.”

“ I’ve got a bad foot,” said Flower, paling.

“Never mind about your foot,” said his
uncle, regarding him fixedly. “ Your banns
are up.”

“ Up ! Up where ? ” gasped Flower.

“ Why — in the church,” said the other,
staring at him ; “ where’d you think ? I got
the old lady’s consent day before yesterday,
and had ’em put up at once.”

“ Is she dead, then ? ” inquired his nephew,
in a voice the hollowness of which befitted
the question.

“ How the deuce could she be ? ” returned
his uncle, staring at him.

“No, I didn’t think of that,” said Flower ;
“ of course, she couldn’t give her consent,
could she ?—not if she was dead, I mean.”

Captain Barber drew his chair back and
looked at him. “ His joy has turned his
brain,” he said, with conviction.

“No, it’s my foot,” said Flower, rallying.
“ I’ve had no sleep with it. I’m delighted !
Delighted ! After all these years.”

“You owe it to me,” said his uncle, with a
satisfied air. “ I generally see my way clear to
what I want, and generally get it, too. I’ve

A MASTER OF CRAFT

*57

agin

Both

played Mrs. Banks and Mrs. Church
one another without their knowing it.

’elpless in my hands, they was.”

“ But what’s the matter with Mrs. Church ? ”
said his depressed nephew.

“Ah, that’s the worst of it,” said Uncle
Barber, shaking his head. “ While I was in
play that pore woman must have thought
I was in earnest. She don’t say nothing.
Not a word, and the efforts she makes To
control her feelings is noble.”

“ Have you told her she has got to go,
then ? ” inquired Flower.

Captain Barber shook his head. “ Mrs.
Banks saved me that trouble,” he said,
grimly.

“But she can’t take notice from Mrs.
Banks,” said Flower, “it’ll have to come
from you.”

“All in good time,” said Captain Barber,
wiping his face. “ As I’ve done all this for
you, I was going to let you tell her.”

‘ I WAS GOING TO LET YOU TELL HER.

“ Me /” said Flower, with emphasis.

“Certainly,” said Captain Barber, with
more emphasis still. “Just get her to your¬
self on the quiet, and allude to it casual.
Then after that bring the subject up when
I’m in.the room. As it’s to make room for
you and your wife, you might fix the date for
’er to go. That’ll be the best way to do it.”

“ It seems to me it is rather hard on her,”
said his nephew, compassionately ; “ perhaps
we had better wait a little longer.”

“ Certainly not,” said Captain Barber,
sharply; “don’t I tell you your banns are
up? You’re to be asked in church first time
next Sunday. You’ll both live with me as
agreed, and I’m going to make over three o’
the cottages to you and a half share in the
ship. The rest you’ll have to wait for. Why
don’t you look cheerful ? You ought to.”

“ I’m cheerful enough,” said Flower, re¬
covering himself. “ I’m thinking of you.”

“ Me ? ” said his uncle.

“You and Mrs. Church,” said his nephew;
“ so far as I can see you’ve committed
yourself.”

“ I can manage,” said Uncle Barber. “ I’ve
always been master in my own house. Now
you’d better step round and see the bride
that is to be.”

“ Well, you be careful,” said his nephew,
warningly.

“I’m coming
too,” said Captain
Barber, with some
haste; “there’s no
need to stay and
wait for trouble.
When you go into
the house, come
back as though
you’d forgotten
something, and sing
out to me that you
want me to come
too—hard enough
for ’er to hear,
mind.”

VIII.

The bewildered
master of the
Foam spent the
remainder of the
time at Seabridge
in a species of
waking nightmare.

A grey - haired
dressmaker and a
small apprentice
sat in the Banks’s
a chaos of brown
over with pins a

best parlour, and from
paper patterns stuck
silk dress of surpassing beauty ~ began
slowly to emerge. As a great concession
Flower was allowed to feel the material,
and even to rub it between his finger
and thumb in imitation of Captain Barber,
who was so prone to the exercise that

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

iS8

A SILK DRESS OF SURPASSING BEAUTY BEGAN SLOWLY TO EMERGE.”

a small piece was cut off for his especial
delectation. A colour of unwonted softness
glowed in the cheek of Elizabeth and an air
of engaging timidity tempered her interview
with Flower, who had to run the gauntlet of
much friendly criticism on the part of his fair
neighbours.

Up to the time of sailing for London again
the allusion to Mrs. Church’s departure
desired of Captain Barber had not been
made by the younger man. The house¬
keeper was still in possession, and shook
hands with him at the front door as he limped
slowly off with Miss Banks and his uncle to
go down to the schooner. His foot was still
very bad, so bad that he stumbled three
times on the way to the quay despite the
assistance afforded by the arm of his
betrothed.

“ Seems to be no power in it,” he said,
smiling faintly; “ but I daresay it’ll be all
right by the time I get back.”

He shook hands with Captain Barber
and, as a tribute to conventionality,
kissed Miss Banks. The last the two
saw of him, he was standing at the wheel
waving his handkerchief. They waved
their own in return, and as the Foam
drew rapidly away gave a final farewell
and departed.

“ What’s the game with the foot ? ” inquired
the mate, in a low voice.

“Tell you by-and-by,” said the skipper;
“ it’s far from well, but even if it wasn’t I

should pretend it
was bad. I sup¬
pose that don’t
suggest anything to
you ? ”

The mate shook
his head.

“ Can you see
any way out of
it ? ” inquired the
other. “Whatwould
you do if you were
in my place ? ”

“ Marry the girl
I wanted to marry,”
said the mate,
sturdily, “and not
trouble about any¬
thing else.”

“ And lose thir¬
teen cottages and
this ship, and my
berth in the bar¬
gain,” said the
skipper. “ Now,
you try and think of some other way,
and if you haven’t thought of it by
dinner-time, I’ll tell you what I’m going
to do.”

No other scheme having suggested itself
to the mate by the time that meal arrived, he
prepared to play the part of listener. The
skipper, after carefully closing both the door
and the skylight, prepared to speak.

“ I’m in a desperate fix, Jack—that you’ll
admit,” he said, by way of preparation.

The mate cordially agreed with him.

“ There’s Poppy down at Poplar, Matilda
at Chelsea, and Elizabeth at Seabridge,”
continued Flower, indicating various pointson
the table with his finger as he spoke. “ Some
men would give up in despair, but I’ve
thought of a way out of it. I’ve never got
into a corner I couldn’t get out of yet.”

“You want a little help, though, some¬
times,” said Fraser.

“All part of my plans,” rejoined Flower,
airily. “If it hadn’t been for my uncle’s
interference I should have been all right. A
man’s no business to be so officious. As it
is, I’ve got to do something decided.”

“ If I were you,” interrupted Fraser, “ I
should go to Captain Barber and tell him
straight and plain how the thing stands.
You needn’t mention anything about Miss
Tipping. Tell him about the other, and that
you intend to marry her. It’ll be best in the
long run, and fairer to Miss Tyrell, too.”

“You don’t know my uncle as well as I

A MASTER OF CRAFT

*59

do/’ retorted the skipper. “ He’s as obstinate
an old fool as ever breathed. If I did as you
say I should lose everything. Now, I’ll tell
you what I’m going to do. To-night,
during your watch, I shall come up on
deck and stand on the side of the ship to
look at something in the water, when I
shall suddenly hear a shout.”

The mate, who had a piece of dumpling
on his fork, half - way to his mouth, put
it down again and regarded him open-
mouthed.

“ My foot,” continued the skipper, in
surprisingly even tones, considering his
subject, “will then give way and I shall
fall overboard.”

The mate was about to speak, but the
skipper, gazing in a rapt manner before him,
waved him into silence.

“ You will alarm the crew and pitch a
lifebelt overboard,” he continued; “you will
then back sails and lower the boat.”

“ You’d better take the lifebelt with
you, hadn’t you ? ” inquired the mate,
anxiously.

“ I shall be picked up by a Norwegian
barque, bound for China,” continued the
skipper, ignoring the interruption; “ I shall
be away at least six months, perhaps more,
according as things turn out.”

The mate pushed his scarcely tasted dinner
from him, and got up from the table. It
was quite evident to him that the skipper’s
love affairs had turned his brain.

“ By the time I get back, Matilda’ll have
ceased from troubling, any way,” said the
skipper, “and I have strong hopes that
Elizabeth’ll take Gibson. I shall stay away
long enough to give her a fair chance, any
way.”

“ But s’pose you get drowned before any¬
thing can pick you up ! ” suggested the mate,
feebly.

“ Droivned ? ” repeated the skipper. “Why,
you didn’t think I was really going over¬
board, did you ? I shall be locked up in
my state-room.”

The mate’s brow cleared and then
darkened again, suddenly. “I see, some
more lies for me to tell, I suppose,” he
said, angrily.

“ After you’ve raised the alarm and failed
to recover the body,” said the skipper, with
relish, “ you’ll lock my door and put the key
in your pocket. That would be the proper
thing to do if I really did go overboard, you
know, and when we get to London I’ll just
slip quietly ashore.”

The mate came back to his dinner and

finished it in silence, while the skipper kept
up a rambling fire of instructions for his
future guidance.

“ And what about Miss Tyrell ? ” said the
mate, at length. “Is she to know?”

“ Certainly not,” said Flower, sharply. “ I
wouldn’t have her know for anything. You’re
the only person to know, Jack. You’ll have
to break the news to ’em all, and mind you
do it gently, so as not to cause more grief
than you can help.”

“ I won’t do it at all,” said the mate.

“Yes, you will,” said Flower, “and if
Matilda or her mother come down again,
show it to ’em in the paper. Then they’ll
know it’ll be no good worrying Cap’n Flower
again. If they see it in the paper they’ll
know it’s true. It’s sure to be in the local
papers, and in the London ones too, very
likely. I should think it would; the master
of a vessel! ”

Fraser being in no mood to regard this
vanity complacently, went up on deck and
declined to have anything to do with the
matter. He maintained this attitude of im¬
movable virtue until tea-time, by which time
Flower’s entreaties had so won upon him
that he was reluctantly compelled to admit
that it seemed to be the only thing possible
in the circumstances, and more reluctantly
still to promise his aid to the most un¬
scrupulous extent possible.

“ I’ll write to you when I’m fixed up,”
said the skipper, “ giving you my new name
and address. You’re the only person I
shall be able to keep touch with. I shall
have to rely upon you for everything.
If it wasn’t for you I should be dead to
the world.”

“ I know what you’ll do as well as
possible,” said Fraser; “you’ve got nothing
to do for six months, and you’ll be getting
into some more engagements.”

“ I don’t think you have any call to say
that, Jack,” remarked Flower, with some
dignity.

“Well, I wish it was well over,” said the
mate, despondently. “ What are you going
to do for money ? ”

“ I drew out ^40 to get married with—
furniture and things,” said Flower; “ that’ll
go overboard with me, of course. I’m doing
all this for Poppy’s sake more than my own,
and I want you to go up and see her every
trip, and let me know how she is. She
mightn’t care what happened to her if she
thinks I’m gone, and she might marry some¬
body else in desperation.”

“ I don’t care about facing her,” said

i6o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Fraser, bitterly; “ it’s a shady business

altogether.”

“ It’s for her sake,” repeated Flower,
calmly. “Take on old Ben as mate, and
ship another hand for’ard.”

. The mate ended the subject by going to
his bunk and turning in ; the skipper, who
realized that he himself would have plenty of
time for sleep, went on deck and sat silently
smoking. Old Ben was at the wheel, and

“Me, sir,” answered Joe’s voice. “I’m a
bit wakeful, and it’s stiflin’ ’ot down below.”

The mate hesitated, and then, glancing at
the open skylight, saw the skipper, who was
standing on the table.

“ Send him below,” said the latter, in a
sharp whisper.

“ You’d better get below, Joe,” said the
mate.

“ VV’y, I ain’t doin’ no ’arm, sir,” said Joe,

“the skipper sat silently smoking.”

the skipper felt a glow of self-righteousness as
he thought of the rise in life he was about to
give the poor fellow.

At eight o’clock the mate relieved Ben,
and the skipper, with a view of keeping up
appearances, announced his intention of
turning in for a bit.

The sun went down behind clouds of
smoky red, but the light of the summer
evening lasted for some time after. Then
darkness came down over the sea, and it was
desolate except for the side-lights of distant
craft. The mate drew out his watch and,
by the light of the binnacle-lamp, saw that it
was ten minutes to ten. At the same moment
he heard somebody moving about forward.

“ Who’s that for’ard ? ” he cried, smartly.

in surprise.

“Get below,”
said the mate,
sharply. “Do
you hear?—get
below. You’ll
be sleeping in
your watch if
you don’t sleep
now.”

The sounds of
a carefully modu-
lated grumble
came faintly aft,
then the mate,
leaning away from
the wheel to avoid
the galley which ob¬
structed his view, saw
that his order had
been obeyed.

“ Now,” said the
skipper, quietly, “you must
give a perfect scream of
horror, mind, and put this
on the deck. It fell off
as I went over, d’ye see ? ”

He handed over the slipper he
had been wearing, and the mate
took it surlily.

“There ought to be a splash,”
he murmured. “Joe’s awake.”

The skipper vanished, to reappear a minute
or two later with a sack into which he had
hastily thrust a few lumps of coal and other
rubbish. The mate took it from him, and,
placing the slipper on the deck, stood with
one hand holding the wheel and the other
the ridiculous sack.

“Now,” said the skipper.

The sack went overboard, and, at the
same moment, the mate left the wheel with
an ear-splitting yell and rushed to the galley
for the life-belt which hung there. He
crashed heavily into Joe, who had rushed on
deck, but, without pausing, ran to the side
and flung it overboard.

“ Skipper’s overboard,” he yelled, running
back and putting the helm down.

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

161

Joe put his head down the fore-scuttle and
yelled like a maniac : the others came up in
their night-gear, and in a marvellously short
space of time the schooner was hove to and
the cook and Joe had tumbled into the boat
and were pulling back
lustily in search of
the skipper.

Half an hour
elapsed, during which
those on the schooner
hung over the stern
listening intently.

They could hear the
oars in the rowlocks
and the shouts of the
rowers. Tim lit a
lantern and dangled
it over the water.

“ Have you got
’im ? ” cried Ben, as
the boat came over
the darkness and the
light of the lantern
shone on the up¬
turned faces of the
men.

“ No,” said Joe,
huskily.

Ben threw him a
line, and he clam¬
bered silently aboard,
followed by the
cook.

“Better put about,”
he said to the mate,

“ and cruise about
till daylight. We
ain’t found the belt
either, and it’s just
possible he’s got it.”

The mate shook his head. “ It’s no
good,” he said, confidently ; “ he’s gone.”

“Well, I vote we try, anyhow,” said Joe,
turning on him fiercely. “ How did it
happen ? ”

“ He came up on deck to speak to
me,” said the mate, shortly. “He fancied
he heard a cry from the water and jumped
up on the side with his hand on the rigging
to see. I s’pose his bad foot slipped and he
went over before I could move.”

“ We’ll cruise about a bit,” said Joe, loudly,
turning to the men.

“ Are you giving orders here, or am I ? ”
said the mate, sternly.

“I am,” said Joe, violently. “It’s our
duty to do all we can.”

There was a dead silence. Tim, pushing

Vol. xviii.—21.

himself in between Ben and the cook, eyed
the men eagerly.

“ What do you mean by that ? ” said the
mate at last.

“Wot I say,” said Joe, meeting him eye to
eye, and thrusting his
face close to his.

The mate shrugged
his shoulders and
walked slowly aft;
then, with a regard
for appearances which
the occasion fully
warranted, took the
schooner for a little
circular tour in the
neighbourhood of the
skipper’s disappear¬
ance.

At daybreak, not
feeling the loss quite
as much as the men,
he went below, and,
having looked
stealthily round, un¬
locked the door of
the state-room and
peeped in. It was
almost uncanny, con¬
sidering the circum¬
stances, to see in the
dim light the figure
of the skipper sitting
on the edge of his
bunk.

“ What the blazes
are you doing, dodg¬
ing about like this ? ”
he burst out, ungrate¬
fully.

“ Looking for the
body,” said the mate. “ Ain’t you heard
us shouting ? It’s not my fault—the crew
say they won’t leave the spot while there’s
half a chance.”

“ Curse the crew,” said the skipper, quite
untouched by this devotion. “ Ain’t you
taking charge o’ the ship ? ”

“Joe’s about half mad,” said the mate.
“ It’s wonderful how upset he is.”

The skipper cursed Joe separately, and the
mate, whose temper was getting bad, closed
the interview by locking the door.

At five o’clock, by which time they had
chased three masses of weed and a barnacle-
covered plank, they abandoned the search
and resumed the voyage. A gloom settled
on the forecastle, and the cook took advan¬
tage of the occasion to read Tim a homily

162

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

upon the shortness of life and the sudden¬
ness of death. Tim was much affected, but
not nearly so much as when he discovered
that the men were going to pay a last tribute
to their late captain’s memory by abstaining
from breakfast. He ventured to remark that
the excitement and the night air had made
him feel very hungry, and was promptly
called an unfeeling little brute by the men
for his pains. The mate, who, in deference
to public opinion, had to keep up appearances
the same way, was almost as much annoyed
as Tim, and, as for the drowned man himself,
his state of mind was the worst of all. He
was so ungrateful that the mate at length lost
his temper, and when dinner was served
allowed a latent sense of humour to have
full play.

It consisted of boiled beef, with duff,
carrots, and potatoes, and its grateful incense
filled the cabin. The mate attacked it
lustily, listening between mouthfuls for any
interruption from the state-room. At length,
unable to endure it any longer, the prisoner
ventured to scratch lightly on the door.

“Hist!” said the mate, in a whisper.

The scratching ceased, and the mate,
grinning broadly, resumed his dinner. He
finished at last, and lighting his pipe sat back
easily in the locker, watching the door out
of the corner of his eye.

With hunger gnawing at his vitals the un¬
fortunate skipper, hardly able to believe his
ears, heard the cook come down and clear
away. The smell of dinner gave way to that
of tobacco, and the mate, having half finished
his pipe, approached the door.

“ Are you there ? ” he asked, in a whisper.

“ Of course I am, you fool,” said the
skipper, wrathfully ; “ where’s my dinner?”

“ I’m very sorry”—began the mate, in a
whisper.

“ What?” inquired the skipper, fiercely.

“I’ve mislaid the key,” said the mate,
grinning fiendishly. “ An’, what’s more, I
can’t think what I’ve done with it.”

At this intelligence, the remnants of the
skipper’s temper vanished, and every bad
word he had heard or read of, or dreamt
of, floated from his hungry lips in frenzied
whispers.

“ I can’t hear what you say,” said the mate.
“ What ? ”

The prisoner was about to repeat his
remarks with a few embellishments, when
the mate stopped him with one little word.
“ Hist! ” he said, quietly.

At the imminent risk of bursting a blood¬
vessel or going mad the skipper stopped

short, and the mate, addressing a remark
to the cook who was not present, went up
on deck.

He found the key by tea-time, and, his
triumph having made him generous, passed
the skipper in a generous hunk of the cold
beef with his tea. The skipper took it and
eyed him wanly, having found an empty
stomach very conducive to accurate thinking.

“ The next thing is to slip ashore at
Wapping, Jack,” he said, after he had finished
his meal; “ the wharf’ll be closed by the time
we get there.”

“The watchman’s nearly sure to be asleep,”
said Fraser, “ and you can easily climb the
gate. If he’s not, I must try and get him
out of the way somehow.”

The skipper’s forebodings proved to be
correct. It was past twelve by the time
they reached Wapping, but the watchman
was wide awake and, with much bustle,
helped them to berth their craft. He re¬
ceived the news of the skipper’s untimely
end with well - bred sorrow, and at once
excited the wrath of the sensitive Joe by
saying that he was not surprised.

“ I ’ad a warning,” he said, solemnly, in
reply to the indignant seaman. “ Larst night
exactly as Big Ben struck ten o’clock the
gate-bell was pulled three times.”

“I’ve pulled it fifty times myself before
now,” said Joe, scathingly, “and then had to
climb over the gate and wake you up.”

“ I went to the gate at once,” continued
George, addressing himself to the cook;
“sometimes when I’m shifting a barge, or
doing any little job o’ that sort, I do ’ave to
keep a man waiting, and, if he’s drunk, two
minutes seems like ages to ’im.”

“You ought to know wot it seems like,”
muttered Joe.

“When I got to the gate an’ opened it
there was nobody there,” continued the
watchman, impressively, “ and while I was
standing there I saw the bell-pull go up an’
down without ’ands and the bell rung ag’in
three times.”

The cook shivered. “Wasn’t you frightened,
George ? ” he asked, sympathetically.

“ I knew it was a warning,” continued the
veracious George. “ W’y ’e should come to
me I don’t know. One thing is I think ’e
always ’ad a bit of a fancy for me.”

“He ’ad,” said Joe; “everybody wot sees
you loves you, George. They can’t help
theirselves.”

“ And I ’ave ’ad them two ladies down
ag’in asking for Mr. Robinson, and also
for pore Cap’n Flower,” said the watchman ;

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

163

I SAW THE BELL-PULL GO UP AN* DOWN WITHOUT ’ANDS,

“they asked me some questions about ’im,
and I told ’em the lies wot you told me to
tell ’em, Joe; p’r’aps that’s w’y I ’ad the
warning.”

Joe turned away with a growl and went
below, and Tim and the cook, after greedily
waiting for some time to give the watchman’s
imagination a further chance, followed his
example. George, left to himself, took his
old seat on the post at the end of the jetty,
being, if the truth must be told, somewhat
alarmed by his own fertile inventions.

Three times did the mate, in response to
the frenzied commands of the skipper, come
stealthily up the companion-way and look at
him. Time was passing, and action of some
kind was imperative.

“ George,” he whispered, suddenly.

“ Sir,” said the watchman.

“ I want to speak to you,” said Fraser,
mysteriously; “come down here.”

George rose carefully from his seat, and,

lowering himself gingerly on board,
crept on tiptoe to the galley after the
mate.

“ Wait in here till I come back,”
said the latter, in a thrilling whisper;
“ I’ve got something to show you.
Don’t move, whatever happens.”

His tones were so fearful, and he
put so much emphasis on the last
sentence, that the watchman burst
hurriedly out of the galley again.

“ I don’t like these mysteries,” he
said, plainly.

“There’s no mystery,” said the
mate, pushing him back; “ something
I don’t want the crew to see, that’s
all. You’re the only man I can trust.”

He closed the door and coughed,
and a figure, which had been lurking
on the companion-ladder, slipped
hastily on deck and clambered noise¬
lessly on to the jetty. The mate
clambered up beside it, and hurrying
with it to the gate helped it over,
and with much satisfaction heard it
alight on the other side.

“Good-night, Jack,” said Flower.
“ Don’t forget to look after Poppy.”

“ Good - night,” said the mate.
,»» “ Write as soon as you’re fixed.”

He walked back leisurely to the
schooner and stood in some per¬
plexity, eyeing the galley which contained the
devoted George. He stood for so long that
his victim lost all patience, and, sliding back
the door, peered out and discovered him.

“Have you got it?” he asked, softly.

“No,” replied Fraser; “there isn’t any¬
thing. I was only making a fool of you,
George. Good-night.” He walked aft, and
stood at the companion, watching the out¬
raged George as he came slowly out of the
galley and stared about him.

“Good-night, George,” he repeated.

The watchman made no reply to the
greeting, but, breathing heavily, resumed his
old seat on the post; and, folding his arms
across his panting bosom, looked down with
majestic scorn upon the schooner and all its
contents. Long after the satisfied mate had
forgotten the incident in sleep, he sat there
striving to digest the insult of which he had
been the victim, and to consider a painful
and fitting retribution.

(To be co 7 itinned .)

From Behind the Speaker's Chair.

LIV.

(VIEWED BY HENRY W. LUCY.)

u SEVEN years ago this month

we come Gladstone formed his fourth
AS „ and last Administration. Looking
shadows. c j Qwn q ie ca talogue, it is startling

to find how few then mustered are in the line
of battle to-day. Mr. Gladstone is dead,

so are his Lord Chancellor, Lord Herschell;
his President of the
Board of Trade, Mr.

Mundella; his Second
Whip, Mr. Ellis; and
his Master of Horse,

Lord Oxenbridge. Of
the rest, his Secretary
of State for Foreign
Affairs, Lord Rose¬
bery, has retired from

official connection with
the Party. So have

his Chancellor of the
Exchequer, Sir William
Harcourt, and his Chief
Secretary for Ireland,

Mr. Morley. His
Secretary for Scotland,

Sir George Trevelyan,
has gone back to his
first love, Literature. His Vice-President

of the Council, Mr. Acland, has retired owing
to ill-health. His Postmaster-General, Mr.
Arnold Morley, has long been out of Parlia¬
ment; whilst his First Commissioner of Works,
Mr. Shaw-Lefevre ; his Financial Secretary to
the Treasury, Mr. Hibbert; his Parliamentary
Secretary for India, Mr.

George Russell ; his Vice-
Chamberlain, Mr. “Bobbie”

Spencer; and his Controller
of the Household, Mr.

Leveson - Gower, are also
shelved owing to lack of
appreciation on the part of
the constituencies.

His President of the Board
of Agriculture, Mr. Herbert
Gardner, is sunk in the
obscurity of the House of
Lords, where he has been
joined by the Chief Whip
of the new Parliament of
1892, Mr. Marjoribanks. His

cap’en

TOMMY

bowles’s

“ PITCH.”

MR. TOMMY BOWLES—HIS CORNER SEAT.

Under-Secretary for War, Lord Sandhurst,
is Governor of Bombay. His Attorney-
General, Sir Charles Russell, is Lord Chief
Justice of England. His Solicitor-General,
Mr. Rigby, is also wrapped in the dir lity
of the ermine. His Lord Chancellor of
Ireland, Mr. Walker, is Lord Justice of
Appeal. All this in seven short years.

The game which used
to be played round the
seat of Mr. Gibson
Bowles had its serious
effect in drawing from
the Speaker judg¬
ment on a nice
question. The mem¬
ber for Kings Lynn,
with characteristic
discernment, early
in his Parliamentary
career secured the
corner seat on the
bench immediately
behind that on which
Ministers sit. It has
many advantages,
being central, easy of
access, and conveniently contiguous to Her
Majesty’s Ministers, who are able to benefit
by prompt communication of any counsels
that may occur to Mr. Bowles at crises of
debate.

The coign of vantage was, to begin with,
secured in the ordinary fashion by early
arrival and attendance at
prayers. After a while
Mr. Bowles grew slack
in these observances. In
other cases where eminent
men have appropriated
particular seats it is the
custom to regard them as
sacred. Mr. Courtney,
for example, has a
corner seat below the gang¬
way, and if by chance he
were absent from prayers,
and so lose his legal
claim to the place, he
would doubtless on arriving
find it reserved for him. It is

IN THE CORNER.

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER'S CHAIR.

one of the penalties of greatness that it
excites jealousy. Envious eyes were cast
upon Mr. Bowles’s seat. One day, arriving
at question time, he was pained and shocked
to find Mr. Gedge installed in his place,
holding it by the invulnerable right of a
ticket with his name on it stuck in the
receptacle at the back.

AIR. GEDGE IN POSSESSION.

MR.

Mr. Gedge, when he is not look-
gedge’s a ^ ter bishops, or keeping
strategy Bie Br * me Minister straight on
constitutional points, is the
guardian of ancient customs pertaining to
the appropriation of seats on the floor of
the House. His detection of the manoeuvre
whereby the corner seat and the one next to
it on the Front Bench below the gangway on
the Opposition side were invariably secured
by Mr. Labouchere and Sir Charles Dilke is
a matter of history. Long
suspecting unlawful pro¬
cedure, and failing to detect
the criminal from his accus¬
tomed seat above the gang¬
way, Mr. Gedge one day,
with something more than
usual of his air of inno¬
cence, strolled across the
gangway, and during prayer
time bowed his head in
reverential attitude imme¬
diately opposite the right
hon. but unsuspecting
baronet who represents the
Forest of Dean.

To the casual observer,

Mr. Gedge’s vision of
earthly things was abso-
Wtely obstructed by his

CORNER

SEAT.

TOUJOURS GEDGE,

i6 5

hands laid open upon his face. Actually
he was peeping between his parted fingers,
and distinctly saw Sir Charles Dilke slip a card
into the receptacle at the back of the corner
seat. Divine service over, and the congrega¬
tion dispersed, Mr. Gedge, crossing the aisle,
read the name of Mr. Labouchere on the
card he had seen manipulated by Sir Charles
Dilke.

The murder was out. He, a constant
worshipper, had never seen Mr. Labouchere
on his knees. Unless he were present at
prayers he could not secure this particular
seat. Yet night after night he held it, and
this was how it was done !

Later in the day Mr. Gedge unmasked the
conspirators, and the Speaker, trying to look
grave, administered rebuke. But to this day
Mr. Labouchere regularly secures the corner
seat below the gangway," and the Chaplain
does not recollect being supported with his
presence during prayers.

the siege ^ r * hedges incursion on Mr.

OF THE Bow . les s territory led to a suc¬
cession of scenes, watched with
boyish delight by the House.
On the day after the first incur¬
sion, Mr. Bowles came down in good time
for prayers, resolved that nothing in the way
of regularity should be lacking. Marching up
to his place to deposit his hat, a preliminary
process to obtaining the ticket that completes
a claim, he found a hat already in possession.
Robinson Crusoe coming on a man’s foot¬
step in what he had regarded as a desert
island was not more startled. From a certain
indefinable air of truculence combined with
implacable respectability, he recognised the
headgear as Mr. Gedge’s.

Mr. Bowles is not easily
beaten. The next day he
went down before luncheon,
marked the seat as his own
by placing his hat on it,
and enjoyed full possession
throughout the evening sit¬
ting. Then followed a series
of marching and counter¬
marching, accompanied by
varied results. The member
for Walsall had the advantage
of living close by, and being
an early riser, Mr. Bowles,
reaching the House as early
as six o’clock in the morning,
elate with the certainty of
triumph, was confronted
with the silent sardonic
regard of Mr. Gedge’s hat.

i66

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

It was at this stage of the campaign the
Speaker’s attention was called to the matter.
He was asked to give a ruling on the point
whether it is lawful for a member, having
pegged out a claim to a particular seat by
depositing his hat, straightway to depart
about his business in the City or at the West-
end, a strategy made possible by the posses¬
sion of a second hat. The Speaker, having
taken thought and consulted the authorities,
gave judgment in the negative. A member,
he said, having claimed a seat in the usual
manner, must remain within the precincts of
the House till his right be fully established
by possession of the ticket.

Twenty-one years ago the com-
mr. dill- petition for seats led to a striking

wyn’s scene. Mr. Dillwyn, long time
seat. member for Swansea, was the
regular occupant of the corner
seat below the gangway, now filled by Mr.
Labouchere. He held it undisturbed till
Mr. Roebuck was returned for Sheffield at
a by-election. The old gentleman, presum¬
ing on his years and fame, coming down to
the House at whatever hour suited his con¬
venience, dislodged Mr. Dillwyn.

This genial custom was suffered for some
time. But the worm will turn at last, and
one day Mr. Dillwyn did. The situation is
described in the following letter here pub¬
lished for the first time. I take it from a
copy in the neat handwriting of Mr. Dillwyn
which he gave me at the time. It bears
date House of Commons, May 23rd, 1878,
and commences :—

“ My Dear Mr. Roebuck,— Some time
ago I mentioned to you that, although I wished
to accommodate you by giving up to you the
seat which I usually occupy in the House
when you come here, I would ask you to let
me know when you intended to come, as
otherwise I am left without a place, and as I
take rather an active part in the business of
the House, this often occasions me consider¬
able inconvenience. I understood you to
assent to the reasonableness of this request,
and upon one occasion you did so inform
me. Of late, however, you have not done
so, and, consequently, I have several times
during recent debates been without a place,
although I had secured my usual one, as I
did not like to prevent you from occupying
it. Under these circumstances I hope you
will excuse me if I consider the arrangement
at an end, and that I shall decline to give
you up my usual seat should I have secured
it. I may say that several members who
sit on the Opposition side of the House

do not like to hear speeches directed
against the Opposition, and in praise of the
Government, such as you almost invariably
make, emanating from their own side of the
House, and they are surprised that you
should like to make them from that side and
that I should make way for you on it. Very
many representations to this effect have been
made to me since your speech this evening,
and I cannot say that I am surprised at it.
Wishing to act with courtesy with you, I
think it right to inform you before you come
next to the House that I shall in future
decline to vacate for you any place which I
may have secured.—Believe me,

“Yours truly,

“L. L. Dillwyn.”

Before a week had sped after the dispatch
of this letter crisis came. During question
time, when the House was densely crowded,
Mr. Roebuck entered, dragging his leaden
footsteps in the direction of the corner seat.
His habit was to stand there till Mr. Dillwyn
either rose and left or moved lower down the
bench. Now, as he stood and waited, Mr.
Dillwyn steadily stared at the Treasury Bench,
ignoring his presence. Not a word passed.
The House paused, watching the scene.
Finding the member for Swansea immovable,
Mr. Roebuck crossed over to the Conserva¬
tive side, half-a-dozen members, amid wild
cheering, springing up to give him a seat
within the Government fold.

Sir William Hart-Dyke is at least
an odd free from the charge of intentional
fish. humour. He trotted his bull out
caparisoned in almost funereal
trappings. Debate sprang up upon a motion,
made by Mr. James Lowther, charging the
Lord Chancellor with breach of privilege,
inasmuch as he had presided at a meeting
summoned to select a Unionist candidate to
represent Oxford University in place of the
ever-lamented Sir John Mowbray. Sir
William argued that such conduct on the
part of a peer became actionable only if the
interference took place after a writ had been
issued. At the same time he was willing to
concede to Mr. Lowther that he had for his
purposes been fortunate in finding an offender
in a person so highly placed as the Lord
Chancellor.

“ I admit,” he said, “ that the right honour¬
able gentleman has undoubtedly gone up to
the top of the tree and caught a very big fish.”

I remember, during the debates
stock on foreign policy in the days of
bulls, the Jingo excitement that bubbled

round Lord Beaconsfield, hear

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER’S CHAIR.

167

mr. hart-dyke’s bull: “catching a big fish on

THE TOP OF A TREE.”

ing Mr. Alderman Cotton exclaim, “And
this, Mr. Speaker, may be the one spark that
will let slip the dogs of war ! ”

Mr. Shaw, during the time he was Leader
of the Home Rule Party, was called upon to
defend himself for having desecrated the
Sabbath by appearing at a public meeting in
Cork to discuss the Land Question. “ If,”
he said, accepting the challenge, “an ox or
an ass fall into the pit on the Sabbath day,
we have the highest authority for the effort to
take him out. Our brother is in the pit
to-day, the farmer and the landlord are both
in it, and I was at Cork last Sunday engaged
in the effort to try to lift them out.” Which
was the ox and which the ass was information
Mr. Shaw withheld from a laughing House.

It was Mr. O’Connor Power, one of the
most finished speakers Ireland sent to the
House of Commons in Mr. Parnell’s time,
who shrewdly remarked: “Since the Govern¬
ment has let the cat out of the bag there is
nothing to be done but to take the bull by
the horns.”

\ new ^ strikin S success on somewhat
n different lines was obtained this

dish ^ Session by Mr. Kilbride. It was
during the discussion on the
second reading of the Food and Drugs Bill.
Question arose as to how far the use of
margarine might be safely encouraged. Mr.
Kilbride startled the House, and after a
moment’s consideration sent it into a fit of
uncontrollable laughter, by announcing that

margarine is “ chiefly used for cooking
porpoises.”

That is how the humble familiar word
“purposes” sounds when enunciated in fine
rotund Galway accent.

Only Scotland could equal that. To the
Parliament of 1874 was returned a gentleman
named Smollett, who, though of Scotch blood
and residence, represented Cambridge. He
was, as he made a point of reminding the
public in the pages of Dod and elsewhere,
“the great-grand-nephew of the celebrated
historian and novelist.” Not gifted in either
direction himself, Mr. Smollett endeavoured
to keep his great-uncle’s memory green by
introducing into the House of Commons
something of the manner of a surgeon’s mate
of the last century. He distinguished him¬
self in the early days of the first Session of
Parliament by a coarse attack on Mr. Glad¬
stone, whom he accused in the matter of the
recent dissolution of “ concocting a pious
fraud,” of being “ guilty of sharp practice
more likely to have come from an attorney’s
office than from a Cabinet of English gentle¬
men.”

This brought Mr. Gladstone up in a tower :
ing rage. He bestowed upon the new
member a memorable castigation which, by
the way, led to the birth of something of
the bull pedigree. Amongst other genialities
Mr. Smollett called Mr. Gladstone a
“trickster.” “Let the hon. member,” the
angry statesman thundered, “rise in his
place and say whether he holds to the
utterance of the word ‘ trickster.’ ”

Mr. Gladstone paused. All eyes were
turned to Mr. Smollett seated above the
gangway behind Ministers. After a moment’s
hesitation, he jumped up and hotly said : “ I
shall not rise again from my seat.”

It was on a later occasion Mr.
papt rAAiFM Smollett forestalled Mr. Kilbride

taryword by m y stlf ymg .the House with
' broad pronunciation of an inno¬
cent word. It happened in debate on an
Indian topic, through which Mr. Smollett
strode, whacking his flail on both sides. In
the course of his boisterous harangue, Sir
George Balfour, sitting in his accustomed
place above the gangway, ventured to inter¬
polate a meek but critical “ Hear ! hear! ”
Smollett turned upon him with the ferocity
of a tiger disturbed in its native jungle.
“ The hon. member cheers,” he said, “ and I

will admit to the fool-”

The few members present stared at each
other in indignant surprise. The Speaker
half rose from the Chair: in his present

i68

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

mood Smollett might be expected to say
anything. But publicly to allude to poor old
Sir George Balfour as a fool seemed going
a little too far.

Smollett, not observing the consternation
he had created, concluded his
sentence : “I will admit to the
fool all that has been said
about these unjustifiable an¬
nexation s.”

Then the House discovered
that misapprehension had
arisen out of the Northerner’s
pronunciation of the innocent
word “full.”

A friend old
enough to have
been in the House
of Commons when
Lord Palmerston
Minister recalls a
which there was
speech at once the

THE

RETORT

CON¬

CLUSIVE.

was Prime
scene in
delivered a

shortest and, as far as my
memory goes, the bitterest ever uttered. It
was in the Session of 1862, and, as happened
in those days, Lord Palmerston, seated on
the Treasury Bench, had fallen fast asleep.
A member speaking from a bench immedi¬
ately behind Ministers delivered a violent
diatribe against the foreign policy of the
Government. He was, as nearly as the un¬
developed resources of the century permitted,
something approaching the
Ashmead - Bartlett type. It
happened that, contrary to his
custom, he had said something
that needed answering. A col¬
league rousing the Premier
hastily whispered in his ear.

Palmerston, with the in¬
stincts of an old war-horse,
instantly rose to join in
the fray. In his half-dazed
state he had evidently mis¬
understood the source of the
attack. “ In reply to the right
honourable gentleman
opposite,” he said, concluding
assault had come from the
usual quarter.

His colleague hastily whis¬
pered correction, but was again
misunderstood.

“The hon. member below the gangway,”
said Palmerston, turning in that direction,
“has thought fit to attribute to Her Majesty’s
Ministers-”

OH, IT WAS ONLY YOU, WAS IT?

with audible inquiry, “ Eh ? What ? What ? ”
Thi's time he mastered the name of the
assailant of his policy. He turned round,
looked his hon. friend full in the face, and
bent towards his colleague, saying, “Oh,
it was only you, was it?” and
then resumed his seat.

We manage things differently
now. The Under-Secretary for
Foreign Affairs is hedged about
with a ring fence of prohibition
to reply to inconsiderate
questions from inconsiderable
members. Palmerston’s pro¬
cedure was equally effective
and more dramatic. But it
needs a Palmerston to carry
it off.

Does anyone
a read Kinglake’s
prophecy. “Eothen” now?

Temptation is pro-
a little volume,
printed and neatly

MR. 13RODRICIC, UNDER-SECRETARY
FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS.

AN OLD
STORY
RE-TOLD.

Once more his coat-tails were pulled, and said had

vided by
excellently

bound, recently issued at a small price by
Messrs. Newnes. Looking over it I find a
remarkable forecast of the present state of
things in Egypt. In the shortest chapter of
the book, containing an eloquent apostrophe
of the Sphinx, Kinglake writes: “And we,
we shall die, and Islam will wither away;
and the Englishman, leaning far over to hold
his loved India, will plant a firm foot on the
banks of the Nile, and sit in the
seats of the Faithful, and still
that sleepless rock will be
watching, and watching, the
works of the new, busy race
with those same sad, earnest
eyes, and the same tranquil
mien everlastingly.”

“Eothen’’was published in
1844, at which time Mehemet
Pasha had, of his strength,
forced the Sultan to concede to
him the position of hereditary
Viceroy. England had not at
the time the slightest foothold
in the country, nor was there
anything visibly working in that
direction. But Kinglake had
a clear vision of the far-off
future, and fitly framed it in
this glowing passage.

I read in the newspapers how,
preaching in the Abbey on a
Sunday afternoon, “ Canon Gore
told a striking story, which he
come to his ears within the last

FROM BEHIND THE SPEAKER’S CHAIR.

169

few days. A hardened professional pick¬
pocket found himself within sight of death,
and for the first time in his life had leisure
to think. During a somewhat protracted
illness the reality of the love of God was
vividly borne in upon him, and he became,
in the deepest sense, converted from darkness
to light. He had received the Sacrament,
and was in articulo mortis , when the priest,
who was reading the commendatory prayer
by his bedside, heard a hoarse whisper in his
ear, ‘ Look out for your watch. 5 As the
clergyman raised his head, the man lay dead
with the watch in his hand. The will, said
Canon Gore, was not strong enough to resist
the habitual instinctive motions of the body,
yet was strong enough to protest against its
own act with the voice. 55

I know that story. It comes from The
Strand Magazine, and has journeyed many
times round the world since, “within the last
few days, 55 it struck the Canon’s ear. I am
subdued by paternal regret on observing how
sadly its points have been rubbed off in the
journey. “ The priest 55 was the late Mr.
Henry White, and it was during his chap¬
laincy of the House of Commons that the
grim incident occurred. Late one winter
night a messenger came to his door and
besought his attendance at the bedside of a
sick man. He obeyed the summons, and
was led to a house in a squalid neighbour¬
hood by Waterloo Bridge. Entering a room
lit by a tallow candle, he
found a man of wasted frame
and haggard features lying
on a truckle-bed.

Curious to know why he,
living some distance off,
should be sent for, he ques¬
tioned the sick man, who
told him that he once drop¬
ped in at St. Margaret’s
Church, where Mr. White
was preaching. The subject
chanced to be the repentance
and salvation of the thief on
the Cross. The dying man
admitted that he had been a

HONOUR
TO WHOM
HONOUR
IS DUE.

thief from his boyhood, had spent a consider¬
able portion of his still young life in prison.
But he was so much touched by the sermon
that he had abjured his evil courses, had
striven to lead an honest life, had mostly
starved, and, feeling he was dying, there came
upon him a strong desire to hear again the
voice that once so strangely uplifted him.

Mr. White, much affected, prayed by the
bedside, then sat and talked with the man.
As he grew weaker he leaned over and
whispered consoling words. Rising as he
heard the death-rattle, he found himself
grasped by the watch-chain, his watch in the
closed hand of the penitent thief.

The ruling passion,literally, strong in death,
propinquity had been irresistible.

In a recent number I quoted
the following verse, with the
explanation that I found it
among some old papers and was
not able to identify the hand¬
writing or the author :—

The head of the Army and Chief of the Fleet
Went out on a visit to Cyprus and Crete.

The natives received them with joyful hurrahs,
Called one of them Neptune, the other one Mars.
They ran up an altar to Stanley forthwith,

And ran up a bookstall to W. II. Smith.

A reader of The Strand Magazine in
far-off Rio de Janeiro writes : “ The poetry
is without doubt twin-brother to the verse
which appears in Chapter XII. of the new
edition of Maxwell’s ‘ Life of W. H.

Smith. 5 It is there attributed
to Mr. Bromley-Davenport,
M.P.”

Sir Herbert Maxwell con¬
firms this reference, but
admits that he was in error.
The author of the jeu d’esprit
is Sir Wilfrid Lawson, to
whom the House of Com¬
mons is indebted for many
similar flashes of good-
humoured badinage. Sir
Herbert tells me he found
opportunity to correct the
error in the pages of Notes
and Queries.

“the head of the army and chief of

THE FLEET”

mars: col. the hon. a. f. Stanley,
neptune: the late w. h. smith.

Vol. xviii.—22.

Saved by a Train Wrecker.

By Victor L. Whitechurch.

THINK you had better
attempt no explanation, Mr.
Halbon,” the senior partner
was saying to me, very
quietly. “No,” he went on,
as I was on the point of
interrupting him, “ either to excuse or to in¬
criminate yourself. For the sake of your
father, who was one of the staunchest and
best servants the firm ever possessed, and for
the sake of his widow, Mr. Sampson and
myself have determined to make his son
every allowance. As the matter stands there
is a balance of ninety-seven pounds un¬
accounted for, and you are the only person

“there is a balance of ninety-seven founds unaccounted fok.

who can make it right. If the amount is
ahem ! -replaced by this day fortnight, nothing

more will be said. But if not-” “Then,”

went on Mr. Sampson, the junior partner,
“the firm will require your services no
longer, Mr. Halbon. Possibly, for the sake of
those whom Mr. Marsh has mentioned,we shall
not take any more stringent measures; but,
of course, such a dismissal, without reason
or references, would be ruin to you. We
trust, therefore, that you will be able to
rectify the mistake. Good afternoon.”

Ruin ! That was just the word for it all,
and it rang in my ears with terrible signi¬
ficance as I left the presence of the two
partners and took my seat at a desk in the
office outside. For although they had not
named the word, the terrible charge that was
staring me in the face was embezzlement.
They had discovered it all. Fool that I had
been ; alas, the duplicate of many. Not
half-a-dozen years out of my teens, with a
berth that many an older man might have
envied, the under - cashier in the wealthy
firm of Marsh and
Sampson, of Silk-
minster, one of the
largest houses in
the Midlands, a
business in which
my father had seen
fifty years’ service,
with a good and
increasing salary,
and a certain pros¬
pect of advance¬
ment and retiring
pension, that was
the position from
which I, Frank
Halbon, had now
every chance of
falling. It was the
old story—tipsters’
advertisements,
turfy associates, a
bulky betting-
book, bad starters
and worse losers,
debts of honour,
and threatened
exposure, and with
it all the constant
handling of cash. And so the temptation
came. Like many another, I simply “bor¬
rowed it ”—nothing more. But before I
had time to pay it back the hideous trans¬
action stood revealed, and I knew that my
employers regarded me as a thief. And
yet they were giving me one chance: just
one chance for honour—for everything that
makes life worth living—a breathing spell of
a fortnight.

Could I do it? I asked myself the question
that night in the solitude of my lodgings. I

SAVED BY A TRAIN WRECKER.

171

had been invited out to spend the evening at
the house of my fiancee. Alas, I dared not
face her now. So I sat alone in an agony of
anxious thought. Time after time I counted
out my resources. The utmost I could
scrape together was twenty-four shillings, and,
look where I would, I could not see my way
to laying my hand on more.

The game was up ; that was evident. And
out of the situation there grew the desire,
stronger and stronger, to
get away, anywhere from
Silkminster — to London,
perhaps—London, whither
every fortune - hunter or
fortune-loser turns his steps.

At length a definite plan
took possession of me. I
had one article of value
left, my bicycle, and I
determined to ride it up to
London, a distance of a
hundred odd miles or so,
and sell it when I got there.

More than that, I made up
my mind to start that very
night. I was just in the
mood for it. I wanted .to
do something, and here was
the chance.

Hastily I packed a few things in my
bicycle “ hold-all,” filled my lamp, knocked
at my landlady’s door, and said : “ I am going
for a long ride, Mrs. Smith—to see a friend.
He’ll be almost sure to ask me to stay the
night, so don’t expect me till to-morrow
evening.”

“ Lor’, sir,” said Mrs. Smith, “ you’re going
rather sudden, ain’t you ? ”

I had been with her for some years, and
she was quite devoted to me. I felt the
parting—the first wrench from the world of
my friends.

“Yes,” I said, hastily, “I have made up
my mind rather quickly. Good night, Mrs.
Smith.”

And in another minute I was bowling
through the suburbs of Silkminster, until the
houses became more and more scattered, the
lamp-posts began to disappear, and at length
I was out in the open country speeding away
on the road that led to London.

It must have been after half-past eight
when I started. It was a dark night, but I
knew this part of the road pretty well, and
was putting in a good ten miles an hour.
Just before eleven o’clock I pulled up for a few
minutes in the little town of Dullminster, and
refreshed myself with a pint of ale at an inn.

good fourteen miles further, through a lone¬
some bit o’ country, too. And it’s a chance
but what ye’ll get none there so late. Better
stop, sir ! ”

But he urged me in vain. Foolish as I
knew it was to go on, the demon of unrest
held unbounded possession of me, and I
determined to ride till I could go no farther—
it was the only thing that took me at all
out of myself. So, once more mounting my
machine, I was soon pedalling along through
the lonely darkness.

Dullminster was now a good five miles
behind me, and I had entered upon a stretch
of road that was more than usually dreary and
secluded. On my right was an open expanse
of common, and on my left, on the top
of an embankment, the main line of the Great
West-Northern Railway ran for some two

‘don’t ye want a bed for the night?’asked the

LANDLORD.”

“ Don’t ye want a bed for the night ? ”
asked the landlord, seeing my dusty con¬
dition.

“ Oh, I think I’ll get on a bit farther,” I
replied.

“ A bit farther? Which way are ye ridin’,
young man ? ”

“ Towards London.”

“ Lunnon, eh ? Well, there ain’t a decent
place till ye get to Egghurst, and that’s a

172

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

or three miles parallel with the road,
a hedge between me and the bottom
of the embankment. The momentary flash
of a warning red light on a signal-post as I
began riding by the side of this embankment
set my mind flowing in a new channel. The
whole country had recently been aroused to
the sense of a terrible danger. The most
cold-blooded and dastardly attempts were
being made on certain of our great trunk
railways to wreck express trains. Some of
these attempts were successful, and more
than one accident was the result; some were
discovered only just in time to prevent an
appalling disaster; while others fortunately
proved powerless to upset the magnificent
engines and trains for which they were
intended.

In spite of every precaution, in spite of
systems of patrolling the line and the work
of scores of detectives, the miscreant or
miscreants who plied this abominable trade
remained undetected.

Engine-drivers, one of the pluckiest class
of men in the kingdom, grew nervous and
distrustful. The foot-plate became a
post that meant a terrible and sudden
danger. Strong men clutched trem¬
blingly at the regulator handle as they
dashed away through the open country
in the darkness of the night, and heaved
a sigh of relief as they signed “ off duty ”
at the journey’s end. Many a man
actually refused promotion point-blank
because he feared to drive a night express.

The matter was, in short, becoming
serious, and more than one railway
company offered a very large reward for
the discovery and arrest of the train¬
wrecking fiend. All this flashed across
me as I plodded along, slowly now, for
I was riding on rising ground, and my
legs were beginning to give out a bit. I
had ridden over thirty miles with only a
few minutes’ stop, and the nervous and
physical strain was telling on me a little.

Suddenly, as I was riding thus slowly
I happened to glance upward at the rail¬
way embankment, and started violently
at what I saw. There, outlined against
the dim sky, was the figure of a man,
now standing, now stooping downward,
seemingly doing something to the metals.

The situation flashed across me in a
moment. It was the train-wrecking
fiend at work ! Carefully I alighted from
my machine, making up my mind the
while how to act. The whole thing came
as a flood of relief to me. If he were “1 seized him by the collar.”

really placing something on the line he was a
desperate fellow, and to attack him would be
desperate—just the very thing for a man in
my mood. And then there came across me
another thought. The Great West-Northern
had offered a hundred pounds’ reward. What
if I should win it? If so, I was saved !

This idea gave me courage as I clambered
over the low hedge and crawled stealthily up
the embankment. At length my head came
on a level with the top. Good ! He had
seen and heard nothing. There he was
stooping down with his back towards me,
lashing something with a rope to the down
metals. Ten yards separated us. Setting
my teeth, I prepared for the attack.

With a spring I was upon him ; but too
late. He had heard me as soon as I left
the grassy slope and my feet sounded upon
the ballast, and in a moment he was on his
legs and facing me.

I managed to get in one good blow under
his guard with my left hand, which caught
him square on the jaw, and with my right
hand I seized him by the collar.

SAVED BY A TRAIN WRECKER.

i 73

“ Curse you, let go ! ” he cried.

“ Not I,” I shouted back.

“ Then take that,” he replied.

There was a glitter of steel as he raised his
right hand aloft and struck at my breast.
But I was too quick for him. Half-turning
the blow aside, I caught it on the left fore¬
arm. I felt the knife slip up under my
sleeve, and the sharp point as it entered my
flesh. That only gave me redoubled fury.
Releasing my grip on his collar, I gave his
right elbow an upward blow, that sent the
knife spinning away out of his hand right
down the embankment, and the next instant
I had dodged to the left, made a feint of
rushing past him, and had tripped him up
with a heavy back-throw with my right arm
and leg—a dodge which I had picked up
during a holiday in Cornwall. He fell, with
an oath, striking the back of his head against
the rail, and lay there, stunned, like a log.
The battle was mine !

But there was more to be done and no
time to be lost. I had to remove the
obstructions from the metals and to secure
my prisoner. I wanted light on the scene.
Hastily I dashed down the
embankment, took off my bicycle
lamp, and hurried back again.

Then I saw the extent of his
devilment.

He had managed to get three
old sleepers, which were probably
lying by the side of the track
awaiting removal. Two of these
he had lashed firmly across the
metals, with a space of about a
couple of feet between. The
third he had been in the act of
securing between them, pointing
at an angle towards the train, so
that it would catch under the
bed-plate of the engine and wreck
the works. The third sleeper I
removed. Then I took the piece
of rope he had been about to
use, and tied the wretch’s arms
behind him, lashing his feet
together also. Having disposed
of him, I was turning my atten¬
tion to the other two sleepers,
when an ominous roar in the
distance, in the direction of
London, startled me. A train
was coming ! With a yell of despair, I set
to work at those ropes. It was no use. I
could not undo them in time. I felt in
my pockets—no ! I had left my knife at
home. Ah, there was the train-wrecker’s

weapon ! Where was it ? Alas ! it would
have taken me too much time to find
it in the long grass of the embankment.
With horror, I glanced ahead. There, in the
distance, were two gleaming lights of the
approaching train. How could I stop it ?

As I asked myself this question I felt
something warm trickling from my left arm.
I turned my lantern on it. Blood—dripping
red blood from the knife-wound, which I had
forgotten.

Ah ! An inspiration. And with a prayer
that it might not be too late, I proceeded to
put it into execution. Drawing out my
handkerchief I quickly applied it to my arm.
In three or four seconds it was saturated
with blood.

I glanced ahead again. Oh, those lights !
They were only about half a mile from me
now.

Hastily I folded the dripping handkerchief
twice or thrice, and stretched it across the
face of my bicycle lamp.

Eureka ! I held in my hand a red light!

Stumbling, running, leaping, I rushed
towards the train, waving my extemporized

I RUSHED TOWARDS THE
TRAIN, WAVING MY EX¬
TEMPORIZED DANGER-
SIGNAL.”

danger-signal frantically
as I did so. The head¬
lights gleamed brighter
and brighter, the roar
became nearer and
nearer. Would they never
stop ? Ah ! A whistle. A
shriek in the night as of a
startled wild animal. And
then a rasping and a grating
of brake - blocks, a stream of flying
sparks from the rails as the wheels dragged
along them, a glare of light in my
very face, and a hoarse voice from the
foot-plate.

174

THE STRAWD MAGAZINE.

“What’s up, then? D’ye know you’re
stopping the Silkminster Express ? ”

“ Thank God, I have ! ” I answered. And
then for a few minutes all was black—the
excitement and the loss of blood were too
much for me.

When I came to
there was a crowd
of passengers
around me, and
they gave me
some stimulant.

“Have they
got him ? ” I
asked.

“ Got him ?

Aye, we’ve got
him,” said the
guard, “and we
won’t let him go
in a hurry. You
tied him up pretty
tight. Lucky you
stopped us, for
we’d have been
wrecked certain.

But it’s the rum-
miest danger-
signal I ever
heard of. Now
then,” he added,

“ take your seats,
please. The line’s
clear now. What
can we do with
you, sir ? ”

“I’ll go with
you to Silkmin¬
ster,” I said.

“ I live there. And I think you’ll carry my
bicycle without charging for it, eh ? ”

They got my machine from the road, and
I travelled in a first-class carriage back to
Silkminster. The kindly guard, who had a
knowledge of ambulance work, had bound
up my wound, which was a very slight one.
One of my travelling companions, curiously
enough, was a director of the line, and to
him I told the story how I had captured the
train-wrecker. He congratulated me heartily,

and told me that the company would cer¬
tainly pay me the reward.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but may I ask for
it at once—that is, within this fortnight?
The truth is that the money is a god-send

to me. It will
save me from
ruin.”

And it did. A
week afterwards
I was able to
walk into the
partners’ office
with my books
properly bal¬
anced. Mr. Marsh
shook me by the
hand.

“ We will not
ask,” he said,
“ for any explana¬
tion of the mis¬
take or how it
has been recti¬
fied. We only
trust that our
method of deal¬
ing with you will
prevent such a
mistake from
ever occurring
again, for in that
case not even
such a plucky
action as that
which you achie¬
ved last week—
or the result of
it—will save you.
But now we trust the matter is at an end
for ever.”

And so it was. I do not think the partners
will have cause to complain of me again.
And the day that I saw Joseph Berch, ex¬
servant of the Great West-Northern, discharged
in disgrace, sentenced to seven years’ penal
servitude for attempting to wreck the express,
I could not help inwardly thanking the
wretch for saving me from ruin and given
me back all.

“‘we will not ask,’ he said, ‘for any explanation.’”

Over the Alps in a Balloon .

By Charles Herbert.

N the June Number of The
Strand Magazine a number
of photographs of Switzerland,
taken by the famous aeronaut,
Captain Edward Spelterini,
during his balloon trips, were
given, and promise was then made that some
of the captain’s beautiful mountain photo¬
graphs would appear in an early number.
We are now able to
fulfil this promise,
and to present to our
readers a series of pic¬
tures which we have no
hesitation in proclaim¬
ing absolutely unique.

As everyone knows,
the camera has been
very successfully applied
to the photography of
mountain scenery, and
the Alpine views of
Signor Vittoria Sella,

Mr. Clinton T. Dent,
and others are beau¬
tiful specimens of this
branch of the art. What
gives to the photographs
here reproduced their
extraordinary charm
and interest is the fact
that they have been taken
from a balloon. To take
photographs from a balloon
is, of course, in itself nothing
new, but no one before
Captain Spelterini conceived
the idea of crossing the Alps
in a balloon, and of utilizing
a camera to depict the
scenery through which it
travels. On the difficulty of balloon photo¬
graphy we touched in the article to which
reference has just been made. It will be
enough, therefore, to say that to attain the
best results great patience, ingenuity, re¬
source, and skill are required.

The pictures in these pages could not have
been obtained in any other way, for although
striking photographs may be taken from the
tops of high peaks, still, the effects are

nothing compared to the grandeur and
magnificence of photographs taken from a
swiftly moving air-ship of the country below.

Captain Spelterini’s original intention was
to go from Sion, in Canton Valais, to Lake
Constance. In conjunction with many
eminent savants, he had studied, for some
time past, the direction of the principal wind-
currents of Switzerland. It was discovered
that the currents in the
Central Alps flowed, as
a rule, either from
north-east to south-west,
or west-south-west to
east-north-east. As a
matter of fact, instead
of being carried north¬
east, Captain Spelterini
and his companions
were taken in a north¬
westerly direction.

Starting from Sion,
the “Vega” (so the
balloon was named)
went towards the Lake
of Geneva, then crossed
the Jura, and was
brought down at a
place called Riviere les
Fosses, on the boun¬
daries of the Depart¬
ments of Haute-Marne and
Cote d’Or, between Dijon
and Langres. It may be as
well now to describe the
photographs taken on this
trip which appear in these
pages..

No. i is Sion, the capital
of Canton Valais, whence the
start was made. The old
town, with its castles on isolated hills and its
background of mountains, has a romantic
appearance. On the height to the left of
the photograph are the ruins of the episcopal
castle of Tourbillon, erected in 1294, and
burned down in 1788. On the lower hill to
the right, on the site of a Roman fort, stands
the old castle of Valeria, surrounded by
towers and other buildings, among which is
the Church of Notre Dame de Valere.

CAPTAIN EDWARD SPELTERINI.
From a Photo, by C. Ruf, Basel.

176

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

I,—SION, WHERE THE BALLOON STARTED

This photograph of Sion was taken at a
height of 900 mhtres at 10.53, just after the
“ Vega ” had slowly been released from her
moorings. “We rose,” said Captain Spelterini,
“ in bright sunshine towards a magnificent
blue sky. Thousands of lusty throats below
shouted their farewells to the fast-disappearing

adventurers. We
rose to 1,000
metres and then
to 2,000 metres.
A grand sight was
presented to our
wondering gaze,
and so beautiful
and inspiring was
the picture that no
one of the occu¬
pants of the- car
could find words
to adequately ex¬
press his feelings.”

No. 2 was taken
at 11.15 at a height
of 3,000 metres.
It shows the Valley
of the Rhone, look¬
ing towards Sion.
No. 3 was taken
fourteen minutes
later than the pre¬
ceding one, and
the “Vega” had
now ascended to a height of 4,100 metres.

“ The glorious Valley of the Rhone,” writes
Dr. Maurer, who accompanied Captain
Spelterini, “extended far below us; the
mountains rising on both sides were seen
with beautiful clearness. Further south, half
hidden by seas of wondrous clouds, we

OVER THE ALPS IN A BALLOON

177

discerned the mountains of Savoy. The
glorious expanse of the dark blue Lake of
Geneva greeted us from below, but words are
not to be found wherewith even the very
faintest description can be given of the
glorious panorama that unfolded itself before
our awestruck eyes.”

In No. 3 the Rhone can just be seen
winding its way between its watershed.
No. 4 is a striking picture of mountains
and clouds. It was taken at a height of
4,300 mbtres at 11.42^. We are looking
north-east over the valley known as Ormont-
Dessus to the heights of the Bernese Ober-
land. No. 5 was taken a few minutes later,
and the cloud
effects are quite
different. In the
foreground we
have a great
billowy mass
completely ob¬
scuring the view,
but in the dis¬
tance majestic
peaks rear their
heads. No. 6
was taken at an
altitude of 4,200
metres while the
“Vega” was
almost directly
over the rocky
Creuxde Champ,
the base of the
Diablerets. The
valley of Ormont-
Dessus lies to the

Vol. xviii.—23.

left. When No. 7 was taken the “ Vega” had
reached an altitude of 4,300 metres (over
2miles): the photograph will give some
idea of the magnificent sights which rewarded
those who undertook the historic voyage we
are now describing. The huge masses of
snowy clouds certainly obscure the view
beneath, but we get, nevertheless, a picture
of sublime beauty.

Still pursuing its course to the north-west
the “Vega” comes again within sight of the
Rhone Valley. From Sion the Rhone flows
south till it reaches Martigny, where it turns
sharply to the north and makes for the Lake
of Geneva. In No. 8 the Rhone is visible

i 7 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

to the left of the photograph. The next
two photographs (Nos. 9 and 10) were taken
while the “ Vega ” was making its way
towards the eastern end of the Lake of
Geneva, at heights varying from 4,500 to
5,000 metres.

In No. 11 the river is seen running right
across the middle of the photograph, which
was taken while the “Vega” was at a height
of 5,300 metres.

No. 12 shows us that the Lake of Geneva
has been reached, and Villeneuve, Veytaux,
Montreux, and Clarens are visible. The
time was eight minutes past twelve. On
leaving the Lake of Geneva the “ Vega ”
was carried almost
in a straight line
to the south-west
end of the Lake
of Neuchatel,
when the balloon
was almost over
Moudon and at
an altitude of
5,200 metres.

No. 13, taken at
three minutes past
one, shows us that
the “Vega” has
arrived at the
Lake of Neu¬
chatel. The town
at the extremity
of the lake is
Yverdon.

The last photo¬
graph (No. 14)
was taken one

hour and twenty
minutes later,
when the “Vega”
was at a height
of 6,500 metres.
The cloud effects
here are of extra¬
ordinary beauty,
and from the pic¬
ture some faint
idea of the love¬
liness of the
actual scene may
be obtained. The
voyagers were
now over French
soil, and right
below the clouds
in our illustration
is the Valley of
the Oignon.
Captain Spelterini was interviewed after his
ascent, and expressed himself as follows:—

“ The balloon at first ascended to a height
of 2,500 metres. I sought a favourable wind-
current, but I was taken to the north-west
and driven over the Diablerets and the
Glacier of the Fleuron, at an altitude of
4,500 metres. Then we mounted perpen¬
dicularly over the Rochers de Naye, and over
Oron we sailed 6,300 metres high, the tem¬
perature being 2ideg. Centigrade below zero.
We were then 2,100 metres higher than the
summit of the Jungfrau. The view over the
whole of Switzerland was of immense grandeur.
Towards the west all was bright. On the

6.—OVER THE CREUX DE CHAMP.

OVER THE ALPS IN A BALLOON.

179

7.—CLOUDS ON ALPINE SUMMITS. FROM AN ELEVATION OF OVER 2 1 / 2 MILES.

east Rigi, Pilatus,
and Saintes reared
their heads above
the seas of cloud.

We suffered but
little from the cold,
scarcely shivered, in
fact; but we felt
sleepy. For a long
time the balloon
hovered above the
mountains to a
height exceeding
5,000 metres, and
travelled at about
fifteen metres per
second. When over
Le Grey, near Be-
sancon, the ‘Vega’
again attained an
altitude of 6,300
metres, or 20,670ft.

From that point we
sought a landing - place, and the balloon
eventually descended at 4.30 p.m. in a field
between Langres and Dijon, in the Cote
d’Or. A strong east wind was blowing, but
after some dragging the anchor held fast, and
we all landed in safety.”

The photographs of mountain scenery and
of Swiss towns, taken by Captain Spelterini,
are the finest of their kind in existence. The
point of view from which they were taken, in
order that they might be of the greatest use

for cartography, geography, and geology, was
carefully planned and thought out before
the balloon started on its journey.

During the voyage frequent observations
were made simultaneously at the Swiss
meteorological stations, and by various
instruments (such as registering aneroid
barometers and controlling quicksilver baro¬
meters) carried in the balloon itself. By
this plan the differences of the direction
and rapidity of the wind in the various high

8.—THE RHONE, NEAR MARTIGNV,

i So

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

9.—APPROACHING LAKE GENEVA.

strata of air were obtained. Careful obser¬
vations were made from the air-ship as to
the humidity, temperature, air-pressure, the
radiation of solar heat, the colour pheno¬
mena of the atmosphere, the various strata
of vapour, and the formation of clouds.

Dr. Maurer, Director of the Meteorological
Institute at Zurich, who accompanied Captain
Spelterini on his journey, has been good
enough to write for The Strand Magazine

a little account of
the voyage of the
“Vega” over the
Alps, and some ex¬
tracts from this may
here be given. Dr.
Maurer remarks that
for a journey such
as this it was neces¬
sary to have the very
latest balloon fittings
and material, and
that the purest hy¬
drogen gas had to
be used.

“ A special com-
missioner was
appointed to decide
upon the route to
be taken and to fix
upon the starting-
point, and the advice
of experts in meteo¬
rology, geology,
geography, and photography was requisitioned.
A special balloon of great size was constructed
in the factory of George Besagon, at Paris,
for the purpose of the expedition. Great
care was taken in its manufacture, and no
fewer than 6,336 different pieces of silk were
used. The dimensions were as follows:
Diameter, 60ft. 3m.; contents, 115,414

cubic feet; weight of balloon, basket, and
network, about 2,o2olb. ; carrying power,

OVER THE ALPS IN A BALLOON.

181

7,4oolb. The
‘Vega 5 contained
3,268 cubic
metres of gas,
was nearly 200ft.
in height, and
two tons of bal¬
last were carried.

The car con¬
tained a com¬
plete set of ob¬
servatory fittings
wherewith to
register and
record perma¬
nently important
meteorological
observations on
air-pressure, tem¬
perature, and
moisture.

“ The direct¬
ing of the ‘Vega 5
and the photo¬
graphic work

were intrusted to Captain Spelterini.
myself (viz., Dr. Maurer) accompanied the
expedition as special scientific observer of
meteorological phenomena. Professor Heim,
of Zurich, and Dr. Biedermann, of Warsaw,
a former pupil of Professor Pleim, made up
the party. Captain Spelterini’s original inten¬

tion was to start towards the latter end of
September, as from former experiments it
had been found that a suitable south-westerly
wind blowing over the Alpine crest might
then be expected.

“ Sion was chosen as the place of ascent,
because if the expected south-westerly wind

ir.—THE RHONE NEAR THE LAKE.

I

12. —THE RHONE ENTERING THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

182

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

13.—YVERDON, ON LAKE NEUCHATEL.

were to fail it would at least be possible to pass
over some of the other glacial stretches of
Switzerland. Much sympathy and interest
at home and abroad were shown in this
remarkable expedition, the International
Aeronautical Commission arranging for simul¬
taneous scientific ascents to take place at as
many European centres as possible. Pas¬
senger balloons rose simultaneously from the
Trappe Observatory, near Paris, and also
from Munich, Vienna, Berlin, and St. Peters¬
burg. Balloons without passengers, but
carrying recording instruments, were also
sent from Sion and St. Petersburg, and were
destined to reach specially high altitudes.

“ The ‘ Vega ’ was ready at Sion on the
2nd of October, 1898, but only on Monday,
October 3rd, at 8 a.m., did messages arrive
from the Meteorological Institute and moun¬
tain stations on Pilatus and Saintes to the
effect that the atmospheric prospects were
considered favourable. Immediately Pro¬
fessor D. Hergesell, President of the Aero¬
nautical Commission, telegraphed to the
various International stations throughout
Europe that the other balloons were to be
liberated on the stroke of 11 a.m. on the
same day.

“ The weather on the day of the ascent was
magnificent, and a great crowd assembled to
see the ‘Vega’ start, for immense interest

had been aroused in this daring attempt to
cross the Alps. At 10.53 M. Surcouf, the
Paris engineer who had superintended the
filling of the balloon with hydrogen, gave
the order to let go. Immediately it shot
upwards in a straight line to a great height,
while the crowd below gave us a right good
send off.

“The ‘Vega’ was seized by air-currents
and driven in a north-westerly direction
towards the Diablerets. The Matterhorn
and Monte Rosa bowed their snowy heads
to us as we were whirled along, and through
broken seas of clouds we obtained glimpses
of nearly the whole of Northern Switzerland
as far as Saintes, whilst Pilatus, Rigi, and
other giants towered high above the sea of
clouds. Far ahead of us lay the mountains of
the Bernese Oberland, Jungfrau, Monch, and
Finster-Aarhorn, partly hidden by clouds, yet
recognisable. At 12.40 we had risen to
nearly 6,000ft., and the barometer registered
17deg. C. I began to feel weaker, little by
little; an almost overpowering desire for
sleep possessed me, and I had to rouse myself
with a will. My pulse increased rapidly. I
seized the tube that led from the oxygen-
cylinder, and inhaled the life-giving gas
deep into my lungs. The headache and heart-
thrilling ceased like magic, and I became
myself once more.

OVER THE ALPS IN A BALLOON

“ Looking round at my companions I saw
that Professor Heim’s beard was one mass of
icicles and his usually fresh complexion was
as yellow as wax. Captain Spelterini’s com¬
plexion assumed a dark-brown hue; his
usually powerful voice sounded hollow and
toneless, not unlike a voice from another
world. The silence was almost unbearable
and painful in its intensity. A little after
four o’clock we decided to descend, and it
was only when the ‘Vega ’ began to seek lower
regions that I noticed how cold it must have
been in spite of the beautiful sunshine we
had enjoyed. My fingers were numbed with
the cold. We descended speedily, however,
as the rapid falling of the barometer showed.
Two bags of ballast were thrown overboard,

183'

My neighbour on the right and I grasped
the ropes above our heads and lifted
ourselves as best we could, whilst the cap¬
tain again pulled the valve-strings, and the
gas escaped with a tremendous hiss. The
car struck mother earth with considerable
force, and the ‘Vega’ lifted itself once more
and dragged us yet farther; we experienced
more bumps and then a tremendous pull, the
anchor held fast, and we were safe, while the
instruments escaped with but slight injuries.

“We came down on French soil at Riviere
les Fosses at 4.30. The direct north-westerly
route of the ‘Vega’ measured 232 kilo¬
metres, and this distance was covered in
5hrs. 42min. The average speed of the whole
voyage was about 11*3 metres per second.

14.—CLOUDS ABOVE THE VALLEY OF OIGNON—FROM AN ELEVATION OF OVER 4 MILES.

covering both instruments and passengers
with a fine layer of sand, as the ‘Vega’ fell
ever so much quicker than the fine sand
which our bags contained. The earth seemed
to fly towards us with amazing rapidity.

“Captain Spelterini’s sharp eye had quickly
chosen an advantageous landing-place, and
the anchor was thrown. I proceeded to
pack up the various instruments, when Spel-
terini cried out, ‘Beware, we are bumping!’

The lowest temperature recorded (at an
altitude of 6,400 metres) was 2ideg. below
zero.

“ Never before has a balloon been known
to travel in a direct horizontal line for so
long a distance, considering the great altitude
of nearly 7,000 metres. Needless to add,
the wonders of the journey will never be
forgotten by those who had the good fortune
to accomplish it, so long as they live.”

In our former article, entitled “Switzerland From a Balloon,” it was erroneously stated that the greatest height
attained by Captain Spelterini was 2,500 metres ; the correct figures were 6,800 metres.

Hilda Wade.

By Grant Allen.

VI.—THE EPISODE OF THE LETTER WITH THE BASINGSTOKE POST¬
MARK.

HAVE a vast respect for my
grandfather. He was a man
of forethought. Pie left me a
modest little income of seven
hundred a year, well invested.
Now, seven hundred a year is
not exactly wealth; but it is an unobtrusive
competence: it permits a bachelor to move
about the world and choose at will his own
profession. I chose medicine : but I was
not wholly dependent upon it. So I
honoured my grandfather’s wise disposition
of his worldly goods : though, oddly enough,
my cousin Tom (to whom he left his watch
and five hundred pounds) speaks most dis¬
respectfully of his character and intellect.

Thanks to my grandfather’s silken-sailed
barque, therefore, when I found myself
practically dismissed from Nathaniel’s, I was
not thrown on my beam-ends, as most young
men in my position would have been : I
had time and opportunity for the favourite
pastime of looking about me. Of course,
had I chosen, I might have fought the case
to the bitter end against Sebastian : he could
not dismiss me—that lay with the committee.
But I hardly cared to fight. In the first
place, though I had found him out as a man,
I still respected him as a great teacher : and

‘over a reflective pipe.

in the second place (which is always more
important), I wanted to find and follow Hilda.

To be sure, Hilda, in that enigmatic letter
of hers, had implored me not to seek her
out: but I think you will admit there is one
request which no man can grant to the girl
he loves—and that is the request to keep
away from her. If Hilda did not want me , I
wanted Hilda: and being a man, I meant to
find her.

My chances of discovering her where¬
abouts, however, I had to confess to myself
(when it came to the point) were extremely
slender. She had vanished from my horizon,
melted into space: my sole hint of a clue
consisted in the fact that the letter she sent
me had been posted at Basingstoke. Here
then was my problem: given an envelope
with the Basingstoke postmark, to find in
what part of Europe, Asia, Africa, or America
the writer of it might be discovered. It
opened up a fine field for speculation.

When I set out to face this broad puzzle,
my first idea was: “I must ask Hilda.”
In all circumstances of difficulty I had
grown accustomed to submitting my doubts
and surmises to her acute intelligence; and
her instinct almost always supplied the right
solution. But now Hilda was gone; it was
Hilda herself I wished to
track through the labyrinth
of the world; I could ex¬
pect no assistance in track¬
ing her from Hilda.

“Let me think,” I said
to myself, over a reflective
pipe, with feet poised on
the fender. “ How would
Hilda herself have ap¬
proached this problem ?
Imagine I’m Hilda. I must
try to strike a trail by ap¬
plying her own methods
to her own character.
She would have at¬
tacked the question, no
doubt”—here I eyed
my pipe wisely—“ from
the psychological side :
she would have asked
herself”—I stroked my chin—“what
such a temperament as hers was likely
to do under such-and-such circum-

HILDA WADE.

185

stances. And she would have answered it
aright. But then ”—I puffed away once or
twice— “ she is Hilda.”

When I came to reconnoitre the matter in
this light, I became at once aware how great
a gulf separated the clumsy male intelligence
from the immediate and almost unerring
intuitions of a clever woman. I am con¬
sidered no fool: in my own profession, I
may venture to say, I was Sebastian’s favourite
pupil. Yet, though I asked myself over and
over again where Hilda would be likely to
go—Canada, China, Australia—as the out¬
come of her character, in these given con¬
ditions, I got no answer. I stared at the fire
and reflected. I smoked two successive
pipes, and shook out the ashes. “ Let me
consider how Hilda’s temperament would
work,” I said, looking sagacious. I said it
several times—but there 1 stuck. I went
no further. The solution would not come.
I felt that in order to play Hilda’s part it
was necessary first to have Hilda’s head-
piece. Not every man can bend the bow of
Ulysses.

As I turned the problem over in my mind,
however, one phrase at last came back to me
—a phrase which Hilda herself had let fall
when we were debating a very similar point
about poor Hugo Le Geyt : “ If I were in
his place, what do you think I would do ?—
why, hide myself at once in the greenest
recesses of our Carnarvonshire mountains.”

She must have gone to Wales, then. I

had her own authority for saying so.

And yet—Wales ? Wales ? I pulled myself
up with a jerk : in that case, how did she
come to be passing by Basingstoke ?

Was the postmark a blind ? Had she hired
someone to take the letter somewhere for her,
on purpose to put me off on a false track ?
I could hardly think so. Besides, the time
was against it. I saw Hilda at Nathaniel’s
in the morning: the very same evening I
received the envelope with the Basingstoke
postmark.

“ If I were in his place ” : yes, true ; but,
now I come to think on it, we?*e the positions
really parallel ? Hilda was not flying for her
life from justices she was only endeavouring
to escape Sebastian—and myself. The
instances she had quoted of the mountaineer’s
curious homing instinct—the wild yearning
he feels at moments of great straits to bury
himself among the nooks of his native hills—
were they not all instances of murderers
pursued by the police ? It was abject terror
that drove these men to their burrows. But
Hilda was not a murderer: she was not

Vol. xviii.— 24 .

dogged by remorse, despair, or the myrmidons
of the law : it was murder she was avoiding,
not the punishment of murder. That made,
of course, an obvious difference. “ Irrevoc¬
ably far from London,” she said. Wales is a
suburb. I gave up the idea that it was likely
to prove her place of refuge from the two
men she was bent on escaping. Hong-Kong,
after all, seemed more probable than
Llanberis.

That first failure gave me a clue, however,
as to the best way of applying Hilda’s own
methods. “ What would such a person do
under the circumstances ? ” that was her way
of putting the question. Clearly, then, I
must first decide what were the circumstances.
Was Sebastian speaking the truth? Was
Hilda Wade, or was she not, the daughter
of the supposed murderer, Dr. Yorke-
Bannerman ?

I looked up as much of the case as I could,
in unobtrusive ways, among the old law-
reports, and found that the barrister who had
had charge of the defence was my father’s old
friend, Mr. Horace Mayfield, a man of elegant
tastes, and the means to gratify them.

I went to call on him on Sunday evening at
his artistically luxurious house in Onslow
Gardens. A sedate footman answered the
bell. Fortunately, Mr. Mayfield was at home,
and, what is rarer, disengaged. You do not
always find a successful Q.C. at his ease
among his books, beneath the electric light,
ready to give up a vacant hour to friendly
colloquy.

“ Remember Yorke-Bannerman’s case ?” he
said, a huge smile breaking slowly like a wave
over his genial fat face—Horace Mayfield re¬
sembles a great good-humoured toad, with
bland manners and a capacious double chin
—“I should just say I did! Bless my soul
—why, yes,” he beamed, “ I was Yorke-
Bannerman’s counsel. Excellent fellow,
Yorke-Bannerman—most unfortunate end,
though—precious clever chap, too! Had
an astounding memory. Recollected every
symptom of every patient he ever attended.
And such an eye ! Diagnosis ? It was clair¬
voyance ! A gift—no less. Knew what was
the matter with you the moment he looked
at you.”

I hat sounded like Hilda. The same sur¬
prising power of recalling facts : the same
keen faculty for interpreting character or the
signs of feeling. “ He poisoned somebody,
I believe,” I murmured, casually. “An
uncle of his, or something.”

Mayfield’s great squat face wrinkled : the
double chin, folding down on the neck.

i86

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

became more ostentatiously double than
ever. “ Well, I can’t admit that,” he said, in
his suave voice, twirling the string of his eye¬
glass. “ I was Yorke-Bannerman’s advocate,
you see; and therefore I was paid not to
admit it. Besides, he was a friend of mine,
and I always liked him. But I ivill allow that
the case did look a trifle black against him.”

“ Ha ? Looked black, did it ? ” I faltered.

The judicious barrister shrugged his
shoulders. A genial smile spread oilily once
more over his smooth face. “ None of my
business to say so,” he answered, puckering
the corners of his eyes. “ Still, it was a long
time ago : and the circumstances certainly
were suspicious. Perhaps on the whole,
Hubert, it was just as well the poor fellow
died before the trial came off: otherwise ”—
he pouted his lips—“ I might have had my
work cut out to save him.” And he eyed
the blue china gods on the mantelpiece
affectionately.

“ I believe the Crown urged money as the
motive,” I suggested.

Mayfield glanced inquiry at me. “ Now,
why do you want to know all this ? ” he asked,
in a suspicious voice, coming back from his
dragons. “ It is irregular, very, to worm
information out of an innocent barrister in
his hours of ease about a former client. We
are a guileless race, we lawyers : don’t abuse
our confidence.”

He seemed an honest man, I thought, in
spite of his mocking tone. I trusted him,
and made a clean breast of it. “ I believe,”
I answered, with an impressive little pause,
“I want to marry Yorke-Bannerman’s
daughter.”

He gave a quick start. “ What, Maisie ? ”
he exclaimed.

I shook my head. “No, no; that is not
the name,” I replied.

He hesitated a moment. “ But there is
no other,” he hazarded cautiously at last.
“ I knew the family.”

“ I am not sure of it,” I went on. “ I
have merely my suspicions. I am in love
with a girl, and something about her makes
me think she is probably a Yorke-Banner-
man.”

“ But, my dear Hubert, if that is so,” the
great lawyer went on, waving me off with one
fat hand, “it must be at once apparent to
you that / am the last person on earth to
whom you ought to apply for information.
Remember my oath. The practice of our
clan : the seal of secrecy ! ”

I was frank once more. “ I do not know
whether the lady I mean is or is not Yorke-

Bannerman’s daughter,” I persisted. “She
may be, and she may not. She gives another
name—-that’s certain. But whether she is or
isn’t, one thing I know—I mean to marry her.

I believe in her : I trust her. I only seek to
gain this information now because I don’t
know where she is—and I want to track her.”

He crossed his big hands with an air of
Christian resignation, and looked up at the
panels of the coffered ceiling. “ In that,” he
answered, “ I may honestly say, I can’t help
you. Humbug apart, I have not known Mrs.
Yorke - Bannerman’s address — or Maisie’s
either—ever since my poor friend’s death.
Prudent woman, Mrs. Yorke-Bannerman !
She went away, I believe, to somewhere in
North Wales, and afterwards to Brittany.
But she probably changed her name : and—
she did not confide in me.”

I went on to ask him a few questions
about the case, premising that I did so in
the most friendly spirit. “ Oh, I can only
tell you what is publicly known,” he answered,
beaming, with the usual professional pretence
of the most sphinx-like reticence. “ But the
plain facts, as universally admitted, were
these. I break no confidence. Yorke-
Bannerman had a rich uncle from whom he
had expectations—a certain Admiral Scott
Prideaux. This uncle had lately made a will
in Yorke-Bannerman’s favour; but he was a
cantankerous old chap—naval, you know—
autocratic—crusty—given to changing his
mind with each change of the wind, and
easily offended by his relations—the sort of
cheerful old party who makes a new will once
every month, disinheriting the nephew he
last dined with. Well, one day the Admiral
was taken ill at his own house, and Yorke-
Bannerman attended him. Our contention
was—I speak now as my old friend’s counsel
—that Scott Prideaux, getting as tired of life
as we were all tired of him, and weary of
this recurrent worry of will-making, deter¬
mined at last to clear out for good from a
world where he was so little appreciated, and,
therefore, tried to poison himself.”

“With aconitine?” I suggested, eagerly.

“ Unfortunately, yes: he made use of
aconitine for that otherwise laudable
purpose. Now, as ill luck would have it”—
Mayfield’s wrinkles deepened — “Yorke-
Bannerman and Sebastian, then two rising
doctors engaged in physiological researches
together, had just been occupied in experi¬
menting upon this very drug—testing the
use of aconitine—indeed, you will no doubt
remember ”—he crossed his fat hands again
comfortably—“ it was these precise researches

HILDA WADE.

1S7

"THE ADMIRAL WAS TAKEN ILL.’

on a then little-known poison that first
brought Sebastian prominently before the
public. WHat was the consequence ? ” His
smooth, persuasive voice flowed on as if I
were a concentrated jury. “The Admiral
grew rapidly worse, and insisted upon calling
in a second opinion. No doubt he didn’t
like the aconitine when it came to the pinch
•—for it does pinch, I can tell you—and
repented him of his evil. Yorke-Bannerman
suggested Sebastian as the second opinion ;
the uncle acquiesced; Sebastian was called
in, and, of course, being fresh from his
researches, immediately recognised the
symptoms of aconitine poisoning.*’

“ What, Sebastian found it out ? ” I cried,
starting.

“ Oh, yes. Sebastian. He watched the
case from that point to the end; and the
oddest part of it all was this—that though he
communicated with the police, and himself
prepared every morsel of food that the poor
old Admiral took from that moment forth,
the symptoms continually increased in
severity. The police contention was that
Yorke-Bannerman somehow managed to put
the stuff into the milk beforehand ; my own
theory was—as counsel for the accused ”—
he blinked his fat eyes—“ that old Prideaux
had concealed a large quantity of aconitine
in the bed, before his illness, and went on
taking it from time to time—just to spite his
nephew.”

“ And you believe that, Mr. Mayfield ? ”

The broad smile broke concentrically in

ripples over the great
lawyer’s face. His
smile was Mayfield’s
main feature. He
shrugged his shoul¬
ders and expanded
his big hands wide
open before him.
“ My dear Hubert,”
he said, with a most
humorous expres¬
sion of countenance,
“ you are a profes¬
sional man yourself:
therefore you know
that every profession
has its own little
courtesies—its own
small fictions. I
was Yorke-Bannerman’s counsel as well
as his friend. ’Tis a point of honour
with us that no barrister will ever admit
a doubt as to a client’s innocence—is
he not paid to maintain it?—and to my
dying day I will constantly maintain that old
Prideaux poisoned himself. Maintain it with
that dogged and meaningless obstinacy with
which we always cling to whatever is least
provable. . . . Oh, yes. He poisoned
himself. And Yorke-Bannerman was inno¬
cent. ... But still, you know, it was the
sort of case where an acute lawyer, with a
reputation to make, would prefer to be for
the Crown rather than for the prisoner.”

“ But it was never tried,” I ejaculated.

“No, happily for us, it was never tried.
Fortune favoured us. Yorke - Bannerman
had a weak heart, a conveniently weak heart,
which the inquest sorely affected : and
besides, he was deeply angry at what he
persisted in calling Sebastian’s defection.
He evidently thought Sebastian ought to
have stood by him. His colleague preferred
the claims of public duty—as he understood
them, I mean—to those of private friendship.
It was a very sad case—for Yorke-Banner¬
man was really a 'charming fellow. But I
confess I was relieved when he died unex¬
pectedly on the morning of his arrest. It
took off my shoulders a most serious burden.”

“•You think, then, the case would have
gone against him ? ”

“ My dear Hubert,” his whole face
puckered with an indulgent smile. “ Of
course the case must have gone against
us. Juries are fools, but they are not
such fools as to swallow everything—
like ostriches : to let me throw dust in
their eyes about so plain an issue. Con-

188

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

sider the facts, consider them impartially :
Yorke-Bannerman had easy access to aconi¬
tine, had whole ounces of it in his possession:
he treated the uncle from whom he was to
inherit: he was in temporary embarrassments
—that came out at the inquest: it was
known that the Admiral had just made a
twenty-third will in his favour, and that the
Admiral’s wills were liable to alteration every
time a nephew ventured upon an opinion in
politics, religion, science, navigation, or the
right card at whist, differing by a shade from
that of the uncle. The Admiral died of
aconitine poisoning : and Sebastian observed
and detailed the symptoms. Could anything
be plainer—I mean, could any combination
of fortuitous circumstances ”—he blinked
pleasantly again—“ be more adverse to an
advocate sincerely convinced of his client’s
innocence—as a professional duty?” And
he gazed at me comically.

The more he piled up the case against the
man who I now felt sure was Hilda’s father,
the less did I believe him. A
dark conspiracy seemed to
loom up in the background.

“ Has it ever occurred to you,”

I asked at last, in a very
tentative tone, “ that per¬
haps—I throw out the hint
as the merest suggestion
—perhaps it may have
been Sebastian who-”

He smiled this time till
I thought his smile
would swallow him.

“ If Yorke - Ban-
nerman had not been
my client,” he mused
aloud, “I might have
been inclined to
suspect rather that
Sebastian aided him
to avoid justice by
giving him some¬
thing violent to take,
if he wished it :
something which
might accelerate the

inevitable action of the heart-disease from
which he was suffering. Isn’t that more
likely ? ”

I saw there was nothing further to be got
out of Mayfield. His opinion was fixed : he
was a placid ruminant. But he had given
me already much food for thought. I
thanked him for his assistance, and returned
on foot to my rooms at the hospital.

I was now, however, in a somewhat

different position for tracking Hilda from
that which I occupied before my interview
with the famous counsel. I felt certain by
this time that Hilda Wade and Maisie Yorke-
Bannerman were one and the same person.
To be sure, it gave me a twinge to think that
Hilda should be masquerading under an
assumed name: but I waived that question
for the moment, and awaited her explanations.
The great point now was to find Hilda.
She was flying from Sebastian to mature a
new plan. But whither? I proceeded to
argue it out on her own principles, oh, how
lamely! The world is still so big ! Mauritius,
the Argentine, British Columbia, New
Zealand!

The letter I had received bore the Basing¬
stoke postmark. Now, a person may be
passing Basingstoke on his way either to
Southampton or Plymouth, both of which
are ports of embarcation for various foreign
countries. I attached importance to that
clue. Something about the tone of Hilda’s

I THOUGHT HIS SMILE WOULD SWALLOW HIM.

letter made me
realize that she
intended to
put the sea
between us.
In concluding
so much, I felt
sure I was not

mistaken. Hilda had too big and too cosmo¬
politan a mind to speak of being “irrevocably
far from London,” if she were only going to
some town in England, or even to Normandy
or the Channel Islands. “ Irrevocably far ”
pointed rather to a destination outside Europe
altogether—to India, Africa, America, not to
Jersey, Dieppe, or Saint-Malo.

Was it Southampton’or Plymouth to which
she was first bound?—that was the next

HILDA

WADE.

189

y'* "*;■ ''

tMmMmm Wkm

\

:

question. I inclined to Southampton. For
the sprawling lines (so different from her usual
neat hand) were written hurriedly in a train,
I could see: and on consulting Bradshaw,
I found that the Plymouth expresses stop
longest at Salisbury, where Hilda would
therefore have been likely to post her note
if she were going to the far west: while
some of the Southampton trains stop at
Basingstoke, which is indeed the most con¬
venient point on that route for sending off
a letter. This was
mere blind guess¬
work, to be sure,
compared with
Hilda’s immediate
and unerring intui¬
tion : but it had
some probability in
its favour, at any
rate. Try both :
of the two, she was
likeliest to be going
to Southampton.

My next move
was to consult the
list of outgoing
steamers. Hilda
had left London on
a Saturday morn¬
ing. Now, on alternate
steamers of the Castle
Southampton, where they call to take up
passengers and mails. Was this one of
these alternate Saturdays ? I looked at
the list of dates : it was. That told further
in favour of Southampton. But did any
steamer of any passenger line sail from
Plymouth on the same day? None, that I
could find. Or from Southampton else¬

where ? I looked them all up. The Royal
Mail Company’s boats start on Wednesdays :
the North German Lloyd’s on Wednesdays
and Sundays. Those were the only likely
vessels I could discover. Either, then, I
concluded, Hilda meant to sail on Saturday
by the Castle Line for South Africa, or else
on Sunday by North German Lloyd for some
part of America.

How I longed for one hour of Hilda to
help me out with her almost infallible instinct.

I lealized how feeble and fallacious was my
own groping in the dark. Her knowledge of
temperament would have revealed to her at
once what I was trying to discover, like the
police she despised, by the clumsy “ clues ”
which so roused her sarcasm.

However, I went to bed and slept on it.
Next morning, I determined to set out for

THE BASINGSTOKE POSTMARK.

Saturdays, the
Line sail from

Southampton on a tour of inquiry to all the
steamboat agencies. If that failed, I could
go on to Plymouth.

But, as chance would have it, the morning
post brought me an unexpected letter, which
helped me not a little in unravelling the
problem. It was a crumpled letter, written
on rather soiled paper, in an uneducated
hand, and it bore, like Hilda’s, the Basing¬
stoke postmark.

“Charlotte Churtwood sends her duty to Dr.

Cumberledge,” it
said, with somewhat
uncertain spelling,
“ and I am very
sorry that I was
not able to Post
the letter to you
in London, as the
lady ast me, but
after her train ad
left has I was step¬
ping into mine the
Engine started and
I was knocked
down and badly
hurt and the lady
give me a half-
sovering to Post it
in London has
soon as I got there but bein unable to
do so I now return it dear sir not know¬
ing the lady’s name and adress she
having trusted me through seeing me on the
platform, and perhaps you can send it back
to her, and was very sorry I could not Post
it were she ast me, but time bein an objeck
put it in the box in Basingstoke station and
now inclose post office order for ten Shillings
whitch dear sir kindly let the young lady
have from your obedient servant, Charlotte
Churtwood. ’ In the corner was the address,
“it, Chubb’s Cottages, Basingstoke.”

1 he happy accident of this letter advanced
things for me greatly—though it also made
me feel how dependent I was upon happy
accidents, where Hilda would have guessed
right at once by mere knowledge of character.
Still, the letter explained many things which
had hitherto puzzled me. I had felt not a
little surprise that Hilda, wishing to with¬
draw from me and leave no traces, should
have sent off her farewell letter from Basing¬
stoke—so as to let me see at once in what
dilection she was travelling. Nay, I even
wondered at times whether she had really
posted it herself at Basingstoke, or given it
to somebody who chanced to be goins: there
to post for her as a blind. But I did not

190

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

think she would deliberately deceive me;
and, in my opinion, to get a letter posted at
Basingstoke would be deliberate deception,
while to get it posted in London was mere
vague precaution. I understood now that
she had written it in the train, and then
picked out a likely person as she passed to
take it to Waterloo for her.

Of course I went straight down to Basing¬
stoke, and called at once at Chubb’s Cottages.
It was a squalid little row on the outskirts of
the towm. I found Charlotte Churt-
wood herself exactly such a girl as
Hilda, with her quick judgment of
character, might have hit .upon for
such a purpose. She was a conspicu¬
ously honest and transparent country
servant, of the lumpy type, on her
way to London to take a place
as housemaid. Her injuries
were severe, but not dangerous.

“ The lady saw me on the
platform,” she said, “ and
beckoned to me to come to
her. She ast me where I was
going, and I says, ‘ To London,
miss.’ Says she, smiling kind¬
like, ‘ Could you post a letter
for me, certain sure ? ’ Says
I, ‘You can depend upon me.’

An’ then she give me the
’arf-sovering, an’ says, says she,

‘ Mind, it’s very partickler: if the gentleman
don’t get it, ’e’ll fret ’is ’eart out.’ An’
through ’aving a young man o’ my own, as is
a groom at Andover, o’ course I understood
’er, sir. An’ then, feeling all full of it, as you
may say, what with the arf-sovering, and
what with one thing and what with another,
an’ all of a fluster with not being used to
travelling, I run up, when the train for
London come in, an’ tried to scramble into
it, afore it ’ad quite stopped moving. An’ a
guard, ’e rushes up, an’ ‘ Stand back ! ’ says
’e; ‘ wait till the train stops ! ’ says ’e, an’
waves his red flag at me. But afore I could
stand back, with one foot on the step, the
train sort of jumped away from me, and
knocked me down like this : and they say
it’ll be a week now afore I’m well enough to
go on to London. But I posted the letter
all the same, at Basingstoke station, as
they was carrying me off: an’ I took
down the address, so as to return the arf-
sovering.”

Hilda was right, as always. She had chosen
instinctively the trustworthy person. Chosen
her at first sight, and hit the bull’s-eye.

“ Do you know what train the lady was

in ? ” I asked, as she paused. “ Where was
it going, did you notice ? ”

“It was the Southampton train, sir. I saw
the board on the carriage.”

That settled the question. “ You are a
good and an honest girl,” I said, pulling out
my purse : “ and you came to this misfortune
through trying—too eagerly—to help the
young lady. A ten-pound note is not over
much as compensation for your accident.
Take it, and get well. I should be sorry to

SHE AST ME WHERE I WAS GOING.

think you lost a good place through your
anxiety to help us.”

The rest of my way was plain sailing now.
I hurried on straight to Southampton.
There, my first visit was to the office of the
Castle Line. I went to the point at once.
Was there a Miss Wade among the passengers
by the Dunottar Castle ?

No : nobody of that name on the list.

Had any lady taken a passage at the last
moment ?

The clerk perpended. Yes : a lady had
come by the mail train from London, with
no heavy baggage, and had gone on board
direct, taking what cabin she could get. A
young lady in grey. Quite unprepared.
Gave no name. Called away in a hurry.

What sort of lady?

HILDA WADE.

Youngish : good-looking: brown hair and
eyes, the clerk thought: a sort of creamy
skin : and a—well, a mesmeric kind of
glance that seemed to go right through you.

“ That will do,” I answered, sure now of
my quarry. “To which port did she book ? ”

“To Cape Town.”

“Very well,” I said, promptly. “You may
reserve me a good berth in the next outgoing
steamer.”

It was just like Hilda’s impulsive character
to rush off in this way at a moment’s notice.
And just like mine to follow her. But it
piqued me a little to think that but for the
accident of an accident I might never have
tracked her down. If the letter had been
posted in London as she intended, and not
at Basingstoke, I might have sought in vain
for her from then till Doomsday.

Ten days later, I was afloat on the Channel,
bound for South Africa.

I always admired Hilda’s astonishing
insight into character and motive : but I
never admired it quite so profoundly as on
the glorious day when we arrived at Cape
Town. I was standing on deck, looking out
for the first time in my life on that tremendous
view—the steep and massive bulk of Table
Mountain, a mere lump of rock, dropped
loose from the sky, with the long white town
spread gleaming at its base, and the silver-
tree plantations that cling to its lower slopes
and merge by degrees into gardens and vine¬
yards—when a messenger from the shore
came up to me tentatively.

“ Dr. Cumberledge ? ” he said, in an
inquiring tone.

I nodded. “ That is my name.”

“ I have a letter for you, sir.”

I took it, in great surprise. Who on earth
in Cape Town could have known I was
coming? I had not a friend to my know¬
ledge in the colony. I glanced at the
envelope. My wonder deepened. That
prescient brain ! It was in Hilda’s hand¬
writing.

I tore it open and read : “My Dear
Hubert, —I know you will come: I know
you will follow me. So I am leaving this
letter at Donald Currie and Co.’s office,
giving their agent instructions to hand it to
you as soon as you reach Cape Town. I am
quite sure you will track me so far at least :
I understand your temperament. But I beg
you, I implore you, to go no further. You
will ruin my plan if you do. And I still
adhere to it. It is good of you to come so
far: I cannot blame you for that. I know
your motives. But do not try to find me

191

out. I warn you beforehand, it will be quite
useless. I have made up my mind. I have
an object in life, and dear as you are to me
—that I will not pretend to deny—I can
never allow even you to interfere with it. So
be warned in time. Go back quietly by the
next steamer.

“ Your ever attached and grateful,

“ Hilda.”

I read it twice through with a little thrill
of joy. Did any man ever court so strange
a love? Her very strangeness drew me.
But go back by the next steamer ! I felt
sure of one thing : Hilda was far too good a
judge of character to believe that I was likely
to obey that mandate.

I will not trouble you with the remaining
stages of my quest. Except for the slowness
of South African mail coaches, they were
comparatively easy. It is not so hard to
track strangers in Cape Town as strangers in
London. I followed Hilda to her hotel, and
from her hotel up country, stage after stage
—jolted by rail, worse jolted by mule-
waggon — inquiring, inquiring, inquiring—
till I learned at last she was somewhere in
Rhodesia.

That is a big address ; but it does not cover
as many names as it covers square miles. In
time, I found her. Still, it took time: and
before we met, Hilda had had leisure to
settle down quietly to her new existence.
People in Rhodesia had noted her coming,
as a new portent, because of one strange
peculiarity. She was the only woman of means
who had ever gone up of her own free will to
Rhodesia. Other women had gone there to
accompany their husbands, or to earn their
livings : but that a lady should freely select
that half-baked land as a place of residence—
a lady of position with all the world before
her where to choose—that puzzled the
Rhodesians. So she was a marked person.
Most people solved the vexed problem,
indeed, by suggesting that she had designs
against the stern celibacy of a leading South
African politician. “ Depend upon it,” they
said, “ it’s Rhodes she’s after.” The moment
I arrived at Salisbury and stated my object
in coming, all the world in the new town was
ready to assist me. The lady was to be
found (vaguely speaking) on a young farm to
the north—a budding farm whose general
direction was expansively indicated to me
by a wave of the arm, with South African
uncertainty.

I bought a pony at Salisbury—a pretty
little seasoned sorrel mare—and set out to
find Hilda. My way lay over a brand-new

192

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

road—or what passes for a road in South
Africa—very soft and lumpy, like an English
cart-track. I am a fair cross-country rider in
our own Midlands, but I never rode a more
tedious journey than that one. I had crawled
several miles under a blazing sun along the
shadeless new track, on my African pony,
when to my surprise I saw, of all sights in
the world, a bicycle coming towards me.

I could hardly believe my eyes. Civiliza¬

the mere sight of a bicycle, bumping over
the rubbly road, was a sufficient surprise: but
my astonishment reached a climax when I
saw as it drew near that it was ridden by a
woman !

One moment later I had burst into a wild
cry, and rode forward to her hurriedly.
“ Hilda ! ” I shouted aloud in my excitement,
“ Hilda ! ”

She stepped lightly from her pedals as if

tion indeed ! A bicycle in these remotest
wilds of Africa !

I had been picking my way for some hours
through a desolate plateau—the high veldt—
about five thousand feet above the sea level,
and entirely treeless. In places, to be sure,
a few low bushes of prickly aspect rose in
tangled clumps; but for the most part the
arid table-land was covered by a thick growth
of short brown grass, about nine inches high,
burnt up in the sun, and most wearisome to
look at. The distressing nakedness of a
new country confronted me. Here and there
a bald farm or two had been literally pegged
out—the pegs were almost all one saw
of them as yet: the fields were in the
future. Here and there, again, a scattered
range of low granite hills, known locally as
kopjes—red, rocky prominences, flaunting in
the sunshine—diversified the distance. But
the road, itself, such as it was, lay all on the
high plain, looking down now and again into
gorges or kloofs, wooded on their slopes with
scrubby trees, and comparatively well-watered.
In the midst of all this crude, unfinished land

it had been in the
park : head erect
and proud : eyes
liquid, lustrous. I
dismounted, trem¬
bling, and stood
beside her. In the
wild joy of the
moment, for the
first time in my
life, I kissed her
fervently. Hilda
took the kiss, unre¬
proving. She did
not attempt to re¬
fuse me.

“ So you have
come at last 1 ” she
murmured, with a
glow on her face,
half nestling
towards me, half
withdrawing, as if
two wills tore her
in different directions. “ I have been
expecting you for some days, and somehow,
to-day, I was almost certain you were
coming ! ”

“ Then you are not angry with me ? ” I
cried. “You remember, you forbid me ! ”
“Angry with you? Dear Hubert, could I
ever be angry with you, especially for thus
showing me your devotion and your trust ?
I am never angry with you. When one
knows, one understands. I have thought of
you so often : sometimes, alone here in this
raw new land, I have longed for you to come.
It is inconsistent of me, of course : but I am
so solitary, so lonely ! ”

“And yet you begged me not to follow
you ! ”

She looked up at me shyly—I was not
accustomed to see Hilda shy. Her eyes
gazed deep into mine beneath the long soft
lashes. “ I begged you not to follow me,”
she repeated, a strange gladness in her tone.
“Yes, dear Hubert, I begged you—and I
meant it. Cannot you understand that some¬
times one hopes a thing may never happen—

HILDA WADE.

*93

*

and is supremely happy because it happens in
spite of one? I have a purpose in life for
which I live : I live for it still: for its sake I
told you you must not come to me. Yet

you have come against my orders : and-”

she paused and drew a deep sigh—“oh,
Hubert, I thank you for daring to disobey
me.”

I clasped her to my bosom. She allowed

: I am too weak,” she

me, half resisting,
murmured. “ Only
this morning I
made up my mind
that when I saw
• you I would im¬
plore you to return
at once. And now
that you are

here-” she laid

her little hand con¬
fidingly in mine—

“ see how foolish
I am ! — I cannot
dismiss you.”

“ Which means
to say, Hilda, that
after all you are
still a woman ! ”

“ A woman : oh,
yes : very much
a woman ! Hu¬
bert, I love you :

I half wish I did
not.”

“Why, dar¬
ling ? ” I drew
her to me.

“ Because—if I did not, I could send you
away—so easily ! As it is—I cannot let you
stop—and .... I cannot dismiss you.”

“Then divide it,” I cried gaily: “do
neither : come away with me ! ”

“No, no: nor that either. I will not
stultify my whole past life : I will not dis¬
honour my dear father’s memory.”

I looked around for something to which to
tether my horse. A bridle is in one’s way—
when one has to discuss important business.
There was really nothing about that seemed
fit for the purpose. Hilda saw what I
sought, and pointed mutely to a stunted
bush beside a big granite boulder which rose
abruptly from the dead level of the grass,
affording a little shade from that sweltering
sunlight. I tied my mare to the gnarled
root—it was the only part big enough—and
sat down by Hilda’s side under the shadow of
a great rock in a thirsty land. I realized at
that moment the force and appropriateness of

Yol. jtviii.— 25.

the Psalmist’s simile. The sun beat fiercely.on
the seeding grasses. Away on the southern
horizon we could faintly perceive the floating
yellow haze of the prairie fires lit by the
Mashonas.

“ Then you knew I would come ? ” I
began, as she seated herself on the burnt-up
herbage, while my hand stole into hers to
nestle there naturally.

She pressed it in return. “ Oh, yes, I

‘THEN VOU KNEW 1 WOULD COME ? *

knew you would come,” she answered, with
that strange ring of confidence in her voice.
“Of course you got my letter at Cape
Town?”

“ I did, Hilda—and I wondered at you
more than ever as I read it. But if you
knew I would come, why write to prevent
me ? ”

Her eyes had their mysterious far-away air.
She looked out upon infinity. “Well, I
wanted to do my best to turn you aside,” she
said, slowly. “ One must always do one’s
best, even when one feels and believes it is
useless. That surely is the first clause in a
doctor’s or a nurse’s rubric.”

“ But why didn’t you want me to come ? ”
I persisted. “ Why fight against your own
heart ? Hilda, I am sure—I k?ioiv you love
me.”

Her bosom rose and fell. Her eyes dilated.
“ Love you ? ” she cried, looking away over
the bushy ridges, as if afraid to trust herself.

194

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

“ Oh, yes, Hubert, I love you. It is not for
that that I wish to avoid you. Or rather, it
is just because of that. I cannot endure
to spoil your life—by a fruitless affection.”

“ Why fruitless ? ” I asked, leaning forward.

She crossed her hands resignedly. “ You
know all by this time,” she answered.

“ Sebastian would tell you, of course, when
you went to announce that you were leaving
Nathaniel’s. He could not do otherwise : it
is the outcome of his temperament—an
integral part of his nature.”

“ Hilda,” I cried, “ you are a witch ! How
could you know that? I can’t imagine.”

She smiled her restrained Chaldean smile.
“Because I know Sebastian,” she answered,
quietly. “ I can read that man to the core.
He is simple as a book. His composition is
plain, straightforward, quite natural, uniform.
There are no twists and turns in him. Once
learn the key, and it discloses everything,
like an open sesame! He has a gigantic
intellect, a burning thirst for knowledge : one
love, one hobby—science : and no moral
instincts. He goes straight for his end's :
and whatever comes in his way,” she dug her
little heel in the brown soil, “ he tramples
on it as ruthlessly as a child will trample on
a worm or a beetle.”

“ And yet,” I said, “ he is so great.”

“ Yes, great I grant you, but the easiest
character to unravel that I have ever met:
it Is calm, austere, unbending, yet not in
the least degree complex. He has the
impassioned temperament, pushed to its
highest pitch: the temperament that runs
deep, with irresistible force : but the passion
that inspires him, that carries him away head¬
long, as love carries some men—is a rare and
abstract one—the passion of science.”

I gazed at her as she spoke, with a feeling
akin to awe. “ It must destroy the plot-
interest of life for you, Hilda,” I cried—out
there in the vast void of that wild African
plateau — “to foresee so well what each
person will do—how each will act under such
given circumstances.”

She pulled a bent of grass and plucked off
its dry spikelets one by one. “ Perhaps so,”
she answered, after a meditative pause;
“though, of course, all natures are not
equally simple. Only with great souls can
you be sure beforehand like that, for good
or for evil. It is essential to anything
worth calling character that one should be
able to predict in what way it will act under
given circumstances—to feel certain, ‘ This
man will do nothing small or mean,’ ‘ That
one could never act dishonestly, or speak

deceitfully.’ But smaller natures are more
complex. They defy analysis, because their
motives are not consistent.”

“ Most people think to be complex is to be
great,” 1 objected.

She shook her head. “ That is quite a
mistake,” she answered. “ Great natures
are simple and relatively predictable, since
their motives balance one another justly.
Small natures are complex and hard to pre¬
dict, because small passions, small jealousies,
small discords and perturbations come in at
all moments, and override for a time the
permanent underlying factors of character.
Great natures, good or bad, are equably
poised : small natures let petty motives inter¬
vene to upset their balance.”

“ Then you knew I would come,” I ex¬
claimed, half pleased to find I belonged
inferentially to her higher category.

Her eyes beamed on me with a beautiful
light. “ Knew you would come ? Oh, yes,

I begged you not to come: but I felt sure
you were too deeply in earnest to obey me.

I asked a friend in Cape Town to telegraph
your arrival: and almost ever since the
telegram reached me I have been expecting
you and awaiting you.”

“ So you believed in me ? ”

“ Implicitly—as you in me. That is the
worst of it, Hubert. If you did not believe
in me I could have told you all—and then,
you would have left me. But, as it is, you
know all—and yet, you want to cling to me.”

“ You know I know all—because Sebastian
told me ? ”

“ Yes : and I think I even know how you
answered him.”

“ How ? ”

She paused. The calm smile lighted up
her face once more. Then she drew out a
pencil. “You think life must lack plot-
interest for me,” she began, slowly, “ because,
with certain natures, I can partially guess
beforehand what is coming. But have you
not observed that, in reading a novel, part ot
the pleasure you feel arises from your con¬
scious anticipation of the end, and your
satisfaction in seeing that you anticipated cor¬
rectly ? Or part, sometimes, from the occa¬
sional unexpectedness of the real denouement ?
Well, life is like that. I enjoy observing my
successes, and, in a way, my failures. Let
me show you what I mean. I think I know
what you said to Sebastian—not the words,
of course, but the purport: and I will write
it down now for you. Set down your
version, too. And then we will compare
them.”

HILDA WADE.

195

It was a crucial test. We both wrote for a
minute or two. Somehow, in Hilda’s
presence, I forgot at once the strangeness of
the scene, the weird oddity of the moment.
That sombre plain disappeared for me. I
was only aware that I was with Hilda once
more—and therefore in Paradise. Pison and
Gihon watered the desolate land. Whatever
she did seemed to me supremely right. If
she had proposed to me to begin a ponderous
work on Medical Jurisprudence under the
shadow of the big rock, I should have begun
it incontinently.

She handed me her slip of paper; I took
. it and read, “Sebastian told you I was Dr.
Yorke- Bannerman’s daughter. And you
answered, ‘If so, Yorke-Bannerman was
innocent, and you are the poisoner.’ Is not
that correct?”

I handed her in answer my own paper.
She read it with a faint flush. When she
came to the words, “ Either she is not Yorke-
Bannerman’s daughter; or else, Yorke-Ban¬
nerman was not a poisoner, and someone else
was—I might put a name to him,”
she. rose to her feet with a great
rush of long-suppressed feeling and
clasped me passionately. “ My
Hubert,” she cried, “ I read you
aright. I knew it ! I was sure of
you ! ”

I folded her in my arms, there
on the rusty-red South African
desert. “ Then, Hilda dear,” I
murmured, “you will consent to
marry me?”

The words brought her back
to herself. She unfolded my arms
with slow reluctance. “No,
dearest,” she said, earnestly, with
a face where pride fought hard
against love. “That is why above
all things I did not want you to
follow me. I love you ; I trust
you: you love me; you trust me.

But I never will marry anyone till
I have succeeded in clearing my
father’s memory. I know he did
not do it: I know Sebastian did.

But that is not enough. I must
prove it, I must prove it ! ”

“ I believe it already,” I an¬
swered. “ What need then to
prove it ? ”

“ To you, Hubert ? Oh, no, not

to you. There, I am safe. But to the
world that condemned him. Condemned him
untried. 1 must vindicate him : I must
clear him ! ”

I bent my face close to hers. “ But may
I not marry you first? ” I asked—“and after
that, I can help you to clear him.”

She gazed at me fearlessly. “ No, no,”
she cried, clasping her hands; “much as I
love you, dear Hubert, I cannot consent to
it. I am too proud, too proud ! I will not
allow the world to say—not even to say
falsely ” — her face flushed crimson ; her
voice dropped low—“ I will not allow them
to say those hateful words, ‘ He married a
murderer’s daughter.’ ”

I bowed my head,
darling,” I answered,
wait. I trust you in
we will prove it.”

"As you will, my
“ I am content to
this too. Some day,

And all this time, preoccupied as I was with
these deeper concerns, I had not even asked
where Hilda lived or what she was doing !

Ml; '

“ MY HUBERT.”

A Peep into “Punch.”

By J. Holt Schooling.

[ The Proprietors of “ Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch's famous pages. ]

Part VIII.—1880 to 1884.

This part contains the first of Mr. Harry Furniss's “ Punch "-drawings.

SUNSET.

I.—BY TENNIEL, 1880.

HE powerful and impressive
Tenniel - cartoon in No. 1 was
published in Punch on May 1,
1880. On April 28th of that
year, Mr. Gladstone again became
Prime Minister, the Conservative
party having been utterly routed at
the General Election. The Liberals
went back to the House of Commons
with a great majority of one hundred
and twenty votes, and Lord Beacons-
field—now near to the end of his life
—saw the sun of his popularity go
down to rise no more. Sir John
Tenniel finely drew the great states¬
man on this bare cliff, lonely and
impressed by his disastrous defeat,
watching across the sea the last gleam
of his setting sun as it drops into the
horizon.

The ten volumes of Punch which
cover the five years now illustrated
(Vols. 78 to 87) are very rich in fine
pictures. Du Maurier, Charles

Natural Religion.— Bishop (reproving delinquent Page).
“ Wretched Boy ! Who is it that sees and hears all we do, and
before whom even l am but as a Crushed Worm ? ”

Page. “ The Missus, my Lord ! ”

2.— BY DU MAURIER, 1880.

of his wonderful books ; but we ought not to
let our appreciation of Punch stop at the

“A Predestinate R.A.”— Mamma {entering). “Now, I'm sure you
Children are in Mischief, you are so quiet!” . . ,

Ethel {in a rapturous Whisper). “ Hush, Ma’! Tommy’s been Paintin
a Spider’s Web on Gran’pa’s Head while he’s asleep, to keep the Flies off! ”
3.— BY CHARI.ES KEENE, 1880.

Keene (the great master of black-and-
white art), Linley Sambourne, Sir John
Tenniel, Mr. A. C. Corbould, and others
are all in full swing; and now, in 1880, Mr.
Harry Furniss comes to add his lustre to
Mr. Punch’s shining band of artists.

It is all very well to laugh with Mr. Punch
at his smart jokes as we turn over the pages

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH,.

197

A Poser.— “It’s not so much a Durable Article that I require, Mr.
Crispin. I want something Dainty , you know—something Coy, and at the
same time just a wee bit Saucy ! ” 7.— by du macrier, 1880.

An After-Thought.— Professional Temperance Orator.
Waiter, have you got any Soda-Water?”

Barman. “ Yessir—plenty, Sir. A Bottle of Soda, Sir?”

■ Pr °I Temp. Orator (ostentatiously). “A Bottle of Soda-
\\ ater, please ; pnd-(sotto voce)—l think you can put a Glass
of Brandy into it !” 6.— by Charles keene, 1880.

Bar “Griffin ” (really a heraldic dragon) which
now marks the ancient standing-place of

poor old Temple
Bar that was
removed from
Fleet Street in
1877 as being
an obstruction to
traffic, and which
now serves as
an entrance to
Theobald’s Park,
near Cheshunt.

In No. 6—by
Keene — the
long, black-
gloved finger of
the Professional
Temperance

5.—THE FIRST “ PUNCH ’’-DRAWING BY MR. HARRY FURNISS )
OCTOBER 30, 1880.

followed in No.
3 by one of
Charles Keene’s
pictures in which
we see the group
of four just
exactly caught,
and drawn with
their surround¬
ings as a piece
of actual life
without a shade
of exaggeration.

There is an¬
other inimitable
Keene - picture

Take away that Bauble ! n

jokes—it is well
to remember that
his pages contain
a gallery of art as
well as a gallery
of jokes. Mr.
Punch’s gallery
of art, through
which we are
n o w h a p p i 1 y
privileged to
stroll, contains,
without excep¬
tion, the most
splendid collec¬
tion of pictures
in black - and -
white that has

Repudiation.— butcher ( rushing out). “ Hey—ess that yoer Doag, Mun*' ’
Donald. Aweel he waus mine ance, hut he’s aye daein’ for hessel ye
innH 4.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1880.

in No. 4. Just
read the joke,
and then enjoy
the picture, com¬
paring the facial
expression of the
two Scots with
the words put
into their mouths
—a first-class
joke and the pic¬
ture a gem.

No. 5 is Mr.
Harry Fu miss’s
first Punch - pic¬
ture ; it refers to
the ugly Temple

ever been got together by anyone.

There is a most amusing bit
Maurier’s social pictorial satire in

of Du
No. 2,

198

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Orator instinctively points his
craftily-managed sotto voce instruc¬
tion to the barman, “ I think you
can put a Glass of Brandy into it! ”

Uncompromising. — The Doctors Daughter.
“ I declare you’re a dreadful Fanatic, Mrs.
McCizzom. 1 do believe you think-nobody will
be saved but you and your Minister ! ”

Old Lady. “ Aweel, ray dear, ah whiles hae
raa doobts aboot the Meenister ! ”

8.—BY CHARLES KEENE, l88o.

Another amusing du Maurier
social satire in No. 7, and then two
first-rate Keene-pictures (both with
funny “cackle”) in Nos. 8 and 9.
The old woman’s face in No. 8 is

-"AND THE MINISTER FLATTERED HIMSELF THAT BOTH THE LITERARY AND THE GRAPHIC ^PRE¬
SENTATIONS OF HIMSELF IN SCARAUOVCH MIGHT POSSIBLY FOR THE FUTURE BE MITIGATED."-Yol. i J

p an, ____ fJA-r..' UtdidfatUr khrmtf

IO.—BY TENNIEL, 1880.

ENDYMION.

an extraordinarily truthful representation of
her character—just look into this face—as
she replies, “ Aweel, my dear, ah whiles hae
ma doobts aboot the Meenister ! ”

A Note and Query.— Wife (given to Literature and the
Drama). “George, what is the meaning of the Expression,
‘Go to!’ you meet with so often in Shakspeare and the old
Dramatists?"

Husband (not a reading Man). “’Don’t know, I'm srre,

Dear, unless- Well,—p’raps he was going to say—but

thought it wouldn’t sound proper ! ”

9.—BY CHARLES KEENE, l88l.

The cartoon in No. 10 shows to us Lord
Beaconsfield presenting to Mr. Punch a copy
of his book “ Endymion,” published at the
close of 1880. Beaconsfield is represented
as Endymion the shepherd who would be
always young, and Mr. Punch’s dog, Toby,
comes to sniff. The words at the bottom of

What It Has Come To. — Mrs. Muggles. “ Well, Doctor,
I don’t know as what’s the matter with Marier since she come
from her last Siterwation in Lunnon. There she sits all Day
a-staring at an old Chiney Dish, which she calls a-going in for
Asthletix!" n.— by harry furniss, 1881.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

1 99

Inductive. — Officer. “How’s this,. Murphy ? The Sergeant complains
that you called him Names !”

Private Murphy. “ Plaze, Surr, I niver called him anny Names at all.
All I said was, ‘ Sergeant,’ says I, ‘ some of us ought to be in a Menagerie!!”
13. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1881.

this cartoon are quoted from the
novel “ Endymion,” Scaramouch
meaning Punch , and they refer to
the rather severe and sometimes con¬
temptuous handling that Beacons-
field had in past times received from
Punch . You observe that Mr. Punch
adds the remark, “ Ahern ! He did
flatter himself ! 55 thus expressing his
intention not to mitigate “for the
future” .... “ the literary and the
graphic representations of ” Lord
Beaconsfield when dealing with the
statesman in Pimch , otherwise Scara¬
mouch. Mr. Punch could never be
flattered into friendship, not even by
so astute a man as Benjamin Disraeli.

In No. ii, Mr. Harry Furniss
gives us an amusing caricature of the
[esthetic craze descended into the kitchen.
The awe-stricken Mrs. Muggles is very good,

THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE LEFT UNSAID.

____ Jones. ** I will ! "

12.—BY DU RIAURIER, l88l.

and so is the quite nonplussed village doctor,
who,, it is clear to see, has “ a case ” that is
quite outside of his experience.

We laugh at du Maurier’s picture No. 12,
but it is certain that poor Jones didn’t. As
we compare the relative degrees of deter¬
mination in the faces of Jones and of his
bride (who “takes after” her father) we
realize that no very long time will pass before

Jones will most heartily indorse du Maurier’s
words, “ Things one would rather have left
unsaid,” and will bitterly regret his “ I
will! ” just now spoken at the altar.

In No. 13 Private Murphy had good
reason for his remark to his sergeant,
although it was rather personal, for we
may be sure that Charles Keene drew this
sergeant from life.

Here is a splendid “ old master ” for
you! A happy conceit indeed of Mr.
Harry Furniss when he drew the picture
in No. 14 1

Du Maurier gives us a good thing in

AN UNDOUBTED OLD MASTER.

_ [By Himself .) _

14.— BY HARRY FURNISS, 1882.

200

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

Cause and Effect. — Eminent Provincial
Tragedian. “ Come hithorr, Sweet One! Your
Mothorr tells me that you shed Teorrs during my
Soliloquy in Exile, last night ! ”

Sweet One. “ Yes, Sir. Mother kept on Pinching
me, ’cause I was so Sleepy ! ”

15.— BY DU MAURIER, 1882.

No. 15 ; one hardly knows which to
admire the more—the drawing of the
Eminent Provincial Tragedian’s face,
or the very cleverly thought-out-and-

Governess Gladdy Blarncystone (to Master Paddy, who is still crying for
the Moon]. “ Come and tell its Gladdy quietly then ! And, if he can’t
have it all, his Gladdy will see if she can give him a little bit of it! ”

17. —BY LINLEY SAMBOURNE, 1882.

'* By Proxy.” — Humorous Little Boy. “ Plea’ Sir, will you Ring the
Bottom Bell but One, Four times, Sir? ”

Old Gent (Gouty, and a little Deaf \ but so fond o' Children). “ Bottom
Bell but One, Four times, my Boy?” (Effusively). “Certainly, that 1
will !” [In the meantime off go the Boys, and, at the Third Peal, the

irritable Old Lady on the Ground Floor - i'A BLEA U ! ]

16. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1882.

even then. But, in No. 16, if one
may venture to point to a thing that
strikes one as being the cleverest part
of this picture, there is the back-view
of the running boy who has just
started to run, after making sure that
the old gentleman quite understands
what he has to do with the bell.

No. 17 is a very fine drawing by
Mr. Linley Sambourne. It refers,
as we see, to the Irish Home Rule
matter which in 1882 was so much
to the fore. Who can say what has
been the effect of this one picture—
which crystallizes the Home Rule
affair into the shape in which it is
regarded by the great majority of
people in this country—upon killing

spelt words of the “cackle”
which are put into his mouth.

In any one of Charles
Keene’s pictures it is not
easy to pick out pieces that
are better than other pieces
of the same picture—he was
not content until the whole
of each picture was as near
perfection as possible, and
probably he was not content

QETT1NQ QLAJDSTQNE'fl COLLAR UP.

l8.—MR. HARRY FURNISS’S DEVELOPMENT OF THE FAMOUS GLADSTONErCOLLAR ;
jf APRIL 8, 1882.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

201

“HOLD ON!”

“ AK ALLEGORY ON THE BANKS OF THE NILK."-Mu. iSj^xrnor.
19. —BY TENNIEL, 1882.

the Home Rule question
as a matter of practical
politics ? One cannot, of
course, gauge the effect of
this very clever picture, but
it is reasonable to think
that it did have a quite
appreciable influence in
that unhappy mistake which
cut up Gladstone’s great
victorious Liberal Party of
1880—splendid as the old
man’s fight was !

We see in No. 18 Harry
Furniss’s development of
the famous Gladstone-
collar which subsequently
was such a prominent fea¬
ture in the Gladstone-
caricatures. Lord Ran¬
dolph Churchill is here
shown as the “ getter-up ”
of Mr. Gladstone’s collar
(or choler), and we see
that Lord Randolph diminishes to gnat-

“The Man That Hath Not Music,” Etc. —Brown
(musical) invites his Highland friend, M'Clunky, to stay a
few days with him . Brit M'Clanky was musical too!
M'Clanky (the next morning). “ Will I give you a Chune? ”
Brown (he had wondered what was in that Green Bag!).
“Oh—eh? Thanks, very much!” (Puts on invalid ex¬
pression). “ But my Doctor tells me I must on no account
indulge my passion for Music for some time ! ”

20.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1882.

Vol. xviii.—26.

like size as the old man’s collar grows to its
biggest.

Sir John Tenniel’s strong and vivid cartoon

Retrospection. Scene —sEsthctic Neighbour-hood. — Con¬
verted Betting Man (plays First Concertina in Salvation
Army Band). “Pooty ’Ouses they builds in these Subu’bs,
Mr. Swagget.”

Mr. S. (Reformed Burglar, and Banner-Bearer in the
same). “Ah! and how ’andy them little Bal-co-nies would ’a’
been in former-”

[A warning flourish on the Concertina, and Mr. S. drops
the subject /] 21. — by Charles keene, 1883.

202

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

in No. 19 takes us back to the early days
of the Egyptian Question, in which
France then (1882) shared with us part
of the responsibility for setting things
right on the Nile. No. 20, by Charles
Keene, contains a portrait of Keene
himself, the man with the bag-pipes, who
says to his musical friend, “ Will I give
you a Chune ? ” Keene was devoted to
this strange instrument, and it is pro¬
bable that the incident here illustrated

A “SELF-DENYING” POLICY!

Franfois {our Ally). “ C’est tres bien fait, Mon Cher Jean ! You
’a ve done ze vork ! Voyons, mon ami, I shall share vviz you ze glory ! "

24.— BY TENNIEL, 1882.

Candour. —Pastor (who was preparing his Pupils for Con¬
firmation). “ Now, my Boy, tell me, who is your Spiritual and
Ghostly Enemy?”

Pupil (after painful hesitation). “ Please, Sir, you are,
Sir ! ” 22.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1883.

actually happened to himself, and that his
proffered tune was politely refused by his
host.

Just look at No. 21. Did ever you see
anything better than this picture, looking at
it as a piece of black-and-white art, apart
from its value as a first-rate joke ? See how

this marvellous Charles Keene gives the
houses in the background, and the foliage of
the trees, the lights of the picture, and then
the two men : just look at them ! Charles
Keene had a magic hand, trained by years
of technical study, and guided by his own
great genius.

We pass Nos. 22 and 23, by Keene, noting
the excellence of characterization in them ;
and in No. 24, published July 29, 1882, we
see a fine Tenniel that sums up the Anglo-

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

203

French position at that date as regards
the Egyptian question. The British
bluejacket’s big nonchalance to the
proposal of the dapper Frenchman—
a proposal that we have consistently
brushed aside since 1882—is admir¬
ably put by Tenniel into the face
and attitude of the burly sailor who
is lighting his pipe after the bom¬
bardment of Alexandria.

No. 25 is Harry Furniss’s original
of the picture which later became
the famous soap - advertisement so
well known to all of us.

Another splendid Tenniel cartoon
in No. 26 illustrates the distressful
condition of France’s home affairs in
1883, a condition which has been

1 he Impending Chinaman. —Policeman (who had been whistling down
this Area all the Morning). “ Ullo ! What are you doing’ere? Is the
Cook in?”

Chinaman (blandly). “ Me am Cookey ! ”

[“ Yon might have knocked him down with a Peacock's Feather!" he
said .] 27.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1882.

THE FRENCH ANDROMEDA;

OR, WANTED. A PERSEUS.

■ 26.—BY TENNIEL, 1883.

going from bad to worse since then, and this
cartoon might well stand as a picture of France’s
condition to-day—she does indeed need a quick,
strong Perseus to save her from her fate.

Imagine the policeman’s shock of disgust when,
in response to his repeated signals down the area,
the new cook appeared with the bland remark in

“Poor Sweepar, Sir ! "—BenevolentStroller(fcclii

in his pockets). “ I’m afraid I haven’t a Penny-”

Reduced Party (wistfully). “1 did not specify t\
Coin, Sar ! ” [/1 came to Sixpence /]

28.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1883.

Chinese pigeon - English, “ Me am
Cookey!” This picture, No. 27, by
Charles Keene is in Punch's Almanac,
December 7, 1882. The contrast
between the bobby’s taken-aback face
and the bland composure of the
Chinaman is worth looking into.

In No. 28, examine Keene’s drawing
of the Reduced Party who “did not
specify the coin ”—is it not a wonder¬
ful piece of work ? Despite the rags
and tatters you can see that this
crossing - sweeper is really a reduced
man who has seen better days, not an
ordinary street-sweeper of the lower
class, 1 and the half-wistful, half-try-it-on

204

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“PEACE WITH HONOUR." _

29.— BY TENNIEl. I APRIL 30, 1881.

expression of the man’s face and attitude is
most vividly rendered. The man’s mouth,
done by practically a single line, shows that
his own sense of humour is tickled by the neat
suggestiveness of his reply to the passer-by
who says, “ I’m afraid I haven’t a Penny-”

The next cartoon, No. 29, is Tenniel’s
tribute to the memory of Lord Beaconsfield,
who died on April 19, 1881. The conception
of this picture is most dignified and simple,
the figure of Bri¬
tannia is beautiful,
and with the pic¬
ture are included
these words,

‘‘Peace with
Honour,” which
will always be
linked, and justly
linked, with the
name of Benjamin
Disraeli, Earl of
Beaconsfield.

Now we have
two of du Mau-
rier’s pictures,

Nos. 30 and 31.

His work is nearly
always pleasing,
one reason of this

being that du Maurier loved beauty of face
and form so much that he put a plenty of both
into his charming pictures. And all of us like
to see pretty faces. But, despite his great talent
and his popularity, du Maurier’s work cannot
be compared with that of Charles Keene ;
du Maurier himself has told us in his
charming little book, “ Social Pictorial Satire,”
“with all my admiration for Leech, it was at
the feet of Charles Keene that I found myself
sitting.” And du Maurier also says about
Charles Keene’s way of using lines to get his
effects :—

Heard in Mid-Atlantic. — The Bishop (severely). “When
/ was your age, my young Friend, it was not considered Good
Manners for Little Boys to join in the Conversation of Grown¬
up People, unless they were invited to do so.”

Small American. “ Guess that was Seventy or Eighty Years
ago. We’ve changed all that, you bet ! ”

30. —BY DU MAURIER, 1883.

I think Keene’s is
the firmest, loosest,
simplest, and best
way that ever was,
and—the most diffi¬
cult to imitate. His
mere pen - strokes
have, for the expert,
a beauty and an in¬
terest quite apart
from the thing they
are made to depict,
whether he uses them
as mere outlines to
express the shape of
things animate or in¬
animate, even such
shapeless, irregular
tliings as the stones
on a sea-beach—or
in combination to
suggest the tone and
colour of a dress-
coat, or a drunkard’s

One More Unfortunate. — Mamma (a Widow of considerable
personal attractions). “ I want to tell you something, Tommy. You saw
that Gentleman talking to Grandmamma in the other room._ Well, he is
going to be your new Papa. Mamma’s going to Marry him ! ”

Tommy (who recollects something of the life his old Papa used to lead).
“ D-d-does he knenv it yet, Mamma?”

31.— BY DU MAURIER, 1883.

A PEEP INTO 11 PUNCH

205

nose, of a cab or omnibus—of a distant
mountain with miles of atmosphere between
it and the figures in the foreground.

His lines are as few as can be—he is most
economical in this respect, and loves to

“DISTRACTION!!”

r.-.RSE. "LOR. MASTER JOHNNIE. DON'T GO WORRITTING YERSELF OYER THAT 'EGYPTIAN PUZZLE'!
_ JUST SEE WHAT A NICE LITTLE PRESENT I'VE BROUGHT YOU!!" _

leave as much white paper as he can ; but
one feels in his best work that one line
more or one line less would impair the per¬
fection of the whole—that of all the many
directions, curves, and thicknesses they
might have taken he has inevitably hit upon
just the right one. He has beaten all pre¬
vious records in this respect—in this country, at least.
I heard a celebrated French painter say : “ He is a
great man, your Charles Keene ; he take a pen and ink
and a bit of paper, and wiz a half-dozen strokes he
know ’ow to frame a gust of wind ! ”

34. —BY TENNIEL, 1884.

begins to look at Keene’s pictures, without
wanting mere prettiness or fun (although
there is a plenty of fun in them), they open
out to us in a most delightful and surprising

“ There’s always a Something." — Nondescript.
“ Yer like yer noo Business, don’t yer, ’Erree ? ”
Mute. “Tollol! It’s a Profession that ’as its
Drawbacks, mind yer. For instance (betwixt You
and I), there’s so few Gentlemen in it ! ”

32.—BY DU MAURIER, 1884.

Ah ! the great French painter summed up
Charles Keene’s genius in his words—“ and
wiz a half-dozen strokes he know ’ow to
frame a gust of wind ! ” As soon as one

Conclusions !— Pitman (to Dignitcuy 0/ the Church). “ Au’se war’nt
ye’re a Poor Curate, noo, travellin’ wi’ the likes o’ huz ! ”

Bishop (who thinks it right to travel Third Class occasionally). “ I once
was, my Friend—but-’’

Pitman (compassionately). “ Ah !—I see—that wretched Drink ! ”

33.—BY CHARLES keene, 1884. [Explanations !]

Dignity in Distress. —French Hatter (with a
very limited knosoledge of English, to Anglican
Bishop , whose Hat has just been blown away into
the Sea). “ Comnie 5a vous va bien ! Bootifool, my
Boy!” 35.—BY DU MAURIER, 1884.

206

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

way to gratify our intelligence, rather
than merely to please our sense of
personal beauty. The more one
looks at Keene’s work, the more one
finds in it to admire and to satisfy our
sense of intelligent interest in seeing
the many wonderful effects that his
pictures contain.

Pictures 32 and 33 bring us to
TenniePs suggestive cartoon, “ Dis¬
traction !! ”—No. 34. This was pub¬
lished March 8, 1884, when the

country was getting uneasy about the
Soudan, General Gordon having gone
on his last special mission to Khar¬
toum in January, 1884—and Mr.

True Modesty. — Mr. Spinks. “ I had such a beautiful
Dream last night, Miss Briggs! I thought 1 was in the
Garden of Eden-”

Miss Briggs {with simplicity). “ And did Eve appear
as she is generally represented, Mr. Spinks?”

Mr. Spinks. “ I—I—I—I didn’t Look ! ”

36.—BY DU MAURIER, 1884.

37.—BY TENNIEL; APRIL 12, 1884.

pictured on the misty horizon at which Gordon
is anxiously gazing.

Pictures 38 and 39 are two fine Keenes. In
No. 38 the extraordinary vividness of the bull-
chased-old-man incident must strike the most
casual observer, and notice also how deftly Keene

Gladstone, to distract little Johnnie
Bull’s attention from the Soudan
Puzzle, offered him a Franchise-Bill-
Toy worked with real strings that pull
the bumpkin-voter this way and that!

Glancing at Nos. 35 and 36, we
come to the magnificent Tenniel-
cartoon, “ Mirage ”—No. 37. This
was published April 12,1884. General
Gordon stands on the wall of Khar¬
toum and shades his eyes to see what
it is that comes up in the distance—
the quick gleam of English steel, or
the mocking mirage of the wilder¬
ness ! Alas ! it was but a mocking
mirage that Gordon saw in that far-off
array which Tenniel has so well

“Benefits Forgot!” —Old Gentleman {he had been chased across the
Field by the infuriated Animal , and only just scrambled over the Gate in
time—gasping for breath). “You in-fernal un-gra’ful Beast!—An’ me—
’been Veg'tarian allm’life ! 1 ” 38.—by Charles keene, 1884.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

207

“ C’est le Premier Pas,” Etc. — Husband (airily , they
had^just returned from their Wedding Trip). ‘‘If I'm not

Home from the,.Club by—ah—Ten, Love, you won’t wait-”

Wife (quietly). “ No, Dear ”—(but with appallingfirjnness)
—“ I’ll Come for you !! ” [He was back at q.45 sharp.\

39. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1884.

has given the idea of distance to the other
side of the big field across which the panting
old man has just run. Then, again, there is
most masterly management of light and
shade here, and the old man and the bull
are actually alive.

Pleasant for
the newly - mar¬
ried man in No.

39, is it not ?

The cartoon in
No. 40, published
November 22,

1884, was accom¬
panied in Punch
by verses that
commenced with
two lines from
“Jack the Giant-
Killer 55 :—

Whoever dares this
horn to blow
Shall wreak the
Giant's overthrow !

Lord Salisbury, as the Giant, peers over
the battlement of his castle—the House of
Lords—at the small “ Bill ” (Mr. Gladstone’s
“popular” Franchise Bill) which has just
been sent up to the House of Lords.

Negotiations took place between Glad¬
stone’s Government and the Opposition, with

the result that
this “ Bill ” was
ultimately ad¬
mitted into the
Giant’s Castle
and duly made
into law — with¬
out the disas¬
trous effects that
were foretold by
some of the
Conservatives.

No. 41 is our
concXudingbonne-
bouche for this
month. Charles
Keene has given
the stupid witness
a stupid thumb.

Impracticable. — Judge (to Witness). “Repeat the Prisoner’s Statement
to you, exactly in his own Words. Now, what did he say ? ”

Witness. “ My Lord, he said he stole the Pitt-”

Judge. “ Impossible ! He couldn’t have used the Third Person.”

Witness. “ My Lord, there was no Third Person 1 ”

Judge. “ Nonsense ! I suppose you mean that he said, ‘ I stole the Pig ’ ! ”
Witness (shocked). “ Oh, my Lord ! He never mentioned your Lordship’s
Name ! ” [Dismissed ignominiously !\

41.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1884.

(To be continued.)

By Robert Barr.

QUITE agree with the literary
critics in their opinion that
the recently - published bio¬
graphy of Howard Carruth is
a well-written book. I have
perused the volume myself
with both pleasure and profit. Talented
works of fiction have always interested me,
and I admit that the book forms, as some of
the papers have said, a noble and stirring ex¬
ample to those who are young and ambitious,
as going to show to what eminence a man
may attain by dogged perseverance in the
face of difficulty, when united with the
talents which we all admit Howard Carruth
possessed.

The biographer, Mr. James Gourley (it
seems odd to see Iris name on the title-page
as “James,” for I never knew anybody who
did not call him “Jim”), was a talented
newspaper man ; an expert in graphic
writing ; yet no one knows better than he
that Howard Carruth’s rise to fame is not to
be attributed entirely to his mental qualities;
but rather to his muscle than his mind. I
do not allude to the well-remembered nobility

of Howard Carruth’s presence on the stage ;
he was an ideal Hamlet , a picturesque
Richelieu , and a most subtle lago. What I
referred to was rather his physical prowess,
and that is touched upon but once in the
biography where, on page 67, the reader will
find some slight allusion to his strength,

Of course we now can never know, as
Gourley and Carruth are both gone (Jim
did not live to see the last proofs of his book
through the press, which is a fact to be
deplored, because no one would have enjoyed
its success better than Jim, attributing it, no
doubt, to the popularity of the actor rather
than to his own picturesque style of writing,
for such was the modesty of this clever artist in
words); in the circumstances, as I was about
to say, no one can know why Jim suppressed
what seems to be so interesting a chapter in
the life of Howard Carruth, for he well knew
its value as a picturesque episode, none better,
and the fact that he did not use it when he
might well have done so, Carruth being dead,
indicates that the great actor forbade him to
touch upon this phase of his life, and that
J im loyally respected the request.

Copyright, 1899, by Robert Barr, in the United States of America.

THE MAKING OF HOWARD CARRUTH

209

Jim says in his introduction to the book
that he first met the actor in Syracuse, New
York. This statement is rather a play on
words. He first met the actor there, no
doubt, and first knew him there as Howard
Carruth ; but years before he had encountered
the same person under his real name, at a
time when he was connected with the stage,
and yet no actor. I cannot set down the
particulars in the vivid language Jim Gourley
would have used, making the scene live
again before the reader’s eyes; but I must
just do the best I can, acting as reporter for
Jim’s own words, for he was even more bril¬
liant as a raconteur than as a writer; a com¬
bination seldom found. Indeed, if I were
to turn biographer, as Jim did in the latter
years of his life, the setting down of his
sayings and doings would be more attractive
to me than recounting the deeds and suc¬
cesses of even the greatest actor in the
world.

Jim was too brilliant and talented to be
successful; others reaped the benefit of his
genius, and wondered why he touched the
very skirts of great success only to have
them whisked away from him. He had
laboured on nearly all the noted papers
from San Francisco to New York, yet never
kept a place for long. There must have
been a strain of gipsy blood in Jim’s veins,
for he was ever on the move. Jim was
almost always sure of a job on any paper to
whose city editor he applied; for, although
he never attained the celebrity various
funny men of the Press achieved, his work
was nevertheless known throughout the
States, and many newspaper men consider
that his terse account of the all-night
wrestling match in Morgan’s Flail, San
Francisco, was one of the most brilliant
pieces of writing that had ever been done
into type by a newspaper compositor. Jim
was now in New Orleans and now in
Omaha, now in New York and now in
Cincinnati; you never knew exactly where
to find him, and you ran up against him in
the most unexpected places. He told me
once that a letter addressed “Jim Gourley,
on some paper or other,” ran him down at
Spokane Falls, to the honour and glory of
the United States postal department.

“My name is Jim Gourley,”he said to the
city editor, “ of no place in particular, and
I can do mostly anything on a news¬
paper, from cleaning rollers down to writing
editorials.”

“ I guess we’ve got a letter for you, Mr.
Gourley,” replied the city editor, fishing it

Vol. xviii.— 27 .

out. “ It dropped in unexpectedly to-day,
and, from the appearance of it, has been
everywhere else in creation.”

Jim had started several papers of his own,
mostly weekly society sheets, but when they
lived, they lived to profit somebody else, and
when they died, they always died on Jim’s
hands. A cheerful, uncomplaining fellow,
optimistic as a Western town, a fascinating
story-teller, ever ready to drop whatever he
was at if he could push forward a helping
hand to a friend, or even to an enemy, it
made little difference to Jim, always positive
that he was just on the verge of a great
success, and always letting go too soon or
holding on too long. And now, to think
that he has died and left a book that is
in its fourteenth edition ! With not a soul
to whom the rich publisher can pay the
ever-accumulating royalties; for Jim, the
friend of everyone, had no known relatives
on earth, which seems an irony of fate.
But, as I said at the beginning, it was not
about Jim Gourley that I intended to write,
although I find myself drifting in that direc¬
tion. I am well aware that the friends of
Howard Carruth will claim that the success
of the biography rises through public interest
in the great actor, but I very much doubt
if such is the case. The volume itself is
absorbingly interesting ; indeed, Jim Gourley
could not have written of a microbe without
imbuing it with everything that is human
and lovable.

Among other interests that Jim had taken
up in his varied career was, of course, the
theatrical profession. His acquaintance with
newspaper men was so extensive that naturally
he made an excellent advance agent, and
often he held forth in some newspaper office
the brilliant prospects of a troupe that had
already gone on the rocks behind him, for it
was always Jim’s luck to be associated with
some company approaching its break-up.

One evening Jim was in the office of a
Syracuse paper seeking a job when there was
no vacancy, and he had worked off his latest
stories on the dramatic critic, always a
dangerous man on whom to experiment, for
the dramatic critic hears everything that is
fresh if anyone on the staff does, when finally
this gentleman said he had to go to the
theatre, and he invited Jim to come along
with him. Howard Carruth was to appear
as Hamlet , and the critic held that Carruth
was a coming man, although he admitted
sorrowfully that he had been a mighty long
time on the way, for the public did not
appear to take to the “ legitimate.” There

210

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

was a very scant audience, and the critic
stayed but a short time, as was his custom,
for he had often seen Carruth in that part
and his critique was already written, even to
the phrase, “ a small but discriminating
audience ”; a phrase which is the horror
of the box-office. Jim, however, stayed on
in the theatre, to the critic’s amazement, for
he had admitted when they set out that
Hamlet was not enough up-to-date to suit
him. It was not that Hamlet had awakened
new appreciation in Jim’s mind, but because
from the moment the actor came on the
stage Jim was haunted by an idea which he
could not drive into a corner—an idea which
would not accept any definite locality—that
somewhere, and in exceptional circumstances,
he had met this man, Carruth, before. When
the critic left his place in the circle, Jim,
between the acts, moved down to one of the
empty seats next to the orchestra to study
the man more closely and arrive at some
solution of the problem. He tried his idea
in juxtaposition with Washington, Boston,
Chicago, Salt Lake City—but it would fit
into none of those places. All at once a
quick movement of Hamlet as he was talking
with his mother flashed like a lime- light
through Jim’s remembrance, and illuminated
Morgan’s Hall, in San Francisco, twenty years
before. As Hamlet turned to kill the unfor¬
tunate, inopportune Polonius , Jim, absorbed in
his thought and unconscious that he spoke
aloud, cried : “ No, you don’t ! ” and Hamlet
nearly dropped his sword, drawing in his breath
with a gasp. The actor darted
one quick, apprehensive look
over the slender audience,
then pulled himself heroic¬
ally together and went on
with his work.

Jim gazed steadily at the
play, but saw little of it, living
again in the years gone by.

He recognised Howard Car¬
ruth as Nick Bingley, the
champion wrestler of America,
if not of the world, then in
the first flush of his youth,
skilful and irresistible, the
holder of the diamond belt,
which no living man seemed
able to wrest from him. At
San Francisco there had lived
a powerful butcher, Pete
McGorkal, who, it was said,
could knock down an ox
with his fist; but then they
say that of every strong man,

although, probably, few oxen have come
to their death in this way. Pete was a
good-natured giant, who could throw any
man in California over his head, and his
confident friends sent a challenge to young
Nick Bingley, the champion of that form of
contest. The manager of Morgan’s Hall
saw money in the arousing of local interest,
so he himself gave the requisite guarantee,
entered into negotiations with Nick Bingley’s
agent, and found his confidence justified by
the assembling of a greater audience at five
dollars a head than the most noted genius
of the world could have collected at fifty
cents. Instead of King and Queen and
Prince, which Jim’s physical eyes seemed to
behold, his mental vision saw before him,
confronting each other, two splendid speci¬
mens of stalwart, healthy manhood: Nick
Bingley, much the smaller, but a well-knit,
well-proportioned man ; the butcher stood a
Plercules, simply radiating power. It was skill
and considerable strength opposed to appa¬
rently irresistible force, lacking the skill. The
knowing ones made their bets on skill, but the
great majority of the local crowd plumped
their money on brute force, and brute force
stood upon the stage confident in his strength.

‘ FIRST FALL FOR NICK BINGLEY.”

THE MAKING OF HOWARD CARRUTH.

211

I know so little of this game that I cannot
tell the particular brand of wrestling under
which the contestants met, but each was
dressed in tights, and each wore a very short,
stout jacket. After the two gladiators had
shaken hands, each grasped the other by the
collar of the jacket, and thus they stood for
a moment, braced one against the other. To
the non-professional, it seemed foolish for an
ordinary - sized man like Nick Bingley to
hope to wage a contest with a giant like Pete
McGorkal. There had been wild acclama¬
tion when Pete came upon the stage, but now
the great audience was breathless, and in the
silence you might almost hear the ticking of a
watch. Nick slowly but strenuously pushed
the giant away from him, and the giant
pushed back, his great, sturdy legs, wide¬
spread, not giving an inch ; then, suddenly,
like a stroke of lightning, the champion
reversed his action, the steady push of the
butcher assisting in his own discomfiture.
Bingley pulled McGorkal towards himself,
whisked him round, and there on his back,
both shoulder-blades palpably on the floor
according to the rules of the game, lay the
startled butcher, the champion springing
nimbly back from him and the umpire cry¬
ing : “First fall for Nick Bingley. Time,
3isec.”

For one tense moment the silence con¬
tinued, then there rose from the audience a
roar as from a wild beast when they saw
their chances of gain vanish.

“ What’s the matter with you ? Can’t you
stand on your feet ? ” came the angry shouts
from the butcher’s backers. The butcher
got up dazed and dismayed, and drew a huge,
trembling hand across a perplexed brow.
Silence was only restored when the com¬
batants faced each other again. Whether
the butcher adhered to the rules of the game
or not I don’t know, but probably, if he
didn’t, the umpire would have made some
endeavour to check him, but the umpire had
all he could do to keep out of the way. The
infuriated man rushed at his antagonist, who
eluded him like an eel. It was the opinion
of everyone there that once the butcher got
hands on his opponent he would crush him
to the floor by main strength. But this was
not the case. Once, indeed, Bingley was
caught in that gigantic grasp, and McGorkal
flung him over his head as if he were a two-
year-old infant, but the champion turned in
the air as an acrobat revolves when dropping
from a trapeze, landing like a cat on his feet,
and on the next onslaught of the man of
strength, Bingley exactly repeated the

tactics of the first round. He sprang
aside, then with incredible nimbleness he
darted in at his opponent, seized him by his
jacket, and again using the butcher’s own
momentum, gave a sharp twist and a jerk,
and once more the shoulder-blades of his
antagonist coincided with the floor.

“ Second fall ! Best two out of three, and
the contest goes to Nick Bingley! Time, 2min.
i4sec. ! ” shouted the umpire. Was this what
the crowd had paid its five dollars to see?
Best two out of three—and the whole thing
over in less than five minutes ! The butcher
had sold them like a herd of his own steers.
They had been betrayed! Then for a
moment the manager of Morgan’s feared he
had made a bad bargain, and his speculation
would result in the destruction of his property
by the maddened mob. Cries of “ Sold!
sold ! sold ! ” rang through the immense
building.

At this critical moment there rose from
the front and climbed leisurely on the stage
the one cool man in the place, a tall, spare
individual, clear-cut, clean-shaven, vulpine¬
faced, with eyes of steel, well known in San
Francisco as the gamest man and most
daring gambler even in that city. He was a
man universally respected, who won imper¬
turbably, lost calmly, shot straight, and his
word was held as good as most men’s bonds.
He stood on the stage and looked at the
seething crowd for a moment, then held up
his hand, and everyone paused, to listen.

“ Gentlemen,” he said, “you are entirely
mistaken in thinking this contest was sold,
and I say this in spite of the fact that I have
backed the winning man, for I always back
the professional against the amateur when I
know the contest is straight. I have seen
in my time many hundreds of affairs like
this, a number of which I knew to
be sold before they began, and I give you
my word that if any arrangement had been
made between Mr. McGorkal and Mr. Bingley
you would have had full value for your
money in the exhibition of wrestling you
would have seen. It wouldn’t have been
over in five minutes; you would have had a
couple of hours of the toughest struggling
you ever witnessed; and, although you would
have lost your money just the same, you
would all have gone home with the impression
that but for a bit of ill-luck your man would
have won. You may wreck this hall if you
want to; it doesn’t matter a button to me,
for I don’t own a bench or a chair in it,
and besides, I am going to leave the place by
the stage door; but I should be sorry to see

2 12

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

so much exertion wasted and the police called
in upon an entirely erroneous impression on
your part. I haven’t the pleasure of Mr.
McGorkal’s acquaintance, but nevertheless I
give you my word that he didn’t sell you: he
did the best he could, and had just as much
chance from the beginning as one of you
with a club would have against me with a
six-shooter, and you know what that means.
Gentlemen, good-night! ”

These words had the effect of a douche of
cold water. The crowd dimly recognised
their truth, hasty action was reconsidered,
and thus Morgan’s Hall was not wrecked on
that occasion. Jim Gourley reported this
episode in his vivid, picturesque manner,
and the account made a sensation in San
Francisco next day. The sudden defeat of
the butcher by an outsider seemed to touch
the local pride of San Francisco, and a
number of men put up a certain amount of
money which they bestowed upon McGorkal
under the condition that he would take
lessons in wrestling and again challenge the
champion. This celebrated contest was the
all-night wrestle to which I have referred ; it
ended in a draw,
both men ex¬
hausted when the
grey daylight
forced its way into
Morgan’s Hall.

Every time Nick
Bingley tried one
of his professional
tricks on the
butcher, the latter
roared out, like
one of his own
bulls, “ No, you
don’t!”.— if we
can imagine a bull
to use that phrase
—and every time
the accents of
“ No, you don’t! ”
rolled through
the hall the accla¬
mations of the
butcher’s partisans
rose to the roof.

Through all that
long night neither
man achieved a
fall. Sometimes, indeed, the brute passions
of the athletes became apparent, but this
did not allow either of them to master the
other.

Towards morning it was evident that both

men were completely done out, but the
indomitable spirit of each would not permit
either to succumb. In the last grapple both
men fell clinched on the stage, and it was
apparent that if one had an atom of strength
remaining he might turn the other over on
his back and win the contest, but neither
man had an ounce of wrestle left in him, and
each had to be helped to his feet by his
seconds. Jim Gourley, as spry as a cricket,
in spite of the lateness of the hour, thinking
only of his paper and of when the contest
would be renewed, endeavoured to interview
each man. He found the butcher lying on
a sofa in one of the dressing-rooms, and all
he could gasp was :—

“ He’s a good man—a mighty good man.”

The champion sat in a chair in another
room, being fanned with an outspread towel,
evidently in a state of collapse. His eyes
were closed, his mouth open, and he drew in
his breath mechanically at long intervals.

“ He’ll be all right in a minute, Jim,” said
the manager. “ It’s no use questioning him ;
he can’t talk to you now.”

“No, you don’t,” said Bingley, in a feeble

IN A STATE OF COLLAPSE.”

whisper, a faint smile on his lips as he opened
his eyes, repeating the phrase his opponent
had so often made use of, and which had
thus become the cant sentence of the night.

“ Newspaper man ? ” inquired Nick

THE MAKING OF HOWARD CARRUTH.

213

Bingley. “ What is it you want to know ? I
can talk, if you give me a sip of something.”

“Not just now,” said the manager.

“ When do you think you’ll be in shape to
meet him again ? ” persisted Jim.

The wrestler shook his head.

“ I shall never meet him. This ends my
wrestling.”

“Nonsense,” said Jim, “your nerve has
gone for the moment, and no wonder, but it
will be all right again after a day or two.
Why, you are not going to give up the
diamond belt ? ”

Again the wrestler smiled faintly and
shook his head.

“He can have the belt,” he said, “for all
of me. He’s a good man ; the best man I
ever met, and I never want to meet such
another.”

When these reminiscences had finished
percolating through Jim Gourley’s mind, the
drama on the stage before him had ended,
and the few dozens of people in the audi¬
torium were making their way slowly out
into the street. Jim, however, did not
follow the crowd. He knew his way as
instinctively in a strange theatre as in a
strange newspaper office, so passing round
and opening a forbidden door, he found
himself behind the scenes, and, with un¬
erring instinct, brought up at the star
dressing-room. Here he found Howard
Carruth sitting in an arm-chair, in much the
same attitude that he had left him years
before in Morgan’s Hall, San Francisco. It
was the pose of a tired and deeply dis¬
appointed man—not thrown yet, but weary,
weary of the game. Why endeavour to play
Hamlet to a generation that wanted real
waterfalls, blue fire, and crimson lime-light
varied with horse-play ? The times were out
of joint indeed. The actor raised his languid
eyes as Jim entered and closed the door
behind him.

“ Well, Nick Bingley,” said the incomer.

The same wan smile wreathed the lips of
Hamlet that had greeted Jim from the
wrestler’s face on the morning that ended the
great but inconclusive contest.

“ So you are the man who flung the
butcher’s phrase at me to-night,” said the
actor. “ You saw me, I take it, enacting a
different role in San Francisco ? ”

“Yes,” said Jim, brightly, “also a tragedy,
but with more money in the house.”

“Alas, yes,” murmured Carruth, dolefully.
“ But am I so little changed that you recog¬
nise me even in this make-up ? ”

“It was a motion of your shoulders that I

knew, not your face. Your face, if you will
forgive me saying so, is much more refined
than it was when you were a wrestler.”

“Thank you,” replied Carruth, without
enthusiasm. “ But in recognising me you
have shown yourself to have a better memory
than I. Were you one of the audience that
night ? ”

“ I was the reporter who interviewed you
just after the struggle. It was to me you
said that you would never wrestle again.”

“ Ah, I said that to you, did I ? Well, I
was wofully wrong. I have been doing
nothing but wrestle ever since, and with
even a more implacable opponent than the
butcher; wrestling with bitter ill-luck. I am
near the end of my tether, so, perhaps, you
have come in time to hear me say that I
will give up acting, as before I told you I
was going to give up wrestling.”

“No,” said Jim, “I am out of the news¬
paper business, and such an item would now
be of no use to me. I have come instead
to beg the position of your advance agent.”

“ Advance agent ? ” said Carruth, dreamily.
“ Yes, I suppose some actors do possess
such a luxury, but I have none, nor can I
afford one. Really, I do not need an advance
agent; the newspapers have always been very
kind to me, and I have sheaves of apprecia¬
tive notices. I don’t know exactly what it is
I lack, but certainly not an advance agent.”

“There’s where you are wrong,” cried Jim,
enthusiastically. “ Now let me tell you my
qualifications for the position. I don’t sup¬
pose there’s a man-”

“ Pardon me,” interrupted Carruth, “ but
let me.tell you of one disqualification on my
part which will far overtop all your advan¬
tages, whatever they may be. It is simply
this, that I have not the money to pay you.
You saw the audience 1 had to-night. " Well,
there’s your answer.”

“As a matter of fact, that’s no answer at
all, Mr. Carruth. Of course I never have
any money of my own, and so I shall need a
little something to square up hotel bills, but
even that I could get along without if it were
necessary, for I think I could work my way
from here to San Francisco and live in luxury
all the time. The hotel men all know me,
and they know I’ll get them the money from
somewhere or other—even if I didn’t they
wouldn’t mind; they’re all good fellows.
Now, you are the greatest actor I ever saw,
small, audience or not, and if you’ll tell me
the biggest house you ever had, I’ll draw my
pay on the basis of a percentage over that,
which percentage I leave you to name. The

214

7 HE STRAND MAGAZINE .

plain, bald fact is, that you are badly
managed, Mr. Carruth, and I propose to
manage you well.”

“ Your terms are certainly reasonable, but
there are still obstacles in the way. In the
first place, I am the head of a Shakespearean
combination, such as it is, and I am not going
to take on any new and popular dramas, even
if there is money in them. I am going to
succeed or go under as-a Shakespearean actor.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” replied Jim,
buoyantly. “ If you think I am going to
interfere with you in any way you will soon
see your mistake. You can stick to Shake
all right enough ; I believe there is money in
the old man yet.”

“ Then, another thing,” continued the
actor, with a smile. “ I am not going to
descend into popular advertising. This is
the Howard Carruth Company, and not
Barnum’s Circus.”

“ I quite understand that, and nothing
will be done that you can object to; still, I
should like to have a little influence in the
arranging of the plays.”

“Ah,” said the actor, freezing up again.

“ I see you don't like that, but, neverthe¬
less, I submit that great as ‘ Hamlet 5
undoubtedly is, it isn’t what you would call
a cheerful play.”

“ No, I suppose not.”

“ There is too much slaughter
and too much gloom about it. A
tired business man when he comes
to the theatre wants something to
liven him up a bit, therefore he
goes to the Daisy Deane Comedy
Company and takes his wife with
him, or, if he is alone or with a
friend, to the Variety Theatre.

Now, I propose that we leave
‘ Hamlet’ till Saturday night, when
the business man has Sunday to
recover. We can open in each
town with ‘As You Like It.’ You
wouldn’t have any objection to that,
would you, Mr. Carruth ? ”

“ Oh, no.”

“Very well, then, that is settled.

Do you carry a wrestler with you,
or do you take a super from whatever
town you are in ? ”

“ We take a super, but I am not going
to change ‘As You Like It’ into a
wrestling match, you know.”

“Of course not, of course not,” said
Jim, soothingly. “Where do you open
next Monday when you are through with
Syracuse ? ”

“ In Rochester, after that in Buffalo, and
then Cleveland, Toledo, and Detroit, and so
on to the West, if we hold together.”

“Then that settles it,” said Jim, “and I’m
off to Rochester early to-morrow morning,
and we’ll see what sort of a house we can
get up for you by Monday night.”

The actor smiled sorrowfully on Jim as he
shook hands with him, and after the enthu¬
siastic young man had gone, remembered
that he did not even know his name.

When Gourley entered the office of one of
the Rochester daily papers it was not to the
dramatic critic that he presented himself, but
to the sporting editor, a rakish-looking young
man, who wore his hat well to the back of
his head, and smoked a corn-cob pipe.

“Halloa, Billy,” said Jim.

“ Halloa, Jim,” said Billy. “ Where’d you
spring from ? Coming on the paper again ? ”

“No,” replied Jim. “I’m advance agent
for the Howard Carruth travelling combina¬
tion. We open here Monday night.”

“Oh, Carruth’s no good, is he; doesn’t
draw ? ”

“Not very much,” admitted Jim. “The
truth is, I haven’t had a cent of salary from
him since I began with him.”

“ Then why don’t you throw him down

I*M ADVANCE AGENT FOR THE HOWARD CARRUTH COMBINATION.”

THE MAKING OF HOWARD CARRUTH

215

and join the staff of this paper? The old
man would give you a place.”

“ It’s just about throwing it down that I
wanted to see you. The truth is, I want to
put up a little job on Howard Carruth, who
is a proud, distant, haughty beggar. You’d
think he owned the earth, and yet he can’t
draw a twenty-dollar house.”

“Well, what’s your game?” asked the
sporting editor, always on the alert for any¬
thing new.

“You see, Carruth opens here in ‘As You
Like It,’ and in the beginning of this play
there is a wrestling scene, you know.”

“ I didn’t know,” answered the sporting
editor.

“ Well, there is, just the same. Of course,
Carruth is an actor, of a sort, and he doesn’t
know anything about wrestling, so it’s usually
a pretty poor scene. The super comes up,
Orlando clinches him, turns him over gently,
and on to the floor with him, like putting a
baby to sleep. Now, the' troupe doesn’t
carry a wrestler with them; so I’ve got to
hire one in every town we go to, and I wish
you could put me on to a real good, rough-
and-tumble wrestler here in Rochester, who
would simply throw Carruth over his head
and paralyze the play. It would be great fun
for the audience, even though it would sur¬
prise old Shakespeare.”

“ It would that,” replied the sporting
editor, “and Tommy Sloan’s your man. He
can throw his weight in wild cats. Let’s go
down to Micky Doolan’s saloon and see if
we can find him.”

The two went together to the saloon of
Micky Doolan, and picked up three or four
congenial spirits on the way, to whom the
plot was confidentially disclosed. Tommy
Sloan was not at Micky Doolan’s, but a
number of others were there, one of whom
received the sporting editor’s eulogy of Sloan
with scorn.

“ Tommy Sloan can’t throw anything,” he
shouted, contemptuously. “He can’t even
throw a fit; why, Archie Bond would toss
him over the Genesee Falls and up back
again while Tommy was gettin’ a hitch on
his trousers.”

“Archie Bond, nothing,” said the sporting
editor, with withering scorn.

“ I bet you ten dollars he throws him three
times out of three.”

Sporting editors know too much of the
inside of things, and so they don’t bet; the
offer, however, was promptly taken by
another member of the company.

“ I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the

volatile Jim, who had made friends with all
present,* “ we’ll get up a little wrestling match
here between Bond and Sloan, and the man
that wins shall tackle Howard Carruth. But,
of course, boys, you’ll all keep this quiet ? ”

“ Oh, of course, of course,” they all said,
unanimously.

Short as the notice was, there was a good
audience to see the match between Tommy
Sloan and Archie Bond, and Tommy quite
justified the sporting editor’s prediction,
throwing Bond twice hand-running, not, how¬
ever, without some difficulty. Sloan accepted
the position as super in “As You Like It,”
and Jim Gourley delivered a short address
from the ring, stating the situation and asking
them all to keep it dark.

For a dead secret the matter was discussed
in Rochester more universally than might
have been expected. On Monday night,
when Howard Carruth came to the peep-hole
of the curtain, dressed as Orlando , and placed
his eye to the aperture, he was amazed at
what he beheld. The theatre was packed
from the furthest corner of the upper gallery
to the front row by the orchestra. Before
the play began, the box-office sent round
word to the green-room that they were selling
standing-room only, and would soon have to
quit even that. Carruth was in :plendid
form that night; never had Jim seen him
act better. The lavish and somewhat indis¬
criminate applause of the great audience
seemed to inspire him. When Tommy
Sloan, as Charles the Wrestler , came on, he
was received with a burst of enthusiasm,
which might have put Mr. Carruth in some
suspicion of the real state of things were it
not that an actor, like a magnet, draws
everything to himself, and is a very self-
centred man. The moment they clinched,
Orlando felt himself in a grip of iron, and,
taken by surprise, was very nearly thrown.
As he recovered himself, staggering back,
there arose a yell of delight from the
gallery.

The unexpected opposition coming on Car-
ruth’s already high exaltation roused all his
old wrestling blood. He pounced on Sloan like
a hawk, and as the two men struggled up and
down the stage, the other actors pressed back
against the scenery to be out of the way.
But Carruth was out of practice and his wind
was not as sound as it had been years before,
and after a most severe tussle that brought
beads of sweat on his brow, he found himself
down on one knee, and Sloan pressing him
hard to lay him over backward prone on the
boards. In the storm of applause, Carruth

216

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

was enabled to speak to his opponent un¬
heard by any of the audience.

“ Look here, my man,” he said, in quick
gasps, “ you are not to throw me, you know;
I’m to throw you.”

“ Well, do it then,” replied Sloan,
between his set teeth.

“ Oh, that’s it, is it ? ” growled
Carruth ; then his old trick with
the Saji Francisco butcher came

truth in the other actor’s response, “ He
cannot speak, my lord.”

Although nearly everyone else in Rochester
was into the secret, the dramatic critics were

I M TO THROW YOU.

back to him. He whipped out sideways,
almost from under Sloan, gave the little
jerk at the coat collar, whirled him round in
transit, and plump went Sloan’s broad back
on the boards, Carruth standing erect over
the prostrate body with heaving chest. The
audience rose and cheered. Never before
had Shakespeare been so enthusiastically
received in Rochester, and the frantic ap¬
plause saved the break in the play, for the
Duke Frederic , standing with his back against
the painted canvas forest, was so astounded
at the contest that he forgot he had to cry
“ No more, no more,” until a sharp whisper
from Carruth reminded him, and then the
audience, having calmed down, could not
but well laugh when Carruth himself said :
“ Yes, I beseech your grace, I am not yet
well breathed,” because it was quite palpable
from his heavy breathing that he was as near
done out as any man could well be. Then
when the Duke , bending over the prostrate
man, said:—

“How dost thou, Charles? ” there was

innocent. Sporting editors look upon
dramatic critics as an encumbrance upon a
paper, whose pretentious effusions no sane
man should care to read, when there is a
sporting page to devour. So the critics
knew nothing of the plot, but waxed enthusi¬
astic next morning on the excellence of
Howard Carruth’s acting and stage manage¬
ment.

“ He has made,” said one of them, “ the
wrestling scene in ‘As You Like It’ as
notable as was Barry Sullivan’s sword contest
in ‘ Richard III.’ ”

It was announced in the papers that
because of the numerous disappointments,
which excluded much of the town, on
account of lack of room at the Opera
House, “As You Like It” would be
repeated on Tuesday and Wednesday. As
a matter of fact, this play occupied the
boards all the week, Tommy Sloan and
Archie Bond taking the part of Charles on
alternate nights, always doing their best, but
always being thrown.

THE MAKING OF HOWARD CARRUTH

217

And thus Jim Gourley, prince of advance
agents, worked up local pride in every city he
touched, just as if he were running a base¬
ball team, and Howard Carruth' came at last
to San Francisco not only a rich man, but
also a magnificent actor in the pink of
physical condition.

His admirers may say what they like—in
fact, I am one of
them myself—but it
seems to me it is an
indication of his un¬
bounded conceit, or
else a slur on his in¬
telligence, that never,
until they came to
San Francisco, did he
suspect the game that
Jim Gourley was play¬
ing. Gourley knew
his opposition to any¬
thing in the shape of
what he called the
Barnum style of ad¬
vertising, and so he
did not dare to take
the actor into his
confidence, fearing
he would veto the
scheme. It was in
San Francisco that
the actor was nearly
thrown on his back,
and that rather
through surprise than
through the skill of
his opponent. Jim,
with an eye to dra¬
matic effect, looked
up the butcher, but
did not tell him that
the actor he was to
meet was his old opponent, Nick Bingley,
and the butcher had never heard of
Howard Carruth. Carruth, when confronted
for the last time with Pete McGorkal, had
no suspicion that he was opposite his old
enemy until, once within clutches, he tried
his former trick of pulling the huge man to
him, and the latter bellowed out, in spite of
the fact that the words were not set down by

Shakespeare, “ No, you don’t! ” The phrase
startled Carruth, and brought the true state
of the case to his mind. In that moment
the butcher seized him and whirled him
over his head, but, as before, to the intense
delight of the gallery, Carruth turned his
somersault and landed on his feet. The
butcher had become stout and short of wind,
and the actor, as I have said, was
now in good condition, so he
eluded the fat man, who trod the
stage a puffing Falstaff, and, at last,
closing in with him, got the grape¬
vine twist on his leg,
and over went the
butcher like a falling
tower, Orlando on
top of him.

“ Yes, I do,” said
the actor, grimly, as
he held him there
helpless.

At San Francisco
the mercurial Jim
came to the actor and
said he had concluded
to leave business
management and take
up his old newspaper
duties. The actor
looked at him with a
kindly gleam in his
eye, then thrust for¬
ward his hand.

“ No, you don’t,”
he said, whereat Jim
smiled. “You’ve been
the making of me
somehow, and you
must stick by me.”

And stick by him
Jim did until the
actor’s sudden death on the stage. And thus
he came to write Howard Carruth’s biography,
and I have no doubt that it was at Carruth’s
request that Jim left out of the book all
reference to wrestling. But I hold it should
be written if only to do justice to a man ever
kindly to others, although I cannot tell the
incidents as graphically as Jim himself would
have done.

“thic butcher seized him and whirled him over

HIS HEAD.”

Yo'. xviii.— 28 .

The Australian Cricketers at Horne.

By M. Randal Roberts.

F one looks at the fixture list
of the Australians, which ex¬
tends without a break from
the beginning of May to the
middle of September, it seems
almost a misnomer to speak
of them as ever being at home. It is diffi¬
cult to have a fixed abode when you are
compelled to be at the Oval one day,
at Eastbourne the next, and two days
afterwards at Sheffield. However, if the
exigencies of their cricketing programme
deprive the Australian Eleven of the delights
of hearth and home during their campaign
in England, the team, like other invading
armies, occasionally enjoys the luxury of
head-quarters. And the head-quarters of
the Eleven, as everyone knows, are situated
at the Inns of Court Hotel in Holborn.
The hotel is, in fact, the base of operations

from which Major Wardill, the manager,
directs the movements of his troops, and to
which the army of invaders periodically
returns after a victorious onslaught on one
of the counties.

Truth compels me to admit that on the
occasion of my spending a day with the
Australians at their London home I was not
an invited guest. It was I who proposed
the visit. However, I didn’t meet with the
fate that usually awaits the self-invited guest.

On the contrary, Major Wardill and his *
merry men gave me as warm a welcome as if
I had been an old friend whom they had
long been pressing to visit them. Probably
1 bored them, but at any rate they didn’t
show it, though for one whole day I lived
and moved and had my being among them,
just as if I had been a member of the eleven.

The clocks in Holborn only pointed to a
few minutes past nine when I reached the
Inns of Court Hotel, but, early as it was,
two or three of the Australians had already
finished breakfast. Major Wardill was sitting
at a table in the corner of the room, with a
huge pile of letters in front of him, which told
plainly enough that the manager of a touring
team must have the pen of a ready writer if he
attends personally to all his correspondence.
Hugh Trumble was reclining in a capacious
saddle-bag, deep in thought, and looking as

if he were devising new methods (it wanted
only three weeks to the first of the test
matches) for getting England’s batsmen out.
But Hugh Trumble has always a preoccupied
air, so perhaps his thoughts may have
been engaged on a far less interesting
problem.

Presently the rest of the team began to
drop in one by one. I hope I am not giving
away any secrets when I state that the last to
put in an appearance was Clem Hill.

From a] MAJOR WARDILL IN HIS COSY CORNER. [Photograph.

THE A USTRAL 1 AN CRICKETERS AT HOME.

219

V. Trumper. J. Worrall. S. E. Gregory. W. P. Howell.

F. A. Iredale. some of the eleven at breakfast. [From a Photograph.

I can conscientiously recommend a break¬
fast with the Australians as a first-rate recipe
to anyone afflicted with an attack of the
blues. There was a joke ready for each
new-cumer, and there was a general air of
hilarity which one associates more with a
party of light-hearted schoolboys than with
a team which has travelled all the way from
Australia on the serious business of trailing

the flag of English
cricket in the dust.
As Mr. Trumble
moved across the
room to Major
Wardill and came
within range of the
photographer’s
weapon, one of his
companions at the
breakfast table
threw an elongated
baton of bread
over to him, with
the remark, “ Here,
Hug hie, you
mustn’t be photo¬
graphed without a
bat in your hand.”
Trumble caught
the impromptu bat
and made a fine
forward stroke with
it, but he declined
altogether to let the tableau be preserved in
a photograph.

Long before breakfast was over I descried
a familiar figure in the doorway. It was the
burly form of Jem Phillips, the Anglo-
Australian cricketer, who can boast that
for the last seven years he has never seen a
winter. This pleasant feat he has achieved
by the simple expedient of playing cricket in

J. Worrall. W. P. HowelL F. Laver. E. Jones. J. Darling.

MORE OF THE ELEVEN AT BREAKFAST. [ Photograph .

220

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

JEM PHILLIPS CONSULTING WITH THE MAJOR. MR. IREDALE
From a Photograph.

England during the summer and in Australia
during our winter—a see-saw piece of work that
most of us envy him. Phillips is engaged
with the Australian team as official scorer, and
on that particular morning had looked in to
see Major Wardill on a matter of business,
as he had doubtless done on many mornings
before. But it at once occurred to my
mind that there was quite a dramatic touch
about Phillips’s presence there. Here was
the man whose action in no-balling Mr. Jones
during Mr. Stoddart’s last tour in Australia
had caused more commotion than any event
of the last twenty years in the cricket world,
standing side by side and chatting pleasantly
with the very cricketer whose bowling he had
condemned. As a matter of fact, there was
really nothing remarkable about the incident,
as the Australians, like the good sportsmen

they are, feel nothing but
respect for an umpire who
has the courage of his con¬
victions ; but not having
seen the two men in the
same room before, the
scene struck me in much
the same light as if I had
found Lord Salisbury and
Sir William Harcourt hob¬
nobbing together.

The post that morning
had brought to each of the
team a small pamphlet, the
work of some one of the
multitudinous army of
cricket writers whom every
visit of Australians to this
country brings into being,
giving a highly imaginative
life-story of every member
of the team, which proved
far more interesting than
the historian could possibly
have anticipated. It added
a relish to Mr. Darling’s
breakfast to find himself
described as the finest bats¬
man in Australia. This was
satisfactory so far as it went,
and his natural pride was
not abated on discovering
that exactly the same terms
of praise were applied to
Mr. Hill. Any batsman
living could feel well dis¬
posed towards the writer
who bracketed him with
Clem Hill, but the glow of
satisfaction began to cool
when it appeared that the pamphleteer,
in his desire to extol the merits of the
team, had described each and every member
of it as “ undoubtedly the best batsman in
Australia.”

The quarters specially reserved for the
Australians in the hotel consist of a cluster
of bedrooms, all on the same floor, and a
large room overlooking the comparatively
peaceful wastes of Lincoln’s Inn Fields which
is used as a common room and dining-room
by the team. On the outside of the door of
this room is affixed a conspicuous placard
bearing the legend, “ Private. Reserved
for the Australian XI.” This placard
is mainly intended to warn off inter¬
viewers and other irresponsible callers, and
for the sake of further security a waiter is
told off specially to guard the threshold.

THE AUSTRALIAN CRICKETERS AT HOME.

221

From a] the Australians’ room.

Speaking as a mere native of the
British Isles I should have called the
weather warm, but the Australians
evidently thought differently, for a
bright fire was burning in the break¬
fast-room. The sight of that fire
was very suggestive of the contrast
between the climates here and
“down under.” . There is nothing,
Clem Hill remarked to me, which
strikes the Australian cricketer on
his first visit to this country more
than the premature stiffness which
is so prevalent among English
players.

The everyday sight on an English
ground of a man who is unable to
“ shy,” and can do nothing but
“ jerk,” is unknown in Australia.
Even Colonials who have passed
their cricket prime, and have reached
the age of forty, can still throw with
much the same dash as of old.
Among the best English teams there
is often a woful deficiency in this
essential to good fielding ; the
cold and damp of our Northern
climate penetrates into the bones

[Photograph.

From a]

and creates a chronic and incurable stiff¬
ness often before a man is thirty.

“ Major,” said Mr. Noble, from the
end of the room, where he was atten¬
tively examining a barometer, “ what
time did you say that train of ours
starts ? ” The Major replied that there
was no need to worry about trains, as he
had ordered a four-horse shay to con¬
vey the team to Leyton that morning.
This was the signal for a general move.
Within a couple of minutes the Major was
left alone trying to solve the problem of
how the team was to be at Bradford till
6.31 Wednesday evening, and at Lord’s
the next morning, without travelling in
the night; while the said team were in
their bedrooms, tumbling bats, boots, and
shirts into eleven cricket bags, pre¬
paratory for their battle against Essex,
which was to begin at Leyton a couple
of hours later.

Mr. Jones I found in his room with
one hand on his cricket bag and the
other on the button of the electric bell,
in a state of consternation, because one
of his cricket boots was missing. Finally,
however, the absent boot was recovered,
and the eleven came clattering down
the stairs to the front hall. The Major’s

MR. JONES prepares to start. [ Photograph ,

222

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

MR. KELLY AND MR. GREGORY ATTEND TO THEIR CORRESPONDENCE.
From a Photograph.

are confirmed
water drinkers.

Judging from the
bushels of invita¬
tion cards which
lay piled on Major
YVardilFs table, it
seemed as if there
were a conspiracy
among the mana¬
gers of every enter¬
tainment in Lon¬
don to deprive the
Australians of their
well-earned repose
after a match.
However, as luck
had it, on this par¬
ticular day they
had an off evening.
So after dinner,
when cigars were
produced, we still
sat about the room

four-horse shay, which took the form
of a remarkably smart drag, was
standing in readiness at the Holborn
entrance. Oddly enough, though the
street was crowded at the time, it
apparently did not occur to any of
the passers-by that the coach con¬
tained the Australian Eleven. A
couple of small boys and their smaller
sister tumbled to the fact and raised
a weak cheer, but, otherwise, the
team passed unnoticed from the hall
door to the roof of the four-in-hand.

As the story of how the Australians
fared at Leyton will be stale history
by the time this appears in print, the
reader must now imagine, after the
manner of Acts I. and II. in a melo¬
drama, a period of eight hours to have
elapsed.

The official dinner-hour of the
team, when they are in London at
any rate, is seven o’clock, but this
fixture is an elastic one. However, on
this particular evening, as the men
returned in good time from Leyton, it
was punctually observed. Inasmuch
as the Australians dine on exactly the
same lines as other less distinguished
mortals, I am not going to describe
the dinner. But it may possibly interest
those who hold the creed that stimu¬
lants are necessary to sustained exer¬
tion to learn that two of the team

From a] MR. clem hill packs his cricket bag. {Photograph.

TEE AUSTRALIAN CRICKETERS AT HOME.

223

MR. HUGH TRUMBLE.

produce much more lively batting than the
indefinitely extended matches in Australia
is a fact with which every cricket spectator
will agree, but it was interesting to hear the
opinion of three players who have had prac¬
tical experience of the pros and cons of the
methods which prevail in both countries.

The visit of an Australian team to this
country, I learned, is a far more formal
affair than any of the tours in Australia
undertaken by English cricketers. Before
the present Australian team started each of
the members signed an official agreement
under which he bound himself to observe
certain conditions. One of the most
notable of these conditions was that during
the tour none of the team should contri¬
bute to the Press either in this country or
in Australia. I only mention this as a good
instance of the serious spirit in which the
tour was undertaken. The Australians have
come over with the object of beating
England if they can, and anything likely to
interfere with their attaining that result is
to be rigidly eschewed.

There is no recipe for making time fly
like talking cricket gossip. Before I had
heard half of what the new-comers had to
tell me of their impressions of cricket in
the old country the clock had struck
eleven, and as there was evidently a dis¬
position to move bedwards, I considerately
took my departure.

From a Photograph.

chatting of every¬
thing in general
and cricket in par¬
ticular.

The conversation
drifted to the com¬
parative merits of
devoting only three
days to a match,
as is done in
county cricket, and
of playing every
important game to
a finish, as the
custom is in Aus¬
tralia. Gregory,
Trumble, and Hill
were very emphatic
in declaring that
they enjoy cricket
far more in Eng¬
land than in Aus¬
tralia. That our
three-day fixtures

From a]

THE ELEVEN OFF TO A MATCH.

t Photograph.

'wejflvs

THt bW(flN

Tamer

By E. Nesbit.

HERE was once an old, old
castle—it was so old that its
walls and towers and turrets
and gateways and arches had
crumbled to ruins, and of all
its old splendour there were
only two little rooms left; and it was here
that John the blacksmith had. set up his
forge. He was too poor to live in a proper
house, and no one asked any rent for the
rooms in the ruin, because all the lords of the
castle were dead and gone this many a year.
So there John blew his bellows, and ham¬
mered his iron, and did all the work which
came his way. This was not much, because
most of the trade went to the mayor of the
town, who was also a blacksmith in quite a
large way of business, and had his huge forge
facing the square of the town, and had twelve
apprentices, all hammering like a nest of
woodpeckers, and twelve journeymen to
order the apprentices about, and a patent
forge and a self-acting hammer and electric
bellows, and all things handsome about him.
So that of course the townspeople, whenever
they wanted a horse shod or a shaft mended,
went to the mayor. And John the black¬
smith struggled on as best he could, with a
few odd jobs from travellers and strangers
who did not know what a superior forge the
mayor’s was. The two rooms were warm

and weather-tight, but not
very large; so the black¬
smith got into the way of
keeping his old iron, and
his odds and ends, and his
fagots, and his twopenn’orths of coal in the
great dungeon down under the castle. It
was a very fine dungeon indeed, with a.hand¬
some vaulted roof and big iron rings, whose
staples were built into the wall, very strong
and convenient for tying captives up to, and
at one end was a broken flight of wide steps
leading down no one knew where. Even
the lords of the castle in the good old times
had never known where those steps led to,
but every now and . then they would kick a
prisoner down the steps in their light-hearted,
hopeful way, and, sure enough, the prisoners
never came back. The blacksmith had never
dared to go beyond the seventh step, and no
more have I—so I know no more than he
did what was at the bottom of those stairs.

John the blacksmith had a wife and a little
baby. When his wife was not doing the
house-work she used to nurse the baby and
cry, remembering the happy days when she
lived with her father, who kept seventeen
cows and lived quite in the country, and
when John used to come courting her in the
summer evenings, as smart as smart, with a
posy in his button-hole. And now John’s
hair was getting grey, and there was hardly
ever enough to eat.

As for the baby, it cried a good deal at odd
times ; but at night, when its mother had
settled down to sleep, it would always begin
to cry, quite as a matter of course, so that
she hardly got any rest at all. This made
her very tired. The baby could make up
for its bad nights during the day, if it liked,
but the poor mother couldn’t. So whenever
she had nothing to do she used to sit and cry,
because she was tired out with work and worry.

THE SEVEN DRAGONS .

225

One evening the blacksmith was busy with
his forge. He was making a goat-shoe for
the goat of a very rich lady, who wished to
see how the goat liked being shod, and also
whether the shoe would come to fivepence
or sevenpence before she ordered the whole
set. This was the only order John had had
that week. And as he worked his wife sat
and nursed the baby, who, for a wonder, was
not crying.

Presently, over the noise of the bellows,
and over the clank of the iron, there came
another sound. The blacksmith and his
wife looked at each other.

“ I heard nothing,” said he.

“Neither did I,” said she.

But the noise grew louder—and the two
were so anxious not to hear it that he
hammered away at the goat-shoe harder
than he had ever hammered in his life, and
she began to sing to the baby—a thing she
had not had the heart to do for weeks.

But through the blowing and hammering
and singing the noise came louder and
louder—and the more they tried not to hear
it, the more they had to. It was like the noise
of some great creature purring, purring,
purring—and the reason they did not want
to believe they really heard it was,
that it came from the great dungeon
down below, where the old iron was,
and the firewood and the twopenn’orth
of coal, and the broken steps that
went down into the dark and
ended no one knew where.

“ It can't be anything in
the dungeon,” said
the blacksmith,
wiping his face.

“ Why, I shall have
to go down there
after more coals in
a minute.”

“ There isn’t any¬
th in g there, of
course. How could
there be ? ” said his
wife. And they tried
so hard to believe
that there could be
nothing there that
presently they very
nearly did believe it.

Then the black¬
smith took his
shovel in one hand
and his riveting
hammer in the
other, and hung the

Vol. xviii.— 29 .

old stable lantern on his little finger, and
went down to get the coals.

“ I am not taking the hammer because I
think there is anything there,” said he, “ but
it is handy for breaking the large lumps of
coal.”

“ I quite understand,” said his wife, who
had brought the coal home in her apron that
very afternoon, and knew that it was all
coal-dust.

So he went down the winding stairs to the
dungeon, and stood at the bottom of the
steps holding the lantern above his head just
to see that the dungeon really was empty, as
usual. Half of it was empty as usual, except
for the old iron and odds and ends, and the
firewood and the coals. But the other side
was not empty. It was quite full, and what
it was full of was Dragon.

“It must have come up those nasty broken
steps from goodness knows where,” said the
blacksmith to himself, trembling all over, as
he tried to creep back up the winding stairs.

But the dragon was too quick for him—
it put out a great claw and caught him by the
leg, and as it moved it rattled like a great
bunch of keys, or like the sheet-iron they
make thunder out of in the pantomime.

226

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ No you don’t,” said the dragon, in a
spluttering voice, like a damp squib.

“Deary, deary me,” said poor John,
trembling more than ever in the claw of
the dragon ; “ here’s a nice end for a respect¬
able blacksmith ! ”

The dragon seemed very much struck by
this remark.

“ Do you mind saying that again ? ” said he,
quite politely.

So John said again, very distinctly :—

“ Here—Is—A—Nice—End—For—A —
Respectable—Blacksmith.”

“ I didn’t know,” said the dragon. “ Fancy
now ! You’re the very man I wanted.”

“ So I understood you to say before,” said
John, his teeth chattering.

“ Oh, I don’t mean what you mean,” said
the dragon ; “ but I should like you to do a
job for me. One of my wings has got some
of the rivets out of it just above the joint.
Could you put that to rights ? ”

“ I might, sir,” said John, politely, for you
must always be polite to a possible customer,
even if he be a dragon.

“ A master craftsman—you are a master,
of course ? — can see in a minute what’s
wrong,” the dragon went on. “Just come
round here and feel of my plates, will you ? ”

John timidly went round when the dragon
took his claw away ; and, sure enough, the
dragon’s off wing was hanging loose and all
anyhow, and several of the plates near the
joint certainly wanted riveting.

The dragon seemed to be made almost
entirely of iron armour—a sort of tawny, red-
rust colour it was; from damp, no doubt—
and under it he seemed to be covered with
something furry.

All the blacksmith welled up in John’s
heart, and he felt more at ease.

“ You could certainly do with a rivet or
two, sir,” said he; “in fact, you want a good
many.”

“ Well, get to work, then,” said the dragon.
“You mend my wing, and then I’ll go out
and eat up all the town, and if you make a
really smart job of it I’ll eat you last.
There ! ”

“ I don’t want to be eaten last, sir,” said
John.

“ Well, then, I’ll eat you first” said the
dragon.

“ I don’t want that, sir, either,” said John.

“ Go on with you, you silly man,” said the
dragon; “ you don’t know your own silly
mind. Come, set to work.”

“I don’t like the job, sir,” said John,
“and that’s the truth. I know how easily

accidents happen. It’s all fair and smooth,
and ‘ Please rivet me, and I’ll eat you last ’—■
and then you get to work and you give a
gentleman a bit of a nip or a dig under his
rivets -and then it’s fire and smoke, and no
apologies will meet the case.”

“ Upon my word of honour as a dragon,”
said the other.

“ I know you wouldn’t do it on purpose,
sir,” said John ; “ but any gentleman will
give a jump and a sniff if he’s nipped, and
one of your sniffs would be enough for me.
Now, if you’d just let me fasten you up ? ”

“ It would be so undignified,” objected the
dragon.

“We always fasten a horse up,” said
John, “and he’s the 4 noble animal.’”

“ It’s all very well,” said the dragon, “ but
how do I know you’d untie me again when
you’d riveted me? Give me something in
pledge. What do you value most ? ”

“My hammer,” said John. “A blacksmith
is nothing without a hammer.”

“ But you’d want that for riveting me.
You must think of something else, and at
once, or I’ll eat you first.”

At this moment the baby in the room
above began to scream. Its mother had
been so quiet that it thought she had settled
down for the night, and that it was time to
begin.

“ Whatever’s that ? ” said the dragon—
starting so that every plate on his body
rattled.

“ It’s only the baby,” said John.

“ What’s that ? ” asked the dragon —
“ something you value ? ”

“Well, yes, sir, rather,” said the black¬
smith.

“ Then bring it here,” said the dragon ;
“and I’ll take care of it till you’ve done
riveting me, and you shall tie me up.”

“All right, sir,” said John; “but I ought
to warn you. Babies are poison to dragons,
so I don’t deceive you. It’s all right to
touch—but don’t you go putting it into your
mouth. I shouldn’t like to see any harm
come to a nice-looking gentleman like you.”

The dragon purred at this compliment and
said :—

“All right, I’ll be careful. Now go and
fetch the thing, whatever it is.”

So John ran up the steps as quickly as he
could, for he knew that if the dragon got
impatient before it was fastened up, it could
heave up the roof of the dungeon with one
heave of its back, and kill them all in the
ruins. His wife was asleep, in spite of the
baby’s cries ; and John picked up the baby

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

227

and took it down and put it between the
dragon’s front paws.

“ You just purr to it, sir,” he said, “and
it’ll be as good as gold.”

So the dragon purred, and his purring
pleased the baby so much
that it left off crying.

“ THE DRAGON’S PURRING PLEASED THE BABY.”

Then John rummaged among the heap of
old iron and found there some heavy chains
and a great collar that had been made in the
days when men sang over their work and put
their hearts into it, so that the things they
made were strong enough to bear the weight
of a thousand years, let alone a dragon.

John fastened the dragon up with the
collar and the chains, and when he had pad¬
locked them all on safely he set to work to
find out how many rivets would be needed.

“Six, eight, ten—twenty, forty,” said he;
“ I haven’t half enough rivets in the shop.
If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll step round to
another forge and get a few dozen. I won’t
be a minute.”

And off he went, leaving the baby between
the dragon’s fore-paws, laughing and crowing
with pleasure at the very large purr of it.

John ran as hard as he could into the
town, and found the mayor and corporation.

“ There’s a dragon in my dungeon,” he

said; “ I’ve chained him up. Now come
and help to get my baby away.”

And he told them all about it.

But they all happened to have engage¬
ments for that evening; so they praised
John’s cleverness, and
said they were quite
content to leave the
matter in his hands.

“ But what about my
baby ? ” said John.

“ Oh, well,” said the
mayor, “if anything
should happen, you will
always be able to re¬
member that
your baby
perished in a
good cause.”

So John
went home
again, and told
his wife some
***• of the tale.

“You’ve
given the baby
to the dragon ! ” she cried.
“ Oh, you unnatural parent! ”
“Hush,” said John, and he told
her some more.

“ Now,” he said, “ I’m going
down. After I’ve been down you
can go, and if you keep your head
the boy will be all right.”

So down went the blacksmith,
and there was the dragon purring
away with all his might to keep
the baby quiet.

“ Hurry up, can’t you ? ” he said. “ I can’t
keep up this noise all night.”

“ I’m very sorry, sir,” said the blacksmith,
“ but all the shops are shut. The job must
wait till the morning. And don’t forget
you’ve promised to take care of that baby.
You’ll find it a little wearing, I’m afraid.
Good-night, sir.”

The dragon had purred till he was quite
out of breath—so now he stopped, and as
soon as everything was quiet the baby
thought everyone must have settled for the
night, and that it was time to begin to
scream. So it began.

“ Oh, dear,” said the dragon, “ this is
awful.”

He patted the baby with his claw, but it
screamed more than ever.

“ And I am so tired, too,” said the dragon.
“ I did so hope I should have had a good
night.”

228

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

The baby went on screaming.

“ There’ll be no peace for me after this,”
said the dragon ; “ it’s enough to ruin one’s
nerves. Hush, then—did ’urns, then.” And
he tried to quiet the baby as if it had been a
young dragon. But when he began to sing
“ Hush-a-by, dragon,” the baby screamed
more and more and more. “ I can’t keep it
quiet,” said the dragon; and then suddenly
he saw a woman sitting on the steps. “ Here,

I say,” said he, “ do you know anything
about babies ? ”

“ I do, a little,” said the mother.

“Then I wish you’d take this one, and let
me get some sleep,” said the dragon, yawning.
“You can bring it back in the morning
before the blacksmith comes.”

So the mother picked up the baby and
took it upstairs and told her husband, and
they went to bed happy, for they had caught
the dragon and saved the baby.

And next day John went down and
explained carefully to the dragon exactly how
matters stood, and he got an iron gate with
a grating to it, and set it up at the foot of
the steps, and the dragon mewed furiously
for days and days, but when he found it was
no good he was quiet.

So now John went to the mayor and
said :—

“ I’ve got the dragon and I’ve saved the
town.”

“Noble preserver,” cried the mayor, “we
will get up a subscription for you, and crown
you in public with a laurel wreath.”

So the mayor put his name down
for five pounds, and the corporation
each gave three, and other people
gave their guineas and half-guineas,
and half-crowns and crowns, and
while the subscription was being
made the mayor ordered three poems
at his own expense from the town
poet to celebrate the occasion. The
poems were very much admired,
especially by the mayor and cor¬
poration.

The first poem dealt with the noble
conduct of the mayor in arranging
to have the dragon tied up. The
second described the splendid assist¬
ance rendered by the corporation.

And the third expressed the pride
and joy of the poet in being per¬
mitted to sing such deeds, beside
which the actions of St. George
must appear quite commonplace to all with a
feeling heart or a well-balanced brain.

When the subscription was finished there

was a thousand pounds, and a committee
was formed to settle what should be done
with it. A third of it went to pay for a
banquet to the mayor and corporation;
another third was spent in buying a gold
collar with a dragon on it for the mayor, and
gold medals with dragons on them for the
corporation; and what was left went in com¬
mittee expenses.

So there was nothing for the blacksmith
except the laurel wreath, and the knowledge
that it really was he who had saved the town.
But after this things went a little better with
the blacksmith. To begin with, the baby
did not cry so much as it had before. Then
the rich lady who owned the goat was so
touched by John’s noble action that she
ordered a complete set of shoes at 2s. 4d.,
and even made it up to 2s. 6 d. in grateful
recognition of his public-spirited conduct.

THE TOURISTS USED
TO COME.”

Then tourists
used to come
in breaks from quite a
long way off, and pay two¬
pence each to go down
the steps and peep through
the iron grating at the

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

229

rusty dragon in the dungeon—and it was
threepence extra for each party if the black¬
smith let off coloured fire to see it by, which,
as the fire was extremely short, was twopence-
halfpenny clear profit every time. And the
blacksmith’s wife used to provide teas at
ninepence a head, and altogether things grew
brighter week by week.

The baby—named John, after his father,
.ind called Johnnie for short—began presently
to grow up. He was great friends with Tina,
the daughter of the whitesmith, who lived
nearly opposite. She was a dear little girl,
with yellow pigtails and blue
eyes, and she was never tired
of hearing the story of how
Johnnie, when he was a
baby, had been minded
by a real dragon.

The two children used
to go together to
through the
iron grating
at the dra-
gon, -and
sometimes
they would
hear him
mew pite¬
ously. And

as big as a tin church, was coming over the
marshes towards the town.

“We’re lost,” said the mayor. “I’d give
a thousand pounds to anyone who could
keep that giant out of the town. I know
what he eats—by his teeth.”

No one seemed to know what to do. But
Johnnie and Tina were listening, and they
looked at each other, and then ran off as fast
as their boots would carry them.

They ran through the forge, and down the
dungeon steps, and knocked at the iron door.

“ Who’s there ? ” said the dragon.

“the dragon behaved like a smelting V

they would light a halfpennyworth of
coloured fire to look at him by. And they
grew older and wiser.

Now, at last one day the mayor and
corporation, hunting the hare in their gold
gowns, came screaming back to the town
gates with the news that a lame, humpy giant,

“It’s only
us,” said the
children.

And the dra¬
gon was so dull from having been
alone for ten years that he said :—
“ Come in, dears.”

RKS> ” “ You won’t hurt us, or breathe

fire at us or anything?” asked Tina.

And the dragon said, “Not for worlds ”

So they went in and talked to him, amd
told him what the weather was like outside,
and what there was in the papers, and at
last Johnnie said :—

“ There’s a lame giant in the town. He
wants you.”

230

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Does he ? ” said the dragon, showing his
teeth. “ If only I were out of this ! ”

“If we let you loose you might manage to
run away before he could catch you.”

“ Yes, I might” answered the dragon,
“ but then again I mightn’t.”

"Why—you’d never fight him?” said
Tina.

dragon; “ I’m all for
let me out, and you’ll

“No,” said the
peace, I am. You
see.”

So the children loosed the dragon from the
chains and the collar,
and he broke down
one end of the dun¬
geon and went out
— only pausing at
the forge door to get
the blacksmith to
rivet his wing.

He met the lame
giant at the gate
of the town, and
the giant banged
on the dragon
with his club as if
he were banging
an iron foundry,
and the dragon
behaved like a
smelting works—
all lire and smoke.

It was a fearful
sight, and people
watched it from
a distance, falling
off their legs with the shock
of every bang, but always
getting up to look again.

At last the dragon won, and
the giant sneaked away across
the marshes, and the dragon,
who was very tired, went home
to sleep, announcing his intention of
eating the town in the morning. He
went back into his old dungeon because
he was a stranger in the town, and he
did not know of any other respectable
lodging. Then Tina and Johnnie went
to the mayor and corporation and said,
“The giant is settled. Please give us the
thousand pounds reward.”

But the mayor said, “ No, no, my boy.
It is not you who have settled the giant, it is
the dragon. I suppose you have chained
him up again ? When he comes to claim the
reward he shall have it.”

“He isn’t chained up yet,” said Johnnie.
“ Shall I send him to claim the reward ? ”

But the mayor said he need not trouble ;
and now he offered a thousand pounds to
anyone who would get the dragon chained
up again.

“ I don’t trust you,” said Johnnie. “ Look
how you treated my father when he chained
up the dragon.”

But the people who were listening at the
door interrupted, and said that if Johnnie
could fasten up the dragon again they would
turn out the mayor and let Johnnie be mayor
in his place. For they had been dissatisfied
with the mayor for some time, and
thought they would like a change.

So Johnnie said, “Done,” and off
he went, hand-in-hand with Tina, and
they called on all their little friends
and said :—

“ Will you help us to save the
town ? ” '

And all the children said, “Yes, of
course we will. What fun ! ”
“Well, then,” said Tina, “you
must all bring your basins of bread
and milk to the
forge to-morrow
at breakfast
time.”

“ And if ever I
am mayor,” said
Johnnie, “I will
give a banquet,
and you shall be
invited. And
we’ll have noth¬
ing but sweet
things from be¬
ginning to end.”

All the children
promised, and
next morning
Tina and Johnny
rolled the big
washing-tub
down the wind¬
ing stair.

“ What’s that
noise?” asked
the dragon.

“ It’s only a big giant breathing,” said
Tina; “he’s gone by, now.”

Then, when all the town children brought
their bread and milk, Tina emptied it into
the wash-tub, and when the tub was full
Tina knocked at the iron door with the
grating in it, and said :—

“ May we come in ? ”

“Oh, yes,” said the dragon; “it’s very
dull here.”

,L THE TOWN CHILDREN BROUGHT
THEIR BREAD AND MILK.”

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

231

So they went in, and with the help of nine
other children they lifted the washing-tub in
and set it down by the dragon. Then all
the other children went away, and Tina and
Johnnie sat down and cried.

“ What's this ? ” asked the dragon, “ and
what’s the matter ? ”

“ This is bread and milk,”said Johnnie;
“it’s our breakfast—all of it.”

“ Well,” said the dragon, “ I don’t see
what you want with breakfast. I’m going
to eat every one in the town as soon as I’ve
rested a little.”

“ Dear Mr. Dragon,” said Tina, “ I wish
you wouldn’t eat us. How would you like
to be eaten yourself?”

“Not at all,” the dragon confessed, “ but
nobody will eat me.”

“I don’t know,” said Johnnie, “there’s a
giant-”

“ I know. I fought with him, and licked
him-”

“ Yes, but there’s another come now—the
one you fought was only this one’s little boy.
This one is half as big again.”

“ He’s seven times as big,” said Tina.

“No, nine times,” said Johnnie. “He’s
bigger than the steeple.”

“ Oh, dear,” said the dragon. “ I never
expected this.”

“ And the mayor has told him where you
are,” Tina went on, “ and he is coming to
eat you as soon as he has sharpened his big
knife. The mayor told him you were a wild
dragon—but he didn’t mind. He said he
only ate wild dragons—with bread sauce.”

“ That’s tiresome,” said the dragon, “ and
I suppose this sloppy stuff in the tub is the
bread sauce ? ”

The children said it was. “Of course,”
they added, “ bread sauce is only served with
wild dragons. Tame ones are served with
apple sauce and onion stuffing. What a pity
you’re not a tame one : he’d never look at
you then,” they said. “Good-bye, poor
dragon, we shall never see you again, and
now you’ll know what it’s like to be eaten.”
And they began to cry again.

“Well, but look here,” said the dragon,
“ couldn’t you pretend I was a tame dragon ?
Tell the giant that I’m just a poor little, timid
tame dragon that you kept for a pet.”

“ He’d never believe it,” said Johnnie.
“If you were our tame dragon we should
keep you tied up, you know. We shouldn’t
like to risk losing such a dear, pretty pet.”

Then the dragon begged them to fasten
him up at once, and they did so : with the
collar and chains that were made years ago—

in the days when men sang over their work
and made it strong enough to bear any strain.

And then they went away and told the
people what they had done, and Johnnie was
made mayor, and had a glorious feast exactly
as he had said he would—with nothing in it
but sweet things. It began with Turkish
delight and halfpenny buns, and went on
with oranges, toffee, cocoanut-ice, pepper¬
mints, jam-puffs, raspberry-noyeau, ice-creams,
and meringues, and ended with bull’s-eyes
and ginger-bread and acid-drops.

This was all very well for Johnnie and
Tina; but if you are kind children with
feeling hearts you will perhaps feel sorry for
the poor deceived, deluded dragon—chained
up in the dull dungeon, with nothing to do
but to think over the shocking untruths that
Johnnie had told him.

When he thought how he had been tricked
the poor captive dragon began to weep—and
the large tears fell down over his rusty plates.
And presently ' he began to feel faint, as
people sometimes do when they have been
crying, especially if they have not had any¬
thing to eat for ten years or so.

And then the poor creature dried his eyes
and looked about him, and there he saw the
tub of bread and milk. So he thought, “ If
giants like this damp, white stuff, perhaps 1
should like it too,” and he tasted a little, and
liked it so much that he ate it all up.

And the next time the tourists came, and
Johnnie let off the coloured fire, the dragon
said, shyly :—

“ Excuse my troubling you, but could you
bring me a little more bread and milk ? ”

So Johnnie arranged that people should go
round with carts every day to collect the
children’s bread and milk for the dragon.
The children were fed at the town’s expense
—on whatever they liked ; and they ate
nothing but cake and buns and sweet things,
and they said the poor dragon was very
welcome to their bread and milk.

Now, when Johnnie had been mayor ten
years or so he married Tina, and on their
wedding morning they went to see the
dragon. He had grown quite tame, and his
rusty plates had fallen off in places, and
underneath he was soft and furry to stroke.
So now they stroked him.

And he said, “ I don’t know how I could
ever have liked eating anything but bread
and milk. I am a tame dragon, now, aren’t
I ? ” And when they said “Yes, he was,”
the dragon said :—

“ I am so tame, won’t you undo me ? ”
And some people would have been afraid to

232

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

trust him, but Johnnie and Tina were so
happy on their wedding day that they could
not believe any harm of anyone in the world.
So they loosed the chains, and the dragon
said, “Excuse me a moment, there are one or
two little things I should like to fetch,” and
he moved off to those mysterious steps and
went down them, out of sight into the dark¬
ness. And as he moved more and more of
his rusty plates fell off.

In a few minutes they heard him clanking
up the steps. He brought something in his
mouth—it was a bag of gold.

“ It’s no good to me,” he said ; “ perhaps
you might find it come in useful.” So they
thanked him very kindly.

“ More where that came from,” said he,
and fetched more and more and more, till
they told him to stop. So now they were
rich, and so were their fathers and mothers.
Indeed, everyone was rich, and there were
no more poor people in the
town. And they all got
without working, which is
wrong; but the dragon

never been to school, as you have, so he
knew no better.

And as the dragon came out of the
dungeon, following Johnnie and Tina into
the bright gold and blue of their wedding
day, he blinked his eyes as a cat does in the
sunshine, and he shook himself, and the last
of his plates dropped off, and his wings with
them, and he was just like § very, very
extra-sized cat. And from that day he grew
furrier and furrier, and he was the beginning
of all cats. Nothing of the dragon remained
except the claws, which all cats have still,
as you can easily ascertain.

And I hope you see now how important it
is to feed your cat with bread and milk. If
you were to let it have nothing to eat but
mice and birds it might grow larger and
fiercer, and scalier and tailier, and get wings
and turn into the beginning of dragons. And
then there would be all the bother over again.

rich

very

had

A Remarkable Quilt.

By R. G. Bassett. Photographs by Alfred Dewey, Sidcup.

HE collecting of autographs
has always had a fascination
for people. But probably
never has this interesting
hobby been associated with
a more pleasing work than
that lately accomplished by Mrs. J. Wheeler
Bennett, of Ravensbourne, Keston, near
Bromley, in Kent. This work takes the form
of a unique quilt, which consists of forty
satin “ squares ” arranged in diamond shape
and joined with torchon lace. Upon the
•‘squares” are inscribed the autographs of
some 400 or more persons of high rank, or
distinguished in the service of the State, in
politics, science, art, music, and literature.
Now that it is completed, the quilt has been
disposed of for the benefit of the funds of a
local charity—the Bromley Cottage Hospital
—and realized a handsome sum for this
object.

So remarkable a piece of work, which will
be an art treasure in the home to which it
goes, calls for more than passing reference,
and having been privileged to inspect it, I
am able to pass in review some of the dis¬
tinguished names it bears.

Occupying the central place in the quilt is
the Royal square, having the signatures of
H.R.PI. the Prince of Wales, the Duke and
Duchess of York,
the Princess Vic¬
toria of Wales, the
Duchess of Fife,
and the Duke of
Fife. Near to this
is another Royal
square, that in
which H.R.H.
the Duchess of
Albany’s signature
is given, with those
of her son and
daughter, the
young Duke of
Albany and the
Princess Alice.

The signatures
here are those of
the Duke of Teck,
the Princes Adol¬
phus and Alex¬
ander of Teck,
and the Princess
Adolphus- of Teck.

Vol. xviii.--30

The peerage is represented by numerous
names, distinguished in many instances by
honourable service in the State. Plere are
the Duke of Norfolk, Lord Ashbourne, the
Duke of Westminster, the Duchess of West¬
minster, Duchess of Newcastle, Marquis
and Marchioness of Tweeddale, Marquis of
Salisbury, Earl of Aberdeen, Countess of
Aberdeen, the Marquis of Londonderry,
K.G., Lord Russell of Killowen, Lord Chief
Justice of England, who, as Sir Charles
Russell, was the most brilliant advocate at
the Bar, Field-Marshal Lord Roberts, Lord
Kitchener of Khartoum, the hero of the
Soudan, and many others.

In the world of politics the Prime Minister
has already been mentioned. Other names
more especially known in the political arena
are Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, Secretary of
State for the Colonies ; Sir Matthew White
Ridley, Bart., the Home Secretary ; Sir
Edward Clarke, Q.C., M.P.; Sir Robert
Finlay, Q.C., M.P. ; Mr. W. Willis, Q.C.,
M.P.; the late lamented Sir Frank Lock-
wood, and a number of other Q.C. M.P.’s.

His Grace the Lord Primate of Ireland
leads off the list of dignitaries of the Church
who have given their autographs “ in the
sweet cause of charity.” The roll of bishops
and their wives includes the Bishop of

j

• ALA
$

aw

ideg&

wsm

234

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

London and Mrs. Creighton, the Bishop of
Chichester and Mrs. Wilberforce, the Bishop
of Manchester and Mrs. Moorhouse, Arch¬
bishop O’Brien (of Halifax), and then there
are also the Dean of Winchester and Mrs.
McClure, Canon Barnett and Mrs. Barnett,
Canon Elwyn, Canon Duckworth, Canon
Murray, and Canon Allen.

Civic names are here in large number, and
include Sir Faudel Phillips (Lord
Mayor, 1896-7) and Lady Faudel
Phillips, Sir Horatio Davies (Lord
Mayor, 1897-8) and Lady Davies ;

Sir Henry Knight, who was Lord
Mayor of London 1882-3; Aider-
men R. C. Halse (the late), F. P.

Alliston (of Beckenham), Alfred
C. Newton, Clarence R. Halse,
and Under Sheriff Webster
Glynne.

The Bench and Bar are re¬
presented by a singularly distin¬
guished list of names. Here are
among those who occupy seats
on the Bench: The Lord Chief
Justice Russell, Lord Esher,

Master of the Rolls, Sir Joseph
Chitty, Sir Richard Henn Collins,

Sir Ford North, Sir James Stirling,

Sir Robert Romer, Sir James
Charles Matthew, Sir Robert
Samuel Wright, Sir Arthur
Kekewich, Sir Gainsford Bruce,

Sir Arthur Moseley Channell, and

last, but not least, that stern
judge who has tried and sen¬
tenced more criminals than any
other living man, Sir Henry
Hawkins, now Lord Brampton.
At the Bar we have, besides the
Q.C. M.P.’s already mentioned,
Mr. Graham Hastings, Q.C.,
Mr. Arthur Jelf, Q.C., Sir R. T.
Reid, Q.C., Mr. J. W. Wheeler,

Q. C., Mr. Lawson Walton, Q.C.,
Mr. Ernest Levett, Q.C., and
Mr. F. A. Bosanquet, Q.C.

Art has distinguished repre¬
sentatives in the names of Sir
E. J. Poynter, President of the
Royal Academy; Alma-Tadema,
Briton Rivibre, Frank Dicksee,
Luke Fildes, Val Prinsep,

Andrew Gow, J. MacWhirter,

Henry Wells, Hubert Herkomer,
E. Onslow Ford, FI. H. Arm¬
stead, J. W. Waterhouse — all

R. A.’s. Another painter whose
name is indelibly written in

the annals of art, although he was never
admitted to the charmed circle of the

“ Forty ” of Burlington House, is the
late Sir Edward Burne - Jones. Other

names whose paintings have many admirers
are Solomon J. Solomon, A.R.A., who has
lately been engaged in painting the decora¬
tion for the Royal Exchange ; Arthur Hacker,
the figure painter; James Guthrie, R.S.A.,

A REMARKABLE QUILT.

235

one of the leading portrait painters of the
newer school, etc.

In the world of Music the autographs are
numerous, and we scarce know where to begin.
Sir Arthur Sullivan, Sir J. F. Bridge, con¬
ductor of the Royal Albert Hall, and organist
of Westminster Abbey ; Sir George Martin,
organist of St. Paul’s Cathedral; Sir Arthur
Mackenzie, conductor of the Philharmonic
Society, and Principal of the Royal Academy
of Music; Sir George Grove; Sir
Walter Parratt, organist of St.

George’s Chapel Royal, Windsor;

Dr. Ebenezer Prout, musical pro¬
fessor of Dublin University; Dr.

W. Creser, composer to the Queen,
and organist of Chapel Royal, St.

James’s; Mr. August Manns, the
veteran musical director of the
Crystal Palace; and Mr. William
H. Cummings, Principal of the
Guildhall School of Music. Coming
to notable singers, we have a very
full list of names familiar to music-
lovers of the present day: Madame
Albani, Madame Belle Cole,

Madame Alice Gomez, Miss Ada
Crossley, Miss Clara Butt, Miss
Evangeline Florence, Miss Macin-
tyre, Madame Blanche Marchesi,

Mr. Charles Santley, Mr. Edward
Lloyd, Mr. Ben Davies, Mr. Hayden
Coffin; Mr. John Thomas,
harpist to the Queen ; Stephen

Adams, the song-writer, etc.,
etc.

Among other notable men
and women who have ap¬
pended their autographs may
be mentioned Sir Wilfred
Laurier, Premier of Canada;
Admiral Sir Nowell Salmon,
C.C.B., V.C. ; Admiral Sir
James Erskine, K.C. B. ;
Admiral Commerell, G.C.B.,
V.C.; the Hon. Alfred
Lyttelton; Sir Frederick
Falkner, Chief Recorder of
Dublin; Lieutenant-Governor
Daley, of Nova Scotia; his
Eminence Cardinal Logue,
Archbishop of Armagh ; Mr.
R. D. Blackmore, the novelist;
Sir W. PI. Broadbent, Bart.,
M.D. ; Countess Balzain,
great-niece of the Emperor
Napoleon; Mr. W. H. Preece,
C.B., F.R.S. ; Sir Henry
Irving; John Ruskin, etc., etc.

So remarkable a treasure must in future
years become more and more valuable. As
we have seen, while it has been in prepara¬
tion, several of those who have signed it—the
Duchess of Teck, the mother of our future
Queen; Sir Edward Burne-Jones, whose
works will live for all time ; and genial
Sir Frank Lockwood—have passed away, and
their autographs remain only to recall them
to memory.

Curiosities*

[ We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted.']

THE RESULT OF AN ELECTION BET.

In another part of the present number we
have a very interesting article describing
the strange result of a wager on the elec¬
tion of the President of the United States,
the loser of which was obliged to drive a
donkey across the United States, and to earn
his own living as he went. This picture
relates to another of a somewhat similar kind.

WHAT IS IT?

This snap-shot from real life would serve
excellently as a puzzle picture, and we feel
sure that few persons would guess what this
strange-looking object really is. We will
give them the solution. It is simply a
buffalo, photographed in the City Park,
Denver, Colorado, by Mr. R. M. Gale.

A TYRE-BALLOON.

This is a child’s cycle, of which the tyres
had recently been blown up fairly tight. A
short time afterwards it was found that the
inner tube had forced itself through the
outer cover into the balloon shown in
the photo. Mr. F. A. Meigh, of Ash Hall,
Stoke-on-Trent, sends us this remarkable
picture.

It is sent by Mr. Judd Hartzell, La Harpe,
Illinois, together with the following explana¬
tion : “ The circumstances are these. In
1896, during the heat of the McKinley-Bryan
campaign, a wager was made on the result of
the election as follows: Mr. Geo. Hamline
wagered that Mr. McKinley would be elected
President, while Mr. Thomas Carnes wagered
that Mr. Bryan would be elected. The one
that lost was to stand all day in the tallest
tree in our City Park, and also be photo¬
graphed in that position. The photograph
shows Mr. Carnes carrying out the wager,
he having lost.” The photo, was taken by Mr.
Henry, La Harpe, Illinois.

* Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited.

CURIOSITIES.

237

A SPORTING OFFER.

The accompanying laughable challenge was issued by Mr. George

A BARREL ARCH.

This is a picture of an arch of barrels erected in honour of the
visit of Lord and Lady Aberdeen to Goderich, Ontario. The
banner underneath shows the apple crop of the County of Huron for
the year—viz., 500,000 barrels. The photo, was sent by Mr. W. J.
Pasmore, of that city.

Hoy to the Eastern
Counties Rail way Com¬
pany—now the Great
Eastern Railway.
Those who have had
the pleasure of travel¬
ling on the same line
in our own days are
well aware that their
service is now all that
could be wished. Yet
we could name another
company, very similar
in name, against whom,
if the challenge
were now repeated,
there is no doubt that
Mr. Hoy’s ancient
donkey would have no
difficulty in carrying off
the prize, and indulging
in the bray of triumph
which his master
speaks of. We are in¬
debted for the print to Mr. F. C.
Armsden, West Ham, S.E.

9.1io (blowing is an oxact. copy of a Letter sent to the Director* of tho Erutem

m ■

Oountie# Railway Company

To the Chairman and Directors

or the Eastern Counties Railway Company.

7, Chester Street, Green Street ,

Bethnal Green, Aui/ust 'B\th, 1850.

QUEER TYPE.

{ Gentlemen,

Your Engines seem-to be taking' it very easy. I have un old Donkey that •

X will guarantee to beat some of your Business Trains in speed. For example, '
joire Time Table allows 6,7, and.8 MinnteH from Qheshynt to Waltham, $ow,

I will back my old Donkey to do it in 4 Minutes, and thus leave me time to get ^
my breakfast before the Train starts.

This little Donkey is 15 years old, or 1 would back him to run against \
some of your Trains from Cheshunt. to London. 1 know he could have beaten
them 4 or 5 years ago, and I think he might do so now, but 1 am not willing to
tax the powers of my old friend. He will do what 1 l ave stated with tme, and
have a good bray afterwards, as if in contempt of the inferior power of Eastern
Counties Steam. If you are willing to uecept the Challenge, name die day, ami
have an umpire on a fust horse to see all fair, and I will he ready for you.

--—- -

I mu, Gentlemen,

Your humble Servant,

(Signed) GEORGE HOY.

aa_--- mm

Mr. A. Steuart Jones, of Wind¬
sor, Canada, sends the accompany¬
ing curious photo, and description :
“The original is a piece of type-
metal, which, in the great fire that
destroyed this town on October
17th, 1897, was melted from some
type from the cases of the Tribune
Publishing Company and found in
their ruins. The photo', was taken
by myself, and I might add that
the original is exactly as found and
has not been ‘ doctored 5 in any
way. It is still the property of
the above company, and can
be seen at their office at any
time.”

238

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

CUPID’S LOVE-LETTER.

Mr. J. William Hook, of Bristol, sends us the
above curious letter, which contains eight lines of a
love-poem, and may be read by holding the page on a
level with the eyes, so as to foreshorten the characters.

A BOLD ROBIN.

“SILVER TIP.”

We have received the following most interest¬
ing letter from Mr. J. Ashton Gamble, of Sioux
City, Iowa : “ Probably the most wonderful canine
in the world, in his way, is Silver Tip, owned by
F. E. Barber, proprietor of the New Exchange
Hotel, Sioux City, Iowa. Silver Tip’s peculiarity
is his ability to select instantly from among any
number of coins of any kind the genuine American
silver dollar. He has been tried with every variety
of coin available, including very clever counterfeits,
and under varying conditions, and never has been
known to score a failure. He works by retrieving,
and will not even go near anything but the silver

From a Photo, by Baldwin Studio, Sioux City , Iowa.

With the accompanying photograph we have
received from Mr. E. Meredith, of Georgetown,
Tredegar, the following letter which describes it:
“I inclose a photo¬
graph, which I took
on May 18th, 1899,
of a robin’s nest in a
buffer of a waggon.

The nest was built
while the waggon
was undergoing re¬
pairs at the Ebbw
Vale Steel, Iron, and
Coal Co.’s waggon
yard, where upwards
of sixty men are at
work daily, and it
was not noticed
until there were five
eggs in it. Then
the bird was seen
flying out. Several
persons came to see
it, as it is quite a
curiosity. When I
took it there were
six eggs in the nest.”

dollar. His most famous feat was in recently deciding
in favour of a silver dollar which had been rejected by
three banks as spurious, and which was subsequently

declared to be genuine
by the sub-treasury
officials in Chicago.
The animal deve¬
loped his partiality
for the dollar silver
piece himself, and his
owner offers no ex¬
planation for his
remarkable sagacity
beyond instinct. A
Boston newspaper
facetiously suggested
that he is the reincar¬
nation of a dead
banker. Silver Tip
is a handsome tan,
and weighs \o%\h.
Mr. Barber has re¬
fused as much as
50odols. in cash for
his clever canine, and
declares he is not for
sale at any price.”

CURIOSITIES.

239

A LEVIATHAN FROG.

This startling photograph was taken by
Mr. E. Dukinfield Jones, of Castro, Parana.
We presume that it is a “ trick-photo¬
graph,” but Mr. Jones does not give us
any particulars, and he lives such a long
way off that we cannot readily communi¬
cate with him. Possibly, however, some
of our readers may be able to discover
how it is done. It is sent to us by
Mr. A. G. Grenfell, of Parkgate, Cheshire.

A REMARKABLE HOBBY.

The hobbies of collectors are innumer¬
able, and sometimes take extraordinary
forms. We once heard of a gentleman
who devoted his spare time to the collec¬
tion of policemen’s batons—certainly the

queerest craze within
our experience. The
above picture,
though not so re¬
markable, is never¬
theless quite a curi¬
osity of its kind. It
represents part of
a collection of jugs
belonging to a lady.
There are 613 in
the picture, but the
owner possesses over
725 altogether. They
came from all parts
of England and some
from Germany, and
some have the names
of different towns
stamped on them.
No two are alike.
We are indebted for
this curiosity to Miss
Fenn, The Hall,

Bushey. If any of our readers know of
any queer collections of this kind we
shall be very glad to hear from them.

CAUGHT IN A SHOWER.

The reproduction below shows a
new position for a group of sitters.
It is not, however, anyone’s inven¬
tion, but came to pass by the acci¬
dent of a shower of rain, while the
ladies were engaged in haymaking. No
other shelter being at hand, they
sought protection by burying them¬
selves in the grass, in which position
the photographer caught them. The
photo, is sent in by Mr. G. Bond,
The Rookery, Eye, Suffolk, and was
taken by Mr. W. Girling, Stradbroke.

240

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

oil from the nut, the distilling of arrack (an alco¬
holic drink), and, lastly, drawing the toddy. The
bottom of the cocoanut represents the making of
curry. There were only three of these cocoanuts
made—two were shown at the Paris Exhibition,
and the other is in my possession.” Photo, by
Powls and Mays, Birmingham.

A NEW STYLE IN PHOTOGRAPHY.

Minneapolis has the honour of inventing a new
method of photographic grouping. The contributor
of this example, with the modesty of genius, desires
to withhold his name. He says : “These are a group
of Minneapolis’s fairest girls. They were taken while
they were all lying on the floor with their heads
together, and the Kodak suspended from the ceiling.”

NOT A DANCING CAT.

“ This,” says Mrs. W. Schultz, of Summit, N.J.,
who sends the photo., “does not represent a dancing
cat, but is a snap-shot I took from inside the hall as
the cat was climbing up the screen door, a favourite
amusement of his. The wire screen, being so fine,
does not show against the strong light of the sky.”

A CLOCK OF FLOWERS.

This extraordinary timepiece may be seen in the
grounds of the waterworks at Detroit. The clock-
face is composed of flowers and plants, which are
changed according to the season. The clock itself is
run by water-power, and keeps correct time. We
have received this photo, from Mr. T. E. Bland, of
Hamilton, Ontario, whose sister was the photographer.

A CARVED COCOANUT.

Mr. R. B. Main, of Birch fields, Birmingham, writes
as follows : “ This cocoanut came into my possession
whilst I was residing in Ceylon. It is an ordinary
cocoanut, carved by a Singalese carpenter with a pen¬
knife at the age of seventy. The carving represents
the different uses that the cocoanut is put to by the
natives. Firstly, picking the fruit, extracting the

,v.r •

“ FOUR KNIVES WERE AT WORK RIPPING AND SLASHING IN ALL DIRECTIONS.”

( See page 250.)

The Strand Magazine.

Vol. xviii. SEPTEMBER, 1899. No. 105.

The Purple Terror *

By Fred. M. White.

I. Point naval dandyism. He had brains at

IEUTENANT WILL SCAR- the back of his smartness, and his geological
LETT’S instructions were and botanical knowledge were going to prove
devoid of problems, physical of considerable service to a grateful country
or otherwise. To convey a when said grateful country should have
letter from Captain Driver of passed beyond the rudimentary stages of
the Yankee Doodle , in Porto colonization. And there was some disposi-
Rico Bay, to Admiral Lake on the other side of tion to envy Scarlett on the part of others
the isthmus, was an apparently simple matter. floating for the past month on the liquid
“ All you have to do,” -the captain re- prison of the sapphire sea.
marked, “ is to take three or four men with A warrant officer, Tarrer by nam z, plus
you in case of accidents, cross the isthmus two A.B.’s of thews and sinews, to say
on foot, and simply give this letter into the nothing of the dog, completed the exploring
hands of Admiral Lake. By so doing we party. By the time that the sun kissed the
shall save at least four days, and the tip of the feathery hills they had covered
aborigines are presumedly friendly.” some six miles of their journey. From the

The aborigines aforesaid were Cuban first Scarlett had been struck by the abso-
insurgents. Little or no strife had taken lute absence of the desolation and horror of
place along the neck lying between Porto civil strife. Evidently the fiery cross had not
Rico and the north bay where Lake’s flag- . been carried here; huts and houses were
ship lay, though the belt was known to be intact; the villagers stood under sloping eaves,
given over to the disaffected Cubans. and regarded the Americans with a certain

“It is a matter of fifty miles through sullen curiosity,

practically unexplored country,” Scarlett “ We’d better stop for the night here,” said

replied; “and there’s a good deal of the Scarlett.

family quarrel in this business, sir. If the They had come at length to a village that

Spaniards hate us, the Cubans are not boasted some pretensions. An adobe chapel
exactly enamoured of our flag.” at one end of the straggling street was faced

Captain Driver roundly denounced the by a wine-house at the other. A padre, with

whole pack of them. hands folded over a bulbous, greasy gabardine,

“Treacherous thieves to a man,” he said. bowed gravely to Scarlett’s salutation. The

“I don’t suppose; your progress will have latter had what Tarrer called “considerable

any brass bands and floral arches to it. And Spanish.”

they tell me the forest is pretty thick. But “We seek quarters for the night,” said

you 11 get there all the same. There is the Scarlett. “ Of course, we arc prepared to pay

letter, and you can start as soon as you like.” for them.”

“I may pick my own men, sir? The sleepy padre nodded towards the

“ My dear fellow, take whom you please, wine-house,
lake the mastiff, if you like.” “You will find fair accommodation there,”

u f’d like the mastiff,” Scarlett replied; he said. “ We are friends of the Americanos.”

as he is practically my own, I thought you Scarlett dcubted the fact, and passed on
would not object.” with florid thanks. So far, little sighs of

U ill Scarlett began to glow as the prospect friendliness had been encountered on the

of adventure stimulated his imagination. march. Coldness, suspicion, a suggestion of

He was rather a good specimen of West fear, but no friendliness to be embarrassing.

. ... * Copyright, 1899 , by George Newnes, Limited, in the United States of America.

Vol. xvni.—31.

244

THE STB AND MAGAZINE.

The keeper of the wine-shop had his
doubts. He feared :his poor accommodation
for guests so distinguished. A score or more
of picturesque, cut-throat-looking rascals with
cigarettes in their mouths lounged sullenly in
the bar. The display of a brace of gold
dollars enlarged mine host’s opinion of his
household capacity.

“ I will do my best, senors,” he said.
“ Come this way.”

So it came to pass that an hour after
twilight Tarrer and Scarlett were seated in
the open amongst the oleanders and the
trailing gleam of the fire-flies, discussing
cigars of average merit and a native wine
that was not without virtues. The long bar
of the wine-house was brilliantly illuminated ;
from within came:shouts of laughter mingled
with the ting, tang of the guitar and the
rollicking clack of the castanets.

“They seem to be happy in there,” Tarrer
remarked. “ It isn’t all daggers and ball in
this distressful country.”

A certain curiosity came over Scarlett.

“It is the duty of a good officer,” he said,
“ to lose no opportunity of acquiring useful
information. Let us join the giddy throng,
Tarrer.”

Tarrer expressed himself with enthusiasm
in favour of any amusement that might be
going. A month’s idleness on shipboard
increases the appetite for that kind of thing
wonderfully. The long bar was comfortable,
and filled with Cubans who took absolutely
no notice of the intruders. Their eyes were
turned towards a rude stage at the far end
of the bar, whereon a girl was gyrating in a
dance with a celerity and grace that caused
the wreath of flowers around her shoulders
to resemble a trem¬
bling zone of purple
flame.

“A wonderfully
pretty girl and a
wonderfully pretty
dance,” Scarlett mur¬
mured, when the
motions ceased and
the girl leapt grace¬
fully to the ground.

“ Largesse, I expect.

I thought so. Well, I’m
good for a quarter.”

The girl came for- /
ward, extending a'
shell prettily. She
curtsied before Scar¬
lett and fixed her dark,
liquid eyes on his. .As

he smiled and dropped his quarter-dollar into
the .shell a coquettish gleam came into tire
velvety eyes. An ominous growl came from
the lips of a bearded ruffian close by.

“ Othello’s jealous,” said Tarrer. “ Look
at his face.”

“ I am better employed,” Scarlett laughed.
“ That was a graceful dance, pretty one. I
hope you are going to give us another one
presently-”

Scarlett paused suddenly. His eyes had
fallen on the purple band of flowers the girl
had twined round her shoulder. Scarlett
was an enthusiastic botanist; he knew most
of the gems in Flora’s crown, but he had
never looked upon such a vivid wealth of
blossom before.

The flowers were orchids, and orchids of
a kind unknown to collectors anywhere. On
this point Scarlett felt certain. And yet this
part of the world was by no means a
difficult one to explore in comparison with
New Guinea and Sumatra, where the rarer
varieties had their homes.

The blooms were immensely large^ far
larger than any flower of the kind known to
Europe or America, of a deep pure purple,
with a blood-red centre. As Scarlett gazed
upon them he noticed a certain cruel ex¬
pression on the flower. Most orchids have a
kind of face of their own; the purple blooms
had a positive expression of ferocity and
cunning. They exhumed, too, a queer, sickly
fragrance. Scarlett had smelt something like
it before, after the Battle of Manila. The
perfume was the perfume of a corpse.

“And yet they are magnificent flowers,”
said Scarlett. “ Won’t you tell me where
you got them from, pretty one ? ”

‘the girl came forward, extending a shell prettily.

THE HURTLE TERROR.

-45

The girl was ..evidently flattered by the
attention bestowed upon her .by the smart
young American. The bearded Othello
alluded to edged up-toher-side.

“The senor had best leave the girl alone,”
he said, insolently.

Scarlett-s fist clenched as he measured the
Cuban with his eyes. The Admiral’s letter
crackled in his. breast-pocket, and discretion
.got the best of valour.

“ You are paying yourself a poor compli¬
ment, my good fellow,” he said, “ though ll
certainly admire your good taste. Those
flowers interested me.”

The man appeared to be mollified. His
features corrugated in a smile.

“The senor would like some dfdhose
blooms?” he asked. “Jt 'was II wWto :pro-
cured them for little Zara here. H .can show
you where they grow.”

Every eye in the room was :turned -in
Scarlett’s direction. It seemed:to IHim tthat
• a kind of diabolical malice, glistenedcmice very
dark face there, save that of r the ^ifjpwhose
features paled under her healthyctan.

“ If .the senor is wise,” she began, “he
will not-”

“ Listen to the tales of a .silly girl,”
Othello put in, menacingly. HLe^grasped the
girl by the arm, and she winced in positive
.pain. “Pshaw, there is mo harm wheretihe
flowers grow, if one is only careful, il will
take you there, and I will be your guide to
Port Anna, where you are going, for a gold
.dollar.”

All Scarlett’s scientific enthusiasm was
aroused. It is not given to every man to
present a new orchid to the horticultural
world. And this one would dwarf the finest
plant hitherto discovered.

“ Done with you,” he said; “ we start at
daybreak. I shall look to you to be ready.
Your name is Tito? Well, good-night,
Tito.”

As Scarlett and Tarrer withdrew the girl
suddenly darted forward. A wild word or
two fluttered from her lips. Then there
was a sound as of a blow, followed by a
little, stifled cry of pain.

“No, no,” Tarrer urged, as Scarlett half
turned. “ Better not. They are ten to one,
and they are no friends of ours. It never
pays to interfere in these family quarrels. I
daresay, if you interfered, the .girl would be
just as ready to knife you as her jealous
lover.”

“ But a blow like that, Tarrer ! ”

“It’s a.pity, but I don’t see how we can
help it. Your business is the quick dispatch

of the .Admiral’s letter, not the squiring of
dames.”

Scarlett owned with a sigh that Tarrer was
right.

II.

It was quite a different Tito who presented
himself at daybreak the following morning.
His insolent manner had disappeared. He
was cheerful, alert, and he had a manner full
of the most winning politeness.

“ You quite understand what we want,”
Scarlett said. “My desire is .to reach Port
Anna as soon as possible. You know the
way ? ”

“Every inch of it, senor. I have made
the journey scores of times. And I shall
have the felicity of getting you there early
on the third day from now.”

“ Is it so far as that ? ”

“The distance is not great, senor. It is
idle passage through the woods. There
.axe [parts where no white man has been
IbeforeT

‘“.And you will not forget the purple
corchids ? ”

A queer gleam trembled like summer
lightning in Tito’s eyes. The next instant it
had gone. A time was to come when
Scarlett was to recall that look, but for the
moment it was allowed to pass.

“'The senor shall see the purple orchid,”
he said ; “ thousands of them. They have a
bad name amongst our people, but that is all
nonsense. They grow in the high trees, and
their blossoms cling to long, green tendrils.
These tendrils are poisonous to the flesh, and
great care should be taken in handling them.
And the flowers are quite harmless, though
we call them the devil’s poppies.”

To all of this Scarlett listened eagerly. He
was all-impatient to see and handle the
mysterious flower for himself. The whole
excursion was going to prove a wonderful
piece of luck. At the same time he had to
curb his impatience. There would be no
chance of seeing the purple orchid to-day.

For hours they fought their way along
through the dense tangle. A heat seemed
to lie over all the land like.a.curse—a blister¬
ing, sweltering, moist heat with no puff of
wind to temper its breathlessness. By the
time that the sun was sliding down, most of
the party had had enough of it.

They .passed out of the underwood at
length, and, striking upwards, approached a
clump of huge forest trees on the brow of a
ridge. All kinds of parasites hung from the
branches; there were ropes and bands of
greeiij and high up a fringe of purple glory

246

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

that caused Scarlett’s pulses to leap a little
faster.

“ Surely that is the purple orchid ? ” he
cried.

Tito shrugged his shoulders contemptu¬
ously.

“ A mere straggler or two,” he said, “ and
out of our reach in any case. The senor will
have all he wants and more to-morrow.”

“ But it seems
to me,” said Scar¬
lett, “that I
could——”

Then he paused.

The sun like a
great glowing
shield was shining
full behind the
tree with its crown
of purple, and
showing up every
green rope and
thread clinging to
the branches with
the clearness of
liquid crystal.

Scarlett saw a net¬
work of green
cords like a huge
spider’s web, and
in the centre of it
was not a fly, but
a human skeleton!

The arms and
legs were stretched
apart as if the
victim had been
crucified. The
wrists and ankles
were bound in the
cruel web. Frag¬
ments of tattered
clothing fluttered
in the faint breath
of the evening
breeze.

“ Horrible,”

Scarlett cried,

“ absolutely hor¬
rible ! ”

“You may well
say that,” Tarrer exclaimed, with a shudder.
“ Like the fly in the amber or the apple
in-the dumpling, the mystery is how he got
there.”

“Perhaps Tito can explain the mystery,”
Scarlett suggested.

Tito appeared to be uneasy and disturbed.
He looked furtivelv from one to the other of

his employers as a culprit might who feels
he has been found out. But his courage
returned as he noted the absence of sus¬
picion in the faces turned upon him.

“ I can explain,” he exclaimed, with teeth
that chattered from some unknown terror or
guilt. “ It is not the first time that I
have seen the skeleton. Some plant-hunter
doubtless who came here alone. He climbed

into the tree with¬
out a knife, and
those green ropes
got twisted round
his limbs, as a
swimmer gets
entangled in the
weeds. The more
he struggled, the
more the cords
bound him. He
would call in vain
for anyone to
assist him here.
And so he must
have died.”

The explanation
was a plausible
one, but by no
means detracted
from the horror
of the discovery.
For some time
the party pushed
their way on in
the twilight, till
the darkness de¬
scended suddenly
like a curtain.

“ We will camp
here,” Tito said ;
“ it is high, dry ground,
and we have this belt
of trees above us. There
is no better place than
this for miles around.
In the valley the miasma
is dangerous.”

As Tito spoke he
struck a match, and
soon a torch flamed up.
The little party were
on a small plateau, fringed by trees. The
ground was dry and hard, and, as Scarlett
and his party saw to their astonish¬
ment, littered with bones. There were
skulls of animals and skulls of human beings,
the skeletons of birds, the frames of beasts
both great and small. It was a weird,
shuddering sight.

THE PURPLE TERROR .

247

“We rank possibly stay here/’ Scarlett
exclaimed.

Tito shrugged his shoulders.

“There iis nowhere else,” he replied.
“ Down in the valley there are many dangers.
Further :in the woods are the snakes and
jaguars. Bones .are nothing. Peuf, they
can .he easily cleared away.”

They had to be cleared away, and there
was .an .end of the matter. For the most
part the skeletons were white and dry as air
and sun could make them. Over the dry,
calcined mass the huge fringe of trees
nodded mournfully. With the • rest, Scarlett
was Busy scattering the mocking frames
.aside. -A perfect human skeleton
lay at his .feet. On one. finger
something glittered—a signet iringB
-As .Scarlett took it :in . his hand he
started.

“I know ..this Ting.!” he (.ex¬
claimed ; “ it belonged to Pierre
Anton, perhaps the most -skilled
and intrepid plant - hunter -.the
Jardin des Plantes ever employed.

The poor fellow was by way of
being a friend of mine. He met
the fate.that.he always anticipated.”

“ There must have been a Tare
holocaust here,” said Tarrer.

“ It beats me,” .Scarlett re¬
sponded. By this time a large
circle .had been shifted clear of
human and other remains. By the
light of .the lire loathsome insects .
could be seen scudding and strad¬
dling away. “ It beats me entirely.

Tito, can you offer any explanation ?

If the bones were all human I
could get some grip of the problem.

But when one comes to birds and
animals as well ! Do you see that
the skeletons lie in a perfect circle,
starting from the centre of the
clump of trees above us ? What
does it mean ? ”

Tito professed utter ignorance
of the subject. Some years before
a small tribe of natives invaded the penin¬
sula for religious rites. They came from a
long way off in canoes, and wild stories were
told concerning them. They burnt sacrifices,
no doubt.

Scarlett turned his back contemptuously
on this transparent tale. His curiosity was
aroused. There must be some explanation,
for Pierre Anton had been seen of .men
within the last ten years.

“ There’s something uncanny about this,”

he said, to Tarrer. “I mean to get to the
bottom of it, or:know why.”

“As for me,” said Tarrer, with a cavernous
yawn, “I have but one ambition, and that
is my supper, followed by my bed.”

III.

Scarlett lay in the light of the lire look¬
ing about him. He felt restless and uneasy,
though he would have found it difficult to
explain the reason. For one thing, the air
trembled to strange noises. There seemed
to be something moving, writhing in the forest
trees above his head. More .than once it
seemed to his distorted , fancy that lie could

“a rare holocaust.”

see a squirming knot of green snakes in
motion.

Outside the circle, in a grotto of bones,
Tito lay sleeping. A few moments before
his dark, sleek head had been furtively raised,
and his eyes seemed to gleam in .the flicker¬
ing firelight with malignant cunning. As he
met .Scarlett’s glance he gave a deprecatory
gesture and subsided.

“What the deuce does it all mean.?”
Scarlett muttered. “ I feel "certain yonder

248

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

rascal is up to some mischief. Jealous still
because I paid his girl a little attention. But
he can’t do us any real harm. Quiet, there ! ”

The big mastiff growled and then whined
uneasily. Even the dog seemed to be con¬
scious of some unseen danger. He lay down
again, cowed by the stern command, but he
still whimpered in his dreams.

“ I fancy I’ll keep awake for a spell,”
Scarlett told himself.

For a time he did so. Presently he began
to slide away into the land of poppies. He
was walking amongst a garden of bones which
bore masses of purple blossoms. Then
Pierre Anton came on the scene, pale and
resolute as Scarlett had always known him ;
then the big mastiff seemed in some way to
be mixed up with the phantasm of the dream,
barking as if in pain, and Scarlett came to his
senses.

He was breathing short, a beady perspira¬
tion stood on his forehead, his heart
hammered in quick thuds—all the horrors of
nightmare were still upon him. In a vague
way as yet he heard the mastiff howl, a real
howl of real terror, and Scarlett knew that he
was awake.

Then a strange thing happened. In the
none too certain light of the fire, Scarlett
saw the mastiff snatched up by some invisible
hand, carried far on high towards the trees,
and finally flung to the earth with a crash.
The big dog lay still as a log.

A sense of fear born of the knowledge of
impotence came over Scarlett; what in the
name of evil did it all mean ? The smart
scientist had no faith in the occult, and yet
what did it all mean ?

Nobody stirred. Scarlett’s companions
were soaked and soddened with fatigue; the
rolling thunder of artillery would have scarce
disturbed them. With teeth set and limbs
that trembled, Scarlett crawled over to the
dog.

The great, black-muzzled creature was
quite dead. The full chest was stained and
soaked in blood; the throat had been cut
apparently with some jagged, saw-like instru¬
ment away to the bone. And, strangest
thing of all, scattered all about the body was
a score or more of the great purple orchid
flowers broken off close to the head. A hot,
pricking sensation travelled slowly up Scar¬
lett’s spine and seemed to pass out at the
tip of his skull.' He felt his hair rising.

Pie was frightened. As a matter of honest
fact, he had never been so horribly scared in
his life before. The whole thing was so
mysterious, so cruel, so bloodthirsty.

Still, there must be some rational explana-
tion. In some way the matter had to do
with the purple orchid. The flower had an
evil reputation. Was it not known to these
Cubans as the devil’s poppy ?

Scarlett recollected vividly now Zara’s
white, scared face when Tito had volunteered
to show the way to the resplendent bloom ;
he remembered the cry of the girl and the
blow that followed. He could see it all now.
The girl had meant to warn him against some
nameless horror to .which Tito, was leading
the small party. This was the jealous
Cuban’s revenge. *

A wild desire to pay this debt to the utter¬
most fraction filled Scarlett, and shook him
with a trembling passion. He crept along
in the drenching dew to where Tito lay, and
touched his forehead with the chill blue rim
of a revolver barrel. Tito stirred slightly.

“You dog ! ” Scarlett cried. “ I am going
to shoot you.”

Tito did not move again. His breathing
was soft and regular. Beyond a doubt the
man was sleeping peacefully. After all he
might be Innocent; and yet, on the other
hand, he might be so sure of his quarry that
he could afford to slumber without anxiety
as to his vengeance.

In favour of the latter theory was the fact
that the Cuban lay beyond the limit of what
had previously been the circle of dry bones.
It was just possible that there was no danger
outside that pale. In that case it would be
easy to arouse the rest, and so save them
from the horrible death which Tad befallen
the mastiff. No doubt these were a form of
upas tree, but that would not account for
the ghastly spectacle in mid-air.

“I’ll let this chap sleep for the present,”
Scarlett muttered.

He crawled back, not without misgivings,
into the ring of death. He meant to wake
the others and then wait for further develop¬
ments. By now his senses were more alert
arid vigorous than they had ever been before.
A preternatural clearness of brain and vision
possessed. him. As he advanced he saw
suddenly falling a green bunch of cord that
straightened into a long, emerald line. It
was triangular in shape, fine at the apex, and
furnished with hooked spines. The rope
appeared to dangle from- the tree overhead ;
the broad,; sucker-like termination was evi¬
dently soaking up moisture.

A natural phenomenon evidently, Scarlett
thought. This was some plant new to him,
a parasite living amongst the tree-tops and
drawing life and vigour by means of these

THE PURPLE TERROR.

249

green, rope-like antennae designed by Nature
to soak and absorb the heavy dews of night.

For a moment the logic of this theory was
soothing to Scarlett’s distracted -nerves, but
only for a moment, for then he saw at
regular intervals along the green rope the big
purple blossoms of the devil’s poppy.

He stood gasping there, utterly taken
aback for the moment. There must be
some infernal juggling behind all this
business. He saw the rope slacken and
quiver, he saw it swing forward like a pen¬
dulum, and the next
minute it had passed
across the shoulders
of a sleeping seaman.

Then the green root
became as the arm of
an octopus. The line
shook from end to end
like the web of an
angry spider when in¬
vaded by a wasp. It
seemed to grip the
sailor and tighten, and
then, before Scarlett’s
affrighted eyes, the
sleeping man was
raised gently from the
ground.

Scarlett jumped
forward xvith a desire
to scream hysterically.

Now that a comrade
was in danger he was
no longer afraid. He
whipped a jack-knife
from his pocket and
slashed at the cruel
cord. He half expected
to meet with the stout¬
ness of a steel strand,
but to his surprise
the feeler snapped like
a carrot, bumping the
sailor heavily on the
ground. .•

He sat up, rubbing his eyes vigorously.

“That you, sir?” he asked. “What is
the matter ? ” .

“For the love of God, get up at once and
help me to arouse the others,” Scarlett said,
hoarsely. . “ We have come across the devil’s
workshop. All the. horrors of the inferno
are invented here.”

The bluejacket, struggled to his feet. As
he did so, the clothing from his waist down¬
wards slipped about his feet, clean cut
through by the teeth of the green parasite.

Vol. xviii.—32.

All around the body of the sailor blood
oozed from a zone of teeth-marks.

Two-o’clock-in-the-morning courage is a
virtue vouchsafed to few. The tar, who
would have faced an ironclad cheerfully,
fairly shivered with fright and dismay.

“ What does it mean, sir ? ” he cried.
“ I’ve been-”

“ Wake the others,” Scarlett screamed;
“ wake the others.”

Two or three more green tangles of rope
came tumbling to the ground, straightening
and quivering in¬
stantly. The purple
blossoms stood out
like a frill upon them.
Like a madman Scar¬
lett shouted, kicking
his companions with¬
out mercy.

They were all awake
at last, grumbling and
moaning for their lost
slumbers. All
this time Tito
had never
stirred.

“ I don’t
understand it
at all,” said
Tarrer.

“ Come from
under those
trees,” said
Scarlett, “ and
I will endea¬
vour to ex¬
plain. Not that
you will believe
me for a mo¬
ment. No man
can be expect¬
ed to believe
the awful
nightmare I
am going to
tell you.”

Scarlett proceeded to explain. As he
expected, his story was followed with marked
incredulity,' save by the wounded sailor, who
had strong evidence to stimulate his other¬
wise defective imagination.

“I can’t believe it,” Tarrer said, at length.
They were whispering together beyond ear¬
shot of Tito, whom they had no desire to
arouse for obvious reasons. “ This is some
diabolical juggling of yonder rascally Cuban.
It seems impossible that those slender green
cords could-”

HE SLEEPING MAN WAS RAISED GENTLY FROM THE GROUN

250

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Scarlett pointed to the centre of the circle.

“ Call the dog,” he said, grimly, “ and see
if he will come.”

“ I admit the point as far as the poor old
mastiff is concerned. But at the same time
I don’t—however, I’ll see for myself.”

By this time a dozen or more of the
slender cords were hanging pendent from the
trees. They moved from spot to spot as if
jerked up by some unseen hand and de¬
posited a foot or two farther. With the great
purple bloom fringing the stem, the effect
was not unlovely save to Scarlett, who could
see only the dark side of it. As Tarrer spoke
he advanced in the direction of the trees.

“ What are you going to do ? ” Scarlett
asked.

“ Exactly what I told you. I am going to
investigate this business for myself.”

Without wasting further words Scarlett
sprang forward. It was no time for the
niceties of an effete civilization. Force was
the only logical argument to be used in a
case like this, and Scarlett was the more
powerful man of the two.

Tarrer saw and appreciated the situation.

“No, no,” he cried; “none of that. Any¬
way, you’re too late.”

He darted forward and threaded his way
between the slender emerald columns. As
they moved slowly and with a certain stately
deliberation there was no great danger to an
alert and vigorous individual. As Scarlett
entered the avenue he could hear the soak
and suck as the dew was absorbed.

“For Heaven’s sake, come out of it,” he
cried.

The warning came too late. A whip-like
trail of green touched Tarrer from behind,
and in a lightning flash he was in the toils.
The tendency to draw up anything and
everything gave the cords a terrible power.
Tarrer evidently felt it, for his breath came
in great gasps.

“ Cut me free,” he said, hoarsely; “ cut me
free. I am being carried off my feet.”

He seemed to be doomed for a moment,
for all the cords there were apparently con¬
verging in his direction. This, as a matter
of fact, was a solution of the whole sickening,
horrible sensation. Pulled here and there,
thrust in one direction and another, Tarrer
contrived to keep his feet.

Heedless of possible danger to himself
Scarlett darted forward, calling to his com¬
panions to come to the rescue. In less time
than it takes to tell, four knives were at work
ripping and slashing in all directions.

“ Not all of you,” Scarlett whispered. So

tense was the situation that no voice was
raised above a murmur. “ You two keep
your eyes open for fresh cords, and cut them
as they fall, instantly. Now then.”

The horrible green spines were round
Tarrer’s body like snakes. His face was
white, his breath came painfully, for the
pressure was terrible. It seemed to Scarlett
to be one horrible dissolving view of green,
slimy cords and great weltering, purple
blossoms. The whole of the circle was
strewn with them. They were wet and slimy
underfoot.

Tarrer had fallen forward half unconscious.
He was supported now by but two cords above
his head. The cruel pressure had been
relieved. With one savage sweep of his knife
Scarlett cut the last of the lines, and Tarrer
fell like a log unconscious to the ground. A
feeling of nausea, a yellow dizziness, came
over Scarlett as he staggered beyond the
dread circle. Pie saw Tarrer carried to a
place of safety, and then the world seemed
to wither and leave him in the dark.

“ I feel a bit groggy and weak,” said Tarrer
an hour or so later : “ but beyond that this
idiot of a Richard is himself again. So far
as I am concerned, I should like to get even
with our friend Tito for this.”

“ Something with boiling oil in it,” Scarlett
suggested, grimly. “ The callous scoundrel
has slept soundly through the whole of this
business. I suppose he felt absolutely cer¬
tain that he had finished with us.”

“ Upon my word, we ought to shoot the
beggar ! ” Tarrer exclaimed.

“ I have a little plan of my own,” said
Scarlett, “ which I am going to put in force
later on. Meanwhile we had better get on
with breakfast. When Tito wakes a pleasant
little surprise will await him.”

Tito roused from his slumbers in due
course and looked around him. His glance
was curious, disappointed, then full of a white
and yellow fear. A thousand conflicting
emotions streamed across his dark face.
Scarlett read them at a glance as he called
the Cuban over to him.

“ I am not going into any unnecessary
details with you,” he said. “ It has come to
my knowledge that you are playing traitor to
us. Therefore we prefer to complete our
journey alone. We can easily find the way
now.”

“ The sehor may do as he pleases,” he
replied. “ Give me my dollar and let me
go.”

Scarlett replied grimly that he had no

THE PURPLE TERROR .

2 S I

intention of doing anything of the kind. He
did not propose to place the lives of himself
and his comrades in the power of a rascally
Cuban who had played false.

“ We are going to leave you here till we
return,” he said. “ You will have plenty of
food, you will be perfectly safe under the
shelter of these trees, and there is no chance
of anybody disturbing you. We are going to
tie you up to one of these trees for the next
four-and-twenty hours.”

All the. insolence died out of Tito’s face.
His knees bowed, a cold dew came out over
the ghastly green of his features. From the
shaking of his limbs he might have fared
disastrously with ague.

“The trees,” he stammered, “the trees,
sehor ! There is danger from snakes, and—
and from many
things. There are
other places-”

“ If this place was
safe last night it is
safe to-day,” Scarlett
said, grimly. “I
have quite made up
my mind.”

Tito fought no
longer. He fell
forward on his
knees, he howled
for mercy, till Scar¬
lett fairly kicked him
up again.

“ Make a clean
breast of it,” he
said, “or take the
consequences. You
know perfectly well
that we have found
you out, scoundrel.”

Tito’s story came in gasps. He wanted to
get rid of the Americans. He was jealous.
Besides, under the Americanos would Cuba
be any better off? By no means and
assuredly not. Therefore it was the duty of
every good Cuban to destroy the Americanos
where possible.

“ A nice lot to fight for,” Scarlett muttered.
“ Get to the point.”

Hastened to the point by a liberal applica¬
tion of stout shoe-leather, Tito made plenary
confession. The sehor himself had suggested
death by medium of the devil’s poppies.
More than one predatory pkmt-hunter had
been lured to his destruction in the same

way. The skeleton hung on the tree was a
Dutchman who had walked into the clutch of
the purple terror innocently. And Pierre
Anton had done the same. The suckers of
the devil’s poppy only came down at night
to gather moisture; in the day they were
coiled up like a spring. And anything that
they touched they killed. Tito had watched
more than one bird or small beast crushed
and mauled by these cruel spines with their
fringe of purple blossoms.

“ How do you get the blooms ? ” Scarlett
asked.

“That is easy,” Tito replied. “In the
daytime I moisten the ground under the
trees. Then the suckers unfold, drawn
by the water. Once the suckers unfold one
cuts several of them off with long knives.

“he howled for mercy. ”

There is danger, of course, but not if one
is careful.”

“ I’ll not trouble the devil’s poppy any
further at present,” said Scarlett, “but I
shall trouble you to accompany me to my
destination as a prisoner.”

Tito’s eyes dilated.

“ They will not shoot me ? ” he asked,
hoarsely.

“ I don’t know,” Scarlett replied. “ They
may hang you instead. At any rate, I shall
be bitterly disappointed if they don’t end
you one way or the other. Whichever opera¬
tion it is, I can look forward to it with
perfect .equanimity. ”

A Peep into “Punch."

By J. Holt Schooling.

[ The Proprietors of “ Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch’s famous pages. ]

Part IX.—1885 to 1889.

Music At Home. — Mrs. Smith (fortissimo, to Mrs. Brown , in one of
those sudden and unexpected pauses with which Herr Signor Hammer-
tonga is fond of surprising his Audience). “ And so I gave her a Month’s
Warning on the spot! ”

I.—BY DU MAURIER, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1885.

A Very Orthodox Animal. — Bishop. “Doesn’t Shy, eh, Mr. Perkins? ”
Horsedealer. “Shy? Never! Stop, my Lord. I must be Honest with
you. I did know him Shy once—but that was at a Salvationist Army
passin’ by ! ” [. Bishop buys Horse at once.]

3. —BY A. C. CORBOULD, 1885.

Euphemistic. — Colonel. “ I’ve never met with* a smarter
Drill than yourself, Sergeant, or one more thoroughly up to all
his Duties ; but you’ve one most objectionable habit, and that is
your constant use of Bad Language and Swearing at the Men."
Sergeant. “ Sir, perhaps I am a little Sarcashtic ! ”

2.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1885.

to be printed, and I make a special mention
of this typographic detail for the guidance of
those who may in future write the always-
pleasant name —George du Mauner.

WORD as to the typographic
shape of Mr. George du Maurier’s
name. Mr. M. H. Spielmann,
the art-critic, writes to me : “ May
I suggest—for sake of accuracy—
that you should print the artist's* name du
Maurier, not Du Maurier? The first form
is correct; and the artist attached importance
to it." I do not feel quite guilty for
having printed in earlier parts of --

this article Du Maurier in place of the correct
du Maurier, for the reason that in my manu¬
script I see that I have often (although not
always) written du —not Du —but I am guilty
in so far as that I did not alter the printer's
Du to the correct du. Kind, sunny, and
clever George du Maurier is entitled, at the
least, to have his name printed as he liked it

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

*53

A Punch slip; a cartoon published in anticipation of an event
which did not occur— viz., the meeting of General Gordon and
General Stewart at Khartoum. [.S'** No. 5.]

4.— BY TENNIEL, FEBRUARY 7, 1885.

felegrant, Thursday Morning , Feb. j .— “Khartoum taken
by the Mahdi. General Gordon’s fate uncertain.”

The cartoon which followed that shown in No. 4.

5.— BY TENNIEL, FEBRUARY 14, 1885.

Pictures i, 2, 3, 4, and 5 of this “ Peep into
‘ Punch 5 ” show to us fine specimens of the art
of four of Mr. Punch’s
famous artists—George
du Maurier, Charles
Keene, A. Chantrey
Corbould, and Sir John
Tenniel.

Keene, in No. 2,
was, as he always was,
exactly right with his
absolutely true repre¬
sentation of life and
character when he drew
for us the smart drill-
sergeant, who, in reply
to his Colonel’s rebuke
about bad language to
the recruits, remarked:

“Sir, perhaps I am a
little Sarcashtic ! ”

Tenniel, in No. 4,
strikes a graver note
with his cartoon show¬
ing the meeting at
Khartoum of General
Gordon with General Sir Henry Stewart of
the too-long-delayed relief expedition of 1885.

This meeting, as we all know, never took
place , although it was confidently expected
to occur just when
No. 4 was published
— February 7, 1885.

Both Generals were
dead when this cartoon
was published, and in
the next week’s issue
Punch corrected this
slip by the publication
of the sombre cartoon
“Too Late”—see
No. 5 — which shows
the Mahdi and his
fanatic host pouring
into Khartoum, while
Britannia covers her
eyes, shamed and
anguished.

We waited nearly
fifteen years for Ten-
niel’s grand figure of
Britannia here seen
outside Khartoum to
drop her eye-covering
arm and lift the sword with her other arm—
this time effectually.

Treat at “ The Colindekies.” —Eton Boy.
“ Glass o’ Sherry and Bitters, and some Milk and
Water for the Lady ! ”

6. — BY CHARLES KEENE, l8S6.

254

THE STRAND MAGAZINE..

No. 6 is by Charles
Keene. No. 7 is by Harry
Furniss and No. 8 by
Tenniel; both of these
show us something of the
straits of Gladstone. No.

7—a picture full of anima¬
tion, and wonderful in its
fertility of ideas—was pub¬
lished February 14, 1885,
in the week when No. 5
was published : there were
ructions in that meeting
of the Cabinet, which was
held on February 5, 1885,
just after the news had
reached London of the
capture of Khartoum by
the Mahdi. There was in¬
tense excitement in London,
and poor Mr. Gladstone
sits distraught, biting his
ragged quill pen, while Mr.

Chamberlain is urging upon
him a line of action, and almost thumping
the argument into Gladstone’s face. Sir
William Harcourt lounges, with eyes shut
to the uproar, at the right of the picture,
and a big book, entitled “ Harcourt on
Himself,” is just falling on his upturned face,

7. —BY HARRY FURNISS, FEBRUARY 14, 1885.

while other members of the Cabinet are assist¬
ing in the general scrimmage, or, weary of the
turmoil, are waiting for something to turn up.
Tenniel’s cartoon, No. 8, was published April
io, 1886 ; the old man, Gladstone, with the
“Irish Vote” life-belt around him, is just
plunging into the rough sea to the rescue of
the wreck Hibernia ; it was “sink or swim,”
and the result was sink. On April 8, 1886,
Mr. Gladstone, just then Prime Minister for

SINK OR SWIM!!

8. — BY TENNIEL, APRIL IO, 1886.

“Teach Yeer Gran’mither,” Etc. — Englishman (to
Highland Friend , who is on a visit South , and “fr-rst
acquaint " with Asparagus). “ Mac ! Mac 1 ” —(in a whisper)
—“ you’re eating it at the Wrong End ! ”

Mac (who is not for learning anything front a “ gowk of a
Saxon). “ Ah, but ye dinna ken, Rian, Ah pr-ruffur-r-r’t ! ! ”

9.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1886.

the third time, made public avowal of his
conversion to Home Rule, and at half-past
four o’clock on that day he walked into the
House of Commons and, in his seventy-

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH!

2 55

seventh year, made a giant’s speech
of three hours and a half, moving
for leave to introduce his Bill to
make provision for the better
government of Ireland — a speech
of which Mr. McCarthy has re¬
corded, it “did not seem to any
listener one sentence too long.”

THE GRAND OLD FALCONER.

Wii.ua* (d trifl, huiky). OH, FUR MY FALCONER'S VOICE.

TO LORE THIS TASSEL-GENTLE BACK AGAIN ! "

(■FVowi <A« olW Wiujax,— •Atfitd.)

Mr. Gladstone trying to lure Mr. Joseph Chamberlain back to the
Liberal Party.

II.—BY TENNIEL, MAY I, l886.

Pictures 9 and 10 bring us to
Tenniel’s fine cartoon, No. 11.
Gladstone, as the Grand Old
Falconer, is striving to lure back
his tassel-gentle [Mr. Joseph Cham¬
berlain], who is seen flying far away
from his accustomed perch. A tassel-gentle
is a trained male goshawk, and Mr. Glad¬
stone wanted
this one badly.

This cartoon
was published
May 1, 1886,
shortly after
Mr. Chamber-
lain had an¬
nounced his
intention to
withdraw from
the Govern¬
ment on ac¬
count of his
disapproval of
G 1 a dstone’s
Home Rule
policy.

The next five
pictures, Nos.

12 to 16, are

all by Charles Keene. Not only are they all
good jokes, but the drawings themselves are

pieces of life
caught by this
great artist,
and shown to
us at the
moment of
occurrence by
reason of his
perfect mas¬
tery of his art.

There is a
dainty piece
by du Maurier
in No. 17, and
a really mar¬
vellous picture
by Charles
Keene in No.
18. It is not
necessary to
say anything

■ Supply and Demand.” —Antiquarian Gent. “ Got any old—ah—
Roman Weapons or Pottery lately? ”

Dealer. “ ’Xpect ’em in nex’ Week, Sir,—’ain’t quite finished Rustin’ yet.
Sir,—about Toosday, Sir ! ”

12.— BY CHARLES KEENE, 1886.

Happy Thought.— How to Equalise the Odds !
10.— BY DU MAURIER, 1886.

25 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

about this No. 18. One reads the
“legend” of it, looks at the picture,
and the absolute reality of the work
is impressed upon ones mind —
the rustic whose “deep thought”
turns out to be u maistly nowt ” is a
perfect piece of work—one can say
neither more nor less.

In No. 19 du Maurier lias a most
amusing hit at the bag-pipes; and
if you want to see another master¬
piece of Charles Keene’s black-and-
white art, look at picture No. 20,
and at the half-dismayed, half puzzled
bridegroom, who is told by the
absent-minded parson, “ And now
fix your Eyes on that Mark on the
Wall, and look pleasant!”

Capacity !—First Trmveller iproffering hit Muliy ** Taka Peneb ? **
Second Traveller. '* Na. 'm oulrtjcd i ye—ah dinna lak't."
tirti Traveller, " Man ! * That '* a IViyl— Ye've Gr-t^raum] Accnummo
mien* far’t ! " 15.—tiv ciianle* ki-fcNK. 1HS6.

At tiib 14 Do you know ihe Nature of

an Oath, my gxxl Woman ? M

It'itmeu } frith a Mack ryel 14 1 did ought to. Sir! Which
my s a Covin* Garden Porter, Sir ! "

lj. Il¥ CHAKI Bb K£tNK, 1887.

'*■Overcast/*—T hey were out fur a Day in the Country—
were I .tie at t lie Station—He left it to her lo take the Tickets
—a Horrid Crowd T rightfully Hot - and she was Hustled and
b lustered considerably w hen *ne rtjti h;d I hr Crtniage.

He icwl flu*/ etwif(triable ** How charming the Yellow
Gorsr— — M

She tin ft 7 vitherinjr feme), n You didn't 'sped to ncc it 1i ue,
I * pposc I ’* h-BV CHAfiLls KE&KL.iat;. I Tqcet!\

The two cartoons byTenniel, Nos. 21 and
22, relate to the famous challenge to Mr.
Parnell made by the Times in 1887, when
that paper published letters, believed by the
Times to be genuine letters, which involved
Parnell in the ghastly Phoenix Park murders
of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke

SHorrtNi; *— Lndy ini Sett-side ** Emfiorittm*). 11 How much
a c ihrse—ah—Improvers 1 ?"

Aht'bwatt. “ I ffiprov—hem !—They’re not. Ma'am teen*
futedi '* not not the article you require, Ma'am. They’re
t dicing-Mask v Ma'am l *' I Tableau

16. —UY CHAleLtS KEENE, lS&6.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH. ”

257

17,-BY Uil MAL'KIKR f 1887*

in Keene’s pictures, they reveal to
you some of their many fine quali¬
ties ? Look, for example, at this
thick Scot in No* 26 [ u Thrift”]
— look at his face as he says to
you, while he presses his hurt, boot¬
less foot, M Phew-ts !—e-eh what a
ding ma puir Buit wad a gotten if
a’d had it on ! ! ” The man is so
entirely in earnest as to the escape
his boot has had from severe
damage, although his face is pinched
with the sharp pain in his naked
foot*

Glancing at No* 29, w r e come to a

later, as all the world knows, these
so-called Parnell letters were proved
to have been forged by Pigott, and
so, on March 9, 1889, Punch pub¬
lished cartoon No* 22, which shows
the Times doing Penance, with a
most doleful look on its familiar
clock-face ; a very fine cartoon—is
it not?

Pictures 23, 24, and 25 are by
du Manner; the last one is perhaps
the best of the three, which are all
very good.

And now we have three Keenes
in Nos. 26, 27, and 28* Do you
not find that his work u grows on ”
you the more you see of it? And
that as soon as you get rid of the
idea of looking for surface-prettiness

A Young Humanitarian,—O h, Mamma, Mamma, couldn't you
interfere 7 There's a horrid Man squeezing something under his Arm, and
he it hurling it to ! M

T 9 *—A child’s first EXPERIENCE OF THE HAG*TIFES. BY
DU MAl'KtXR, 1887.

14 Lapsus l j sc,\jn.S — Farsots fwho it alto nrt rnthusiastU A malmr
Photographer t his mind tvandtrint during the SwictL “ And now fix
your Eyes on that Mark on the Will, and look pleasant ! ‘

30*—BY CHARLES KEENE, tSSS.

Rural Felicity*— Old Parson, 44 You appear
in deep Thought, my Friend, May l a*fc what chiefly occupies
your Mindf”

Countryman, 44 Maisriy nowt L “

13 *—RV CHARLES KEENE, 1887*

Vot* Jt^iii.—33

very funny picture in No. 30 by Mr. G.
H. Jalland. The French “Sportman ” is in
trouble with his horse, and he cries, “ I
tomble—I falofT! Stoo ze Fox ! !! ”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

258

_ THE CHALLENGE. _

The famous challenge to Mr. Parnell made by The Times in
the matter of the Phoenix Park murders.

21. — BY TENNIEL, APRIL 30, 1887. [ See No. 22 .]

PENANCE!

" HIS HONOUR ROOTED IN DISHONOUR STOOD,

ANI) FAITH UNFAITHFUL MADE IIIM FALSELY TRUE.”-Tcnrrm».

Published March 9, 1880, after Pigott had confessed to forging
the so-called “ Parnell-letters ” to which cartoon No. 21 refers.

22.—BY TENNIEL.

Fond and Foolish.— Edwin (suddenly , after a long pause). “ Darling ! ’
Angelina. “ Yes, Darjing ? ”

Edwin. “ Nothing, Darling. Only Darling, Darling ! ”

\Bilious Old Gentleman feels quite sick.]
24.— BY DU MAURIER, 1888.

to a gentleman by his side on the plat¬
form, asked him, as a layman , to express
in suitable words the feelings to which he
himself, as a bishop, dared not give verbal
expression.

Nos. 31, 32, and 33 are by Charles Keene.
No. 34, by clu Maurier, reminds one of the
tale about a certain bishop who, at a public
meeting, became greatly incensed by some of
the statements made by his opponents. The
fiery bishop choked down verbal
expression of his wrath, and turning

Vi*

Form. —Public School Boy (to General Sir George, G.C.B.,
G.S.f., V.C., etc., etc., etc.). “I say, Grandpapa,—a—won. d
you mind just putting on your Hat a little straighten ? Here
comes Codgers —he’s awfully particular-s-and he’s the Captain
of our Eleven, you know ! ”

23.— BY DU MAURIER, 1887

The fine, breezy cartoon in No. 35, by
Tenniel, shows Lord Salisbury nailing to the
mast the Union Jack flag of “ National

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

2 59

Caution v. Caution. —“ So careful, so economical, my dear
Wife is ! She always locks up the Decanters when we’ve had
all we want—on account of the Servants, you know ! He !
He ! . . . She doesn’t know I’ve got a Key too ! ”

25.—BY DU MAURIER, 1888.

Defence.” This was published March 16,
1889, and on March 7 Lord George
Hamilton had stated to the House the new
Naval Programme by which the Government
proposed to spend ^21,000,000 sterling in
building seventy additional ships representing
a fighting weight of 318,000 tons. On April 4,
1889, a resolution approving this expendi¬
ture of ^21,000,000 for Naval Defence was
carried, and it is not straining the truth to
say that this wise and bold act of finance in
the spring of 1889, backed up as it has been

Our Village Industrial Competition.— Husband (just
home from the City). “ My Angel !—Crying !—Whatever’s the
Matter? ”

Wife. “ They’ve—awarded me—Prize Medal "—(sobbing)—
“ f my Sponge Cake ! ”

Husband (soothingly). “And I’m quite sure it deserv-”

Wife (hysterically). “ Oh—but—'t said—’twas—for the Best
Specimen—o’ Concrete ! ”

27. —BY CHARLES KEENE, 1888.

during the last ten years, was to a distinctly
appreciable degree an act that bore good
fruit in the autumn of 1898, when the
strength of our Navy enabled us to act so
firmly that war between this country and a

Thrift. —Highlander (he had struck his foot against a
“ stane"). “ Phew-ts 1 —e-eh what a ding ma puir Buit wad a
getten if a’d had it on ! ! ”

26.—BY CHARLES KEENE, l 833 .

neighbour was avoided without loss of prestige
to England.

No. 36, by Charles Keene, illustrates an

200

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Awkward Revelations. — Effic. “ Georgy and I have been down-stairs
in the Dining-room, Mr. Mitcham. We've been playing Husband and
Wife ! ”

Mr. Mitcham. “ How did you do that, my dear?”

EJfie. “ Why, Georgy sat at one end of the Table, and I sat at the other ;
and Georgy said, ‘This Food isn’t fit to eat !’ and I said, ‘ It’s all you’ll
get! ’ and Georgy said, ‘ Dam ! ’ and 1 got up and left the Room ! ”

29.— BY DU MAURIER, 1888.

amusing argumentation between a musical curate
and his practical rector; and now, in Nos. 37 and
38, we have two very clever pieces of work by
Mr. Harry Furniss.

Mr. Furniss did a series of these Puzzle-Headed
People for Mr. Punch; these two were published
in 1889, and I
remember quite
well how eagerly
I used to look
each week for
the next: one. Of
the series pub¬
lished, the two
shown here are
perhaps the best,
and No. 37 is
probably the
better one of
these two. The

more you look at this “All Har-
courts ” head, the more you admire
Mr. Furniss’s wonderful ingenuity
and animation. You look and look
and look at this head, and as you
look, wherever you look, Harcourts
spring up like the armed men from
the dragon’s teeth that brave Jason
sowed in the furrowed field of
Mars. You know what Jason did :
he threw a stone among these
armed men, ci?id they fell one upon
the other until their formidable
ranks were destroyed. Was Mr.

Furniss a bit of a prophet when
in 1889 he made this remarkable
picture ?

Undaunted .—Bridegroom (trcmnloiisly). “You’re
not nervous, Darling?”

Bride (IVidcnu—Jirmly). “ Never was yet! ”

31. — BY CHARLES KEENE, 1889.

Even in the
signature to No.
37, Harry Fur¬
niss has made
the letters to
be profile like¬
nesses of Sir
William Har-
court, and the
black dash
under the signa-

“ Le Sportman.” —“ Hi ! ! Hi ! ! Stop ze Ghasse ! I tomble—I faloff!
Stop ze Fox!! !” 30.— by mr. g. h. jalland, 1888.

“The Other Way About.” —Irate Passenger (as Train is men) ing off).

“ Why the-didn’t you put mv Luggage in as I told you—you old-”

Porter, “ E—h, Man ! yer Baggage es na sic a Fule as yersel. Ye're i
the Wrang Train ! ” 32.— by Charles keene, 1888.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH."

261

ture is another portrait of the politician,
who was a leader of the Liberal party before
“ their formidable ranks were destroyed ”

Figurative. —Head Waiter (the Old Gent had unshed for
a stronger Cheese). “ Hi ! James—let loose the Gorgonzola ! ”
33.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1889.

Vicarious! (On the Underground Railway). — Irascible
Old Gentleman (who is just a second too late). “Confound

and D-! ”

Fair Stranger (who feels the same, but dares not express it).
“ Oh, thank you, so much ! ”

34.—BY DU MAURIER, 1889.

by reason of the members of that party
falling “ one upon the other ” to their
common destruction.

And see how this master-jester has treated

Mr. Joseph Chamberlain. In No. 38, the
ear is a J. C., the cord of the eye-glass is a
looped J. C., the curve of the nostril and of
the lip together make a J. C., a complete

“The Sermon Question.”— Curate (Musical). “But why
do you object to having a Hymn during the Collection ? ”
Rector (Practical). “ Well, you see, I preach a good Sermon,
which I calculate should move the People to an average of Half-
a-Crown each; but I find, during a long Hymn, they seem to
cool down, and it barely brings a Shilling a head ! ”

36.—BY CHARLES KEENE, 1888.

2 62

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Joseph Chamberlain is the eye that
is looking out so alertly through the
eye-glass; the J. C. Home Rule
neck-tie stands for Mr. Chamber¬
lain’s notion of Irish Home Rule in
1889, which was not at all the same
idea as Mr. Gladstone’s, who is
peeping out from the corner of the
collar. The orchid in the button¬
hole is a good likeness of Mr. Jesse
Codings, the faithful lieutenant of
Mr. Chamberlain ; his matrimonial
alliance with the United States is
represented by the Stars and Stripes
—the seams of a coat that has been
turned are each labelled with a
different legend—Radicalism, De¬
mocracy, Republicanism, Gladston-
ianism, Toryism, Chamberlainism.
The smoke of factories makes the
hair, the smoke from tall chimneys
gives the slighter hair between the
ear and the back of the neck, while
the shaded line from the ear to¬
wards the chin is made by a screw
—that well-made and universally-
used screw that we have all handled
in our carpentering at home, the

proper manufacturing of which built
up Mr. Chamberlain’s fortune, and
which is an infinitely better screw than
those that were to be had before Mr.
Chamberlain decided that screws
should be made as they are now made.

These are two very clever bits of
jesting, and I show one for each of the
two chief political parties, so that
adherents of each side may have a
laugh at the other’s expense without
wishing to go for the very talented
artist who drew these two heads.

No. 39 is by Mr. E. T. Reed,
who has done so much amusing
work for Mr. Punch—you know his
famous “ Prehistoric Peeps,” and his
very witty “ Ready-made Coats (-of-
Arms); or Giving ’em Fits.”

The Tenniel cartoon in No. 40 was
published September 14, 1889; it has
reference to the dock labourers’ strike
in London at that time, but Mr.
Punch’s remark to the man who is
about to kill with his knife, labelled
“ Strike,” the Guinea-Fowl (Capital)
that lays the Golden Eggs—“ Don’t
lose your head, my man ! Who’d
suffer most if you killed it ? ” is a
remark that applies well enough to
many other strikes than that illustrated

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.\

263

by this cartoon. No. 41, by du
Maurier, illustrates the risk run by
umpires at football matches.

THE GUINEA-FOWL THAT LAYS THE GOLDEN EGGS.

i&top llighlly altered.)

r. "DON'T I.Q3K YOUIt HEAD, MY MAN I WHO'!) SUFFER MOST IF YOU KILLED ITt"
40.— BY TENNIEL, SEPTEMBER 14, 1889.

39. —BY MR. E. T. REED, 1889.

A correspondent has drawn my
attention to the fact that the work of
Mr. Linley Sam bourne has not yet
been adequately represented in these peeps
into Punch — especially the very fine work
done by Mr. Sambourne during the years
1875 t0 1 ^79, which was the period covered
by the July part of this article.

In justice to a very fine artist—one of the
best of Mr. Punch’s many fine artists—I
ought to state the
reason for this
omission, which
has not been an
accidental omis¬
sion. Mr. Sam-
bourne’s beautiful
and most impor¬
tant work is as
well known and
as much appreci¬
ated as Punch
itself, and the
main reason for
the inadequate

representation of his work in these pages is
the fact that the necessary reduction in the
size of the . drawings, from large drawings to
the small facsimiles shown here, would have
destroyed one of the chief beauties of Mr.
Sambourne’s work, viz.: the beauty which
this splendid artist gives to his drawings

by the amazing
fertility of his in¬
vention, in add¬
ing much first-
rate and decora¬
tive detail to his
pictures. To re¬
duce these large
pictures to the
very small size
that is really
necessary here
would be to con¬
vert this beauty
into a defect.

N emesis. —Inquisitive Old Gentleman. “ Who’s Won ?”

First Football Player. “ We’ve Lost !”

Inquisitive Old Gentleman. “ What, have you got in that Bag?
Second Football Player. “ The Umpire! ”

41. —BY DU MAURIER, NOVEMBER 23, 1889.

(To be continued.)

Stones of the Sanctuary Club .

By L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace. Told by Paul Cato.
III.—THE DIANA SAPPHIRE.

i »

Anyone Who Looks Upon Diana Unveiled is Blind.

■ HE month of October, 1893,
will always stand out in my
memory as the time when those
grave and terrible troubles,
which in the end had such
serious consequences, began.
Hitherto Chetwynd and I had gone on pros¬
perously, the Club was doing well, the cures
resulting from our special treatment were
numerous, the members were pleased with
us and with each other; but from the day
when Dr. Horace Kort paid us his heavy
premium to be our third partner, these things
gradually but surely changed. From the first
I had disliked the man, a!nd from the" first
I think I suspected him -‘but Chetwynd was
taken with his undoubted attainments, and,
as we wished to extend our premises, further
funds were necessary for the purpose.

At any rate, the deeds of partnership were
*" signed and Kort took up his residence with
us. He was of a good half-English, half-
German family, and had spent at least ten
years in the great Continental schools of
research, having taken his degree at Vienna.
He was himself a man with considerable
outward charm. He had a sympathetic
manner, and a fund of vivacious and amusing
stories. He was reserved, without having a
trace of hardness or apparent coldness about
him, and' the members quickly assured us
that they thought our new partner an un¬
doubted acquisition. Little did they,guess
as they looked at him that Kort was one of
the keenest vivisectors of the day, the'valued
collaborator of Parker in some of 'his latest
advances, and that those white,. tapering
fingers, which could bring music of the finest
order out of more than one instrument, could
also wrestle effectively with science at the
dissecting-table and laboratory bench.

In appearance, Kort was about thirty years
of age, and was rather below than above the
middle height. His face was dark and thin ;
he had straight features and keen, somewhat
deeply-set, eyes. He invariably dressed with
extreme care, and was in every sense of the
word a polished man of the world. He came
to us in the August of ’93, and a couple of
months later, early in October, the following
trifling incident occurred.

One morning soon after breakfast a lady
drove up in a closed carriage. She inquired
for Dr. Kort, who happened to be out at the
time. The.servant informed her that either
Chetwynd or myself would be glad to see her.
She answered that Dr. Kort was the only
member of the firm she wished to see. She
was just about to drive away when the doctor
himself came hurriedly up. I happened to
be standing near, and I was startled at the
change in his face. For the first time heart
and soul seemed to breathe out of it. He
gave an involuntary start and quickly sup¬
pressed an exclamation, whether of joy, grief,
or anger I could not determine, then his face
turned.to an ashy pallor, and going up to the
carriage he spoke emphatically and in a very
low voice to its inmate. Finally I heard him
say, “ I will drive a short way back with you,
Isobel; you must not come in now.” He
entered the carriage, the coachman turned and
drove back in the direction of town.

Kort returned in the course of the morning,
looking very much as usual. He entered
Chetwynd’s consulting - room, where I
happened to be, and throwing himself on a
sofa began to talk. Watching him narrowly,
however, I observed that his hand trembled
as he took up the morning paper to substan¬
tiate some news which he was relating to us.
I had caught a glimpse of the occupant of the
carriage, and I could not help wondering
somewhat about her. She was young, so
dark as to look almost foreign, with delicate
features, a pale complexion, and wonderful
blue eyes. The colour of her eyes reminded
me more of sapphires than anything else,
and they, were sufficiently big and out of the
common to arrest the attention of anyone.
They gave great distinction to a face which
in itself bore claims to beauty, and as Kort
approached the carriage I saw them change
and darken, but with what emotion I could
not guess.

That very evening, as I was busily engaged
writing letters, Kort came into my room.

“ I want to speak to you,” he said. “ I am
anxious about a case which has just been
brought to my notice. It is that of a man
about my own age whom I happened to
know some years ago. He is in very poor

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

265

circumstances and also very ill —consumptive,
of course. I should like him to try our
Davos treatment, and as he is much too
poor to pay the club subscription and entrance
fee, I propose to do this for him, if you
and Chetwynd have no objection to his
coming here.”

“ vVby, certainly not,” I replied. “ And it
is kind of you to help him,” I could not help
adding. I looked at the man in some little
astonishment. He returned my gaze, and
smiling very gravely said, in a low voice : —

“Benevolence when judiciously exercised
has its special charms; why should
not I enjoy those pure pleasures as
well as another man ? ”

“Why not?” I answered, feeling
ashamed for the moment of the
suspicions I entertained
towards him. “ Well, tell
me more about your in
tended patient.”

“ I was going to pro¬
pose,” he answered, “ that
you and I should go to
visit Philip Sherwin, at
Pinner, to - morrow. We
can drive over in half an
hour. Can you manage
this ? ”

I looked up my engage¬
ments, and said that it
would be possible for me
to do so.

“ Very well, we will go
over immediately after
breakfast. He is a queer
chap, but I have taken a
fancy to him. I met him
first at the School of Mines
in Jermyn Street.”

Kort went away a
moment later, and on the
following morning he and
I found ourselves at Pinner.

We were standing outside
a neglected - looking door
in the midst of an untidy garden. The
paint was blistered off the wood and the
knocker was rusty from long disuse. Of
bells there were none. Dr. Kort raised
the knocker, and after a moment or two
we heard steps in the passage, the chain
was unhooked, and the door opened by
a thin, hectic-looking man, in an old velvet
coat. He might have been from thirty to
thirty-five years of age, and had the sunken
and yet bright eyes, and the painfully clear
complexion, of the consumptive.

Vol. xviii.— 34 .

To my astonishment, the very moment the
young man made his appearance Dr. Kort
stepped forward, laid his hand on his
shoulder, and said, in a low, emphatic
voice :—

“ Now, Philip, be reasonable, forget old
prejudices, and receive me as the friend
which I truly am. Let me introduce you to
Dr. Cato, the head of the celebrated Sanc¬
tuary Club at Hampstead. I have heard of
your illness, and believe that if there is a
place in the world which offers you a chance of
cure it is that Club. May we both come in ? ”

The young man’s face grew whiter than
ever, he looked full at Kort, and then said,
slowly, and with a most bitter emphasis :—=

“ I should like to take you by the throat,
but you know I cannot.”

“ Yes, I know that,” answered Kort,
suppressing a smile, and glancing at me
with a significant shrug of his shoulders.
His gesture seemed to say, “We must
humour him; he is not responsible for his
actions.”

I watched the pair with keen interest.

DR. KORT STEPPED FORWARD AND LAID HIS HAND ON HIS SHOULDER.’

266

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Sherwin did not speak at all for a moment;
he looked from Kort to me, breathed quickly
as though his emotions were almost strangling
him, and then said, in a low voice, quite
destitute of his former spirit: —

“ Yes, come in if you want to. I suppose
this is good of you, Kort, and there is

nothing for it hut-”

“Submission,” said Kort, in a low voice.
The man did not answer at all. We had
now entered the house. He walked on before
us leading the way down a dark hall, and
opening a door on the right, led us into a
lofty room which looked out upon a large,
neglected back garden. Glancing round I
saw that I was in a lapidary’s workshop. A
wooden bench ran along one complete side,
littered with many tools and instruments for
polishing and cutting gems. In one corner
stood a stone-cutter’s lathe, and beside it a
large safe. There was also a huge furnace,
upon which lay several pairs of tongs and
clay pots for melting glass.

“This is my workshop,” he
said, turning to me; “ I spend
most of my time here.”

“ I see that you are still as
mad as ever, Sherwin,” said Kort.

“ Does the great discovery ap¬
proach nearer the light ? ”

Sherwin laughed — there was
both bitterness and pathos in his
laugh.

“I am nearer to it — much
nearer,” he said, emphatically;

“all I ask is that I may live
long enough to perfect it.” Then
he added, turning to me, “ I get
this old house for a very low
rent; it suits my purpose admir¬
ably, and I am happy here. May
I ask what you two gentlemen
have really come for to-day ? ”

“ I heard you were ill, no
matter how, no matter when,”
said Kort. “ Dr. Cato and I are
anxious to relieve you. We
wish you to come to the
Sanctuary Club.”

“ I have heard of your place,”
said Sherwin, looking at me,

“ but it is only meant for the
rich ; I am a poor man.”

“We can manage that,” said
Kort, emphatically. “The treat¬
ment is the one treatment in the
world for you, and we have both
come here to-day in order to
implore of you to accept our

hospitality and become our guest at the
Sanctuary Club.”

“But how? I do not understand,” he said.

Kort went up to him and drew him aside.
He said some words in a low voice which I
could not catch ; the other man started back,
and looked at him with indescribable aversion
and dislike. Kort continued to speak very
quietly, and presently I heard Sherwin say, in
a low voice :—

“ It is distasteful, more than distasteful, but
if what you say is true, I must submit.”

He then returned to the window where I
was standing.

“Do you mind examining my lungs?” he
said. “ I should be very glad to get your
verdict.”

I had brought my stethoscope, and imme¬
diately did what he required. I found mis¬
chief to a considerable extent in both Jungs.
Even with the treatment we proposed to adopt
the poor fellow’s days were numbered.

“Well,” he said, just glancing at me as
he buttoned up his shirt,
“what is your verdict? ”
“You are very
ill,” I replied.

“well, what is your verdict?

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

267

“ Hopelessly ill?’

“ I fear so.”

“Then what is the use of my going to
your Club ? ”

“ That depends altogether on how you
look at it,” I answered. “ I can at least
promise you great relief, and your life will
certainly be much prolonged.”

He stood quite still, evidently thinking
deeply.

“Very well, I will accept,” he said, after a
moment’s pause. “It is all-important for
me that my life should be preserved. I will
be your guest, Dr. Cato, on a condition.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“ I possess a treasure of great value; you
must allow me to bring it with me to the
Club, and you must insure its being put in a
place of safety.”

I was about to ask for further information,
when Kort said, abruptly : “You would like
to give your confidence to Cato, Sherwin.
While you do so I will walk in the garden.”

As Dr. Kort spoke, he opened one of the
French windows and went out. The moment
he did so Sherwin uttered a sigh of relief.

“ This is all very strange and over¬
whelming,” he said ; “ I have not seen Kort
for years.”

“ But he is an old friend,” I said.

“He is an acquaintance of some years’
standing,” replied Sherwin, in a reserved
voice. “ His visit to-day has startled me
very much, and if it were not for the sake of
Isobel-”

“ Isobel! ” I could not help exclaiming,
startled by the coincidence of names.

“ Why, do you know her ? ” he said ;
“ but you cannot.”

“ A lady of that name called to see Dr.
Kort yesterday at the Sanctuary Club, that
is all,” I answered.

“Ah,” he said, “I thought as much. I
would humble myself even more than I am
about to do, for her sake. But let us change
the conversation. I want to give you my
confidence, not with regard to Isobel, but in
connection with another matter.”

“ I am quite willing to listen,” I replied.

“ May I ask first,” he began, “ if you know
anything about precious stones ?”

“Not much,” 1 answered.

“ Perhaps you are not then aware that
the majority are allotropic forms of either
elements or chemical compounds crystallized
in the earth at some period of the world’s
history. These crystallizations take place
under conditions of great pressure and heat.
Now, scientists, following out this idea, have

recently succeeded in making diamonds by
the crystallization of carbon.”

“ I did not know how the artificial diamond
was made,” I replied, “but I have heard of
it, of course.”

“ Up to the present,” he continued, a flush
of excitement coming into his cheeks, “ the
only gem which has been made artificially
is the diamond. Now, please listen—the
sapphire, ruby, topaz, emerald, and amethyst
are all of the same chemical composition, the
colouring ingredients alone differentiating
them — corundum, it is called—sesquioxide
of aluminium, you know. If that could be
crystallized, priceless gems could be made—
real ones, mark you, not imitations. To do
this has been my work for the last ten
years, and I am at last close to the right
solution. I want to perfect it before I
die. That is why I accept your invitation,

Dr. Cato, and why I-.” He stopped

abruptly, clenched his hands, and made a
significant gesture in the direction of the
window.

“ I hate Kort,” he said, dropping his voice
to a whisper; “ you and he do not belong to
the same world.”

“ Have you reasons for making such a
grave statement ? ” I asked.

“ Yes, but I dare not and will not divulge
them ; forget what 1 have said. The man is
antipathetic to me, that is all. Now to
return to my own story. If I succeed in
crystallizing the sesquioxide of aluminium, I
shall have effected a revolution in the precious
stone trade and secured a fortune for myself.
You will say, what does a dying man want
with a fortune ? But I have my secret reasons
for wishing to acquire it. Without money I
am powerless; with it I can institute a law¬
suit against one of the greatest scoundrels of
modern times. You see, therefore, how
essential it is that my life should be
prolonged.”

Looking at him as he spoke, I began to
think that Kort was right, and that he really
was not quite responsible for his actions. He
was intensely restless, clasping and unclasp¬
ing his painfully thin hands, and darting
queer glances at me out of his sunken eyes.

“ Do you think you are near your great
discovery ? ” I asked.

“Yes, I am close to it, and yet it baffles
me; but I have at least one consolation, it
has been made already by another.”

“You cannot be serious,” I could not
help saying.

“ I am, another has been before me in
this discovery. The sapphire, for instance,

268

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

has already been made by artificial means.
Come, you don’t believe me—you shall see
for yourself.”

He went across to the safe, unlocked it,
and pulled open the heavy doors, then he
lifted out with an apparent effort an enormous
mass of solid glass, the shape of an immense
pear; it was twice the size of a man’s head,
and must have weighed about 3olb. He
laid this glass globe down very gently on the
table. I gazed at it with the most intense
curiosity, for in the centre of the mass,
towards the tapering end, was embedded the
most enormous sapphire I had ever seen. It
was of circular shape, and of the deepest
blue, with six white lines radiating from
the centre—these formed a sort of star. I
uttered an exclamation.

“ What a marvellous thing,” I cried. “ That

“‘what a MARVELLOUS THING,’ I CRIED.

stone must be priceless; but how did it get
in there?”

“ Have you ever heard of the great Diana
Sapphire?” asked Sherwin, not replying
immediately to my question.

‘‘Never,” I said.

“ Well, it exists, and is well known to all
gem collectors. You see it before you now.

As to how it got in there, that is a mere

matter of theory. This glass globe with the
wonderful gem inside is so old that even the
historical records which go back seven
centuries are at a loss to know its origin.
Masudy, the well-known Arabic writer and
traveller, first makes mention of it. See what
he says.”

Sherwin as he spoke took an old volume
from a dusty shelf.

“This is his work,” he said, “translated
by Athelard and printed about 1470. These
words refer to the gem you see before you.
The legend is translated from the Arabic.”
He read aloud slowly, pausing to give
emphasis to his words.

“ I came 7 iot fro 77 i mines ,, 7 ny master created
77 ie from earth. Feast your eyes up07i my rays.
Here I lie safe in my bed of crystal. Seek not
to possess yourself of 7 ne , for though I a?n
priceless beyo 7 id all gems , he who holds 77 ie
shall 'lever see me again. Hoivever poor you
are , you ivill be poorer if you try to hold 771 e.
Coveted by a thousand kings, no gold ca 7 i buy
7 ne. Try to discover the secret of 77 iy

lirth, to look up 071 Tne U 7 iveiled, a 7 id
I shall vanish from your sight!'

“ That is the old legend,” he con¬
tinued, “and I believe
it to be as true as that
you and I both stand
here. My impression
is that, by some lost
art, the sesquioxide of
aluminium was made
to crystallize by being
put into molten glass.
On these lines I am
working, and have been
working for years.”

“But does the legend
prevent you from
breaking the glass ? ” I
continued. “ It must
be a great temptation
to hold that gem.”

“ It is a temptation
to which I am never
going to yield,” he
answered. “To tell
the truth, I am afraid
of that legend. It is not a meaningless
jargon of words. It has been observed
and reverenced by the possessors of this
crystal globe for centuries. I believe that
the sapphire inside that glass globe was
made artificially, and that if you were to
break the glass, the stone itself would vanish
from sight. I believe that its crystalline
structure is in such an extremely unstable

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

269

condition that it depends for its existence on
the surrounding pressure and support of the
glass in which it was embedded. That is
my interpretation of the legend, and it is my
life’s work to effect a reproduction.”

“ An ingenious theory, certainly,” I said.
“Would it be an unfair question to ask you
how this interesting gem got into your pos¬
session ? ”

“ The stone has been in our family for
over two hundred years,” he replied. “ My
great-great grandfather, who was British Con¬
sul at Cadiz, in Spain, married a Moorish
woman of great beauty. The Moors, as
you know, came originally from Arabia.
An uncle of hers had the crystal containing
the stone in his possession, and gave it to
her on his death-bed, on the sole condition
that she and her descendants would always
keep the sapphire unbroken in its crystal
bed. It was brought over to England when
my grandfather settled here, and was given
to me by my father on his death-bed as the
most precious thing he could bestow upon me.
Many times I have been tempted to break the
glass globe and release the gem, but I shall
never do so. Experts before now have gazed
at this wonderful stone, and they tell me that
it is of priceless value. As such is the case
I have had this safe specially constructed for
it, and I do not think there is a man in
London who could break it open. Now, Dr.
Cato, I will come to your Club, I will accept
a favour from a man like Kort, I will put
myself under your treatment, for the sole
and only reason that I want to perfect my
discovery, I want to handle riches, I want
to be known to futurity as the man who
re-discovered the crystallization of sesqui-
oxide of aluminium, and I want to revenge
myself on my enemy. Knowing my story, I
dare therefore to ask of you conditions. I
cannot part with the gem. May I bring it to
the Sanctuary ? ”

“You may,” I replied. “We have a safe
in our laboratory which I think will also defy
the burglars’art; you may place it there in
perfect safety.”

“ Thank you. Condition number two is
this. May I pursue my experiments in one
of your laboratories ? ”

“ We have a small one adjoining the larger
laboratory, which I will place at your service,”
I replied.

He bowed gravely in acknowledgment of
this kindness, and then said :—

“My final and last condition is, that you
will keep what I have now told you an
absolute and complete secret.”

“Erom the world, certainly,” I answered;
“ but it will be difficult to keep the fact
of the crystal’s existence from my brother
doctor.”

“ Kort ? ” he interrupted. “ Kort knows
nearly as much about the Diana Sapphire as
I do myself.”

“ I allude to our other partner,” I said,
“ Dr. Chetwynd.”

“Well,” he replied, somewhat impatiently,
“ tell him just what is necessary, but no
more.”

“ I will do so,” I said.

Soon afterwards Kort and I took our leave.

“ Sherwin is a curious specimen of
humanity,” said my partner to me on our
way back.

“ He interests me immensely,” I replied.

“ He has a crank, poor fellow,” replied the
doctor. “ I sympathize with him sincerely.
Once we were the greatest friends, although
he now imagines that I am his worst enemy,
a common case enough where the mind is
affected.”

I did not say any more. I fully believed
myself that Sherwin was on the borderland
between the sane and insane, but I had a
queer impression, which was destined soon to
be strengthened, that as far as Kort was con¬
cerned there was method in his madness.

The next day the poor fellow arrived at the
Club. Everything had been done for his
comfort, and he was immediately placed in
the artificial Davos suite of rooms. He was
allowed, however, to go downstairs at inter¬
vals, and soon struck up a friendship with a
member of the Club of the name of Edward
Banpfylde. This man had been a resident
for two or three months. He was supposed
to have great wealth, and was a gem mer¬
chant of Hatton Garden. Banpfylde was
suffering from intense nervous irritability,
and the regular hours, good food, and a
system of rest and refreshment which were
prescribed for him were having to a certain
extent beneficial results. But the anxiety on
the man’s face whenever he thought himself
unwatched was very marked, and Kort once
said to me : “ I do not believe in Banpfylde’s
wealth.”

“But he is a millionaire,” I replied.

“ So he says, but what are words, time
will prove. He is consumed by anxiety;
men of his calibre have only one great
subject of anxiety, the loss or the making of
money. He has become great friends with
Sherwin, however, which seems natural
enough, as they are both so much interested
in gems.”

270

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Banpfylde was about sixty years of age,
stoutly built, with a red face, small keen
eyes, and an irritable manner.

There were times, however, when he could
be both good-natured and agreeable—beyond
doubt he pitied Sherwin, and took pains
to add to the interest of his fast-fleeting
life. Notwithstanding our treatment, his
disease made rapid progress, and we all
knew that he could not last many weeks ;
he was • cheerful, however, and enjoyed
his chats with Banpfylde. The two men
spent much time in the small laboratory
which we had given over for Sherwin’s use.
What they did there remains a mystery, but
I have little doubt that Sherwin confided at
least part of his secret to Banpfylde.

They had been together the whole of one
day, and Sherwin had gone up to his room
thoroughly worn out, when Chetwynd, who
watched his languid progress upstairs, turned
to me and said, in a low voice:—

“Poor fellow, he may go off at any moment.
It needs but a bad fit of hemorrhage to
settle him—he is not following out our
directions, either, as he ought. He spends
too much time with Banpfylde.”

“ Oh, I have no doubt they have a great
deal in common/’ I replied; “they are both
professional gem fanciers.”

“It is my opinion,” said Chetwynd, “that
Banpfylde is picking his brains. He abso¬
lutely dogs his footsteps. I don’t like it—I
hope there is no mischief brewing.”

“ Mischief brewing ? ” I cried. “ What can
you mean ? ”

“Well, I heard some news about our
millionaire to-day.”

“What?” I asked.

“Simply this. To put it plainly, he is
smashed.”

“What, Banpfylde? It cannot be true.”

“ I fear it is. I happened to meet Balfour,
of the Old Jewry City Police, this afternoon,
and there is a queer business in the air. I
cannot tell you exactly what he told me, but
this country is too hot for our guest, that’s
about it. Balfour thought it right to warn
me, knowing that Banpfylde was a member
of our Club.”

I looked my astonishment at Chetwynd’s
news, but did not make any remark. After
a pause he continued : “You have told me
some of the story of the marvellous gem
which Sherwin has brought here, and which
is locked up for security in our safe. Now,
putting two and two together, I don’t
believe in Banpfylde’s disinterested friend¬
ship for our dying guest, but I do think

it possible that he may be after the gem.
The fact is, I dislike and distrust Banp¬
fylde as much as you dislike and distrust
our brother doctor.”

“ Oh, the cases are by no means parallel,”

I exclaimed, with some impatience, and I had
scarcely said the words before Banpfylde and
Sherwin came downstairs together. Sherwin
came straight up to me.

“ I thought you were in bed,” I cried.

“ No, I am restless, I could not sleep,” he
said. “ I want you to give me the key of
the safe. Banpfylde has begged of me to
show him the Diana. If you will come
downstairs we will get it out and he can see
it. He is awfully keen about it,” he added,
in a whisper.

“ Show him the crystal to-morrow,” I said,
laying my hand on his wrist. “ Look here,
you are feverish : do be rational and go to
bed.”

“ I tell you I could not sleep, and I am
most anxious to get Banpfylde’s opinion with
regard to the Diana ; he is a great authority.
He has heard of the gem, of course, but has
never seen it.”

“ Very well, it is your property,” I said;

“ we will go down. By the way, have you any
objection to Chetwynd accompanying us ? ”

“None whatever,” replied Sherwin; “I
should like you to see the Diana Sapphire,
Dr. Chetwynd.” Pie bowed courteously to
Chetwynd as he spoke, and just at that
moment Kort made his appearance.

“ What,” he cried, “ not in bed yet, Sher¬
win ? This is very bad.”

“ I am not going at present,” said Sherwin.
Pie half turned his back on Kort, and glanc¬
ing at Banpfylde, Chetwynd, and myself,
said:—

“ Well, gentlemen, shall we proceed ? ”

As we crossed the hall to descend to the
basements I watched Kort. Pie was fond of
shrugging his shoulders ; he shrugged them
now with a peculiar gesture and quietly
followed us. We all entered the laboratory
and I switched on the electric light.

When Sherwin saw that Kort was also in
the room, he said in a low voice to the latter :

“ You have seen the gem before, but if you
do not find it irksome to look at it again,
pray remain.”

“ I shall not find it irksome,” answered
Kort; his eyes shone with a queer light, he,
came and stood near Sherwin. We all
clustered round the safe; I unlocked it, and
lifting out the great glass globe, laid it on
the bench.

“ There you are,” said Sherwin, snatching

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

271

SHOW HIM THE CRYSTAL TO-MORROW,’ I SAID,

off the wash-leather cloth that covered it, and
stepping back. “ What do you think of the
Diana Sapphire, Mr. Banpfylde?”

Banpfylde stepped forward. I heard him
utter a sudden exclamation, and then he
stared at the gem without speaking ; his eyes
were widely dilated, the magnificent sapphire
was gleaming and scintillating beneath the
glare of the incandescents. Chetwynd, too,
uttered a sharp exclamation, and also stepped
forward to examine the gem. Banpfylde
was now peering into the crystal—he turned
round.

“ Yes,” he said, quietly, “ you are quite
right, Sherwin ; there is no other stone in
the world to equal it.”

His face, which had been deeply flushed,
was now pale.

“ I have heard of it, of course,” he con¬
tinued. “ By the way, you say it has a
curious legend attached to it. May I ask
what it is ? ”

“Certainly,” an¬
swered Sherwin, and,
somewhat to my aston¬
ishment, he repeated
the old Arabic legend
word for word — he
evidently knew it by
heart.

Banpfylde listened
attentively, his eyes
still riveted upon the
stone. Chetwynd
took out a note-book,
and jotted down the
words as Sherwin
uttered them.

“Now, what do
you suppose this all
means ? ” asked Chet¬
wynd. “ Have you
heard any interpreta¬
tion of that queer
jargon ? ”

“Never,” answered
Sherwin ; “ but I have
made an interpretation
for myself. Of that,
however, I am not dis¬
posed to speak. What
do you think of the
legend, Mr. Banp¬
fylde?”

“ I think,” replied
the dealer, “ that the
words are mere non¬
sense, invented to
keep thieves from
touching the gem. In its present state it
would be difficult to steal it.”

“ But how do you suppose it got inside
the crystal ? ” I asked.

“ It was never put there by the hand of
man,” he replied, instantly. “This external
crystalline covering is ? I believe, not glass
or crystal; I believe it to be a kind of ex¬
ceedingly pure quartz—gneiss, you know.
Sapphires are frequently found embedded
in this mineral. I believe that it has
been cut and polished to resemble this
pear shape. If the crystal were mine I
should break it open and chance it,” con¬
tinued Banpfylde.

I happened at that moment to glance at
Chetwynd, who was still bending over the
gem, peering into the crystal, and examining
it with the deepest interest. His face looked
full of queer excitement.

“ What do you suppose the value of that
sapphire would be if it were extracted?”

272

THE STRANE MAGAZINE.

asked Kort, suddenly, of Banpfylde. Up to
the present he had not uttered a word.
Banpfylde turned and stared at him.

“Nearer forty than thirty thousand pounds,”
he exclaimed. “By the way, Mr. Sherwin,”

** WHAT DO YOU SUPPOSE WOULD BE THE VALUE OF THAT SAPPHIRE ?

he continued, “do you feel inclined to part
with it? It will make you a rich man.”

“ Certainly not,” he answered, flushing.

“ But why ? ”

“I decline to tell my reasons. I thank
you for your opinion. We will put the
crystal away now, Dr. Cato.”

The next day Sherwin was much worse.

He was now obliged to keep to his bed,
as the slightest movement brought on sharp
attacks of hemorrhage.

There came a night about a fortnight later
when he lay looking like a mere shadow.

His hollow eyes fixed themselves on my face.

He said, after a pause : “ 1 shall die, Dr. Cato,
without fulfilling my life-work. I have no
property to leave behind me, and no friends
to leave it to.”

“ But what about the Diana Sapphire?” I
asked.

“ My solicitors will take charge of it until

the heir, whose property it is, comes to claim
it. My solicitors understand,” he added.

His voice was so faint I could scarcely
catch the words. I forbore to question him
further and went downstairs. In the hall I
met Chetwynd.

Chetwynd laid his
hand on my arm.

“ By the way,” he
said, “ I have been
making some interesting
experiments with regard
to the sapphire.”

“Indeed!” I ex¬
claimed. <c Of what
nature ? ”

“ This has been a
day of strange things
altogether,” he con¬
tinued. “ Come to my
room, will you? I have
something I want to
say.”

I followed him.

“To begin with,”
he commenced, the
moment we found our¬
selves alone, “ have you
noticed Banpfylde to¬
day ? ”

“ Not specially,” I
answered ; “ is anything
fresh the matter ? ”

“ I should say the
expression on his face
was matter enough,”
was his answer. “ He
has been drinking
heavily, and I met him not half an hour
ago in the grounds pacing up and down
as though he were bereft of his senses.

He was muttering to himself in the queerest

way. He has beyond doubt got into a

tight corner, and does not know how to

extricate himself. To tell the truth, . I
wish he were not here; such a man’s in¬
fluence in the Club does no good.”

“ If your suspicions are founded on fact,
he cannot stay here much longer,” I
answered; “ but now, what about the

sapphire ? ”

“ Ah, I am coming to that. I do believe
I have struck something very curious : no
less than the key to the legend.”

“Now, what do you mean?” I cried.

“Well, you know, it says that if anyone
shall seek to hold the Diana Sapphire it shall
vanish from his eyes. I believe it would, for
in rescuing that sapphire from its bed of

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

2 73

crystal the man would assuredly lose his
sight.”

“ What in the name of Heaven do you
mean ? ” I cried.

“You can see for yourself,” he answered.
As he spoke he produced a tiny glass bead;
it was pear-shaped, and was an exact facsimile
on a very small scale of the crystal encasing
the Diana Sapphire.

“ Do you know what this is ? ” he asked.

“ No,” I replied, “ except that it is like the
crystal on a small scale. Did you make it?”

He did not answer, but, seizing a heavy
paper-weight, struck it a smart blow on
the tail end. There was a loud and sharp
report — the bead had disappeared into
fine powder.

“ A Prince Rupert’s Drop,” he said, quietly.
“ You have heard of it, of course ? ”

I nodded.

“ Well, you know what these drops are.
When glass is dropped into water and sud¬
denly cooled a crust is formed while the
internal mass is still liquid. This tends to
contract on cooling, but is prevented by the
molecular forces which attach it to the crust.
In this state, unless it is struck, or its tail
broken off, it will last as such for centuries,
and look like an ordinary bit of glass but
when struck and broken it flies into powder
with an explosion. Now, my impression is
that the sapphire is inside a Prince Rupert’s
Drop of enormous size.”

“ Good God ! ” I exclaimed.

u I am pretty certain of it from its peculiar
shape. Now, you have heard what sort of a
report that little thing made when it was
broken, but if the crystal which is in our safe
downstairs were smashed, the explosion would
be terrific. It would certainly blind the man
who broke it, and, in all probability, kill him,
or, at any rate, disfigure and injure him as
much as a charge of dynamite. Thus the
sapphire would vanish from his sight for
ever.”

For a moment I could scarcely speak;
then I inquired :—

“ What made you think of this ? ”

“ In the first instance, the peculiar shape,”
he answered. “ I made many Prince Rupert’s
Drops as a boy. Well, I thought I would
tell you—it is a pretty theory, but I cannot,
unfortunately, put it to the test.”

I left Chetwynd and crossed the hall
preparatory to going upstairs, when I sud¬
denly came face to face with Kort.

“ What,” I said, “ up still?”

“Yes,” he answered.' “ I have many things
to keep me awake, as doubtless you have,

VoL xviiL— 35.

Dr. Cato.” He passed me coldly, walked
as far as the end of the hall, and then
came swiftly back.

“ By the way,” he said, “ I have seen
Sherwin ; I do not think he will last until
the morning.”

“ Indeed,” I answered. “ I am sorry you
went to him. He was put specially under
my care, and I did not wish to have him
disturbed.”

“ He is here as my guest, don’t forget,”
said Kort; “ but, never mind, he has all but
done with this troublesome world. So much
the better for him.”

I did not say anything further, but went
upstairs. Kort stood holding a candle in
his hand and watched me as I did so. I
looked back at him and saw a queer smile
slightly parting his lips. I was turning aside
into my own corridor, when it occurred to me
that I would go to see Sherwin. If he were
as ill as Kort had indicated, he ought not to
be left alone. I paused a moment outside
the door of his room. Even through the
heavy oak I could hear his laboured breath¬
ing ; and believing that after all he was sound
asleep, and that it would be a pity to disturb
him, I was just going away, when I heard his
voice ask, very faintly, “Is that you, doctor?”

I opened the door; he was half sitting up
in bed.

“ I knew it was you, doctor,” he continued ;
“ I knew your step. I have just had a most
horrible dream. It has upset me terribly. I
believe it was sent to me as a warning.”

I went up to him and laid my hand on
his forehead. It was wet with perspiration ;
his eyes had a startled expression. He
clutched tight hold of my hand as if he
would not let me go.

“ Lie down, Sherwin, lie down,” I said.
“ A dream is but a dream, remember. It
need not trouble you.”

“But it does,” he whispered, “and I think
Kort must have caused it. He was in my
room this evening, he spoke of—of ”

“ Whom ? ” I asked.

The poor fellow began to struggle for
breath.

“ Of her—Isobel—she is his wife. Did
he ever tell you that he had a wife?”

“ Never,” I answered.

“He has. Ask him about her after—after
I am gone.” He gave a horrible laugh.

“ I could say nothing bad enough to
describe him,” he said, faintly, “ but, oh, Dr.
Cato, I can only think of the sapphire now.
My dream was about it. Is it—is it all
right?”

274

THE SI RAND MAGAZINE.

“ KORT STOOD AND WATCHED M

“Of course it is, my dear boy,” I answered
“It is in our safe, secure as possible;
you know that, Sherwin. Now try to
sleep.”

“ I cannot,” he answered ; “my dream was
much too vivid to be false. I know it is
true, and it was sent to me as a warning.
They are taking the sapphire away ; I can
see them doing it. Go at once and stop
them, doctor. My God ! can’t you see for
yourself?” He grasped my arm more tightly
than ever, and stared wildly out across the
room.

“ You have had a nightmare,” I answered ;
“ there is nothing to see. The sapphire is
perfectly safe.”

“It is not. I tell you I see them taking
it now. Quick ! Go and stop them. That
dream was sent to me—was sent to me.
Kort would stop at nothing—nothing—and
Banpfylde is his tool. I feel it—I am cer¬
tain of it. Oh, Dr. Cato, won’t you have
pity on me? Will you not go downstairs and
find out for yourself if the safe is untampered
with ? ”

“ Very well,” I answered; “ if you will

only lie down and remain quiet I will
go and see and bring you word.”

“ You will ? You pro¬
mise ? ” he cried. “ You
would not break your word
to a dying man ? ”

“ I would break my
word to no man,” I
answered. “Trust me,
Sherwjin. I will go
down as quickly as pos¬
sible and come back
to you.”

I left the room,
resolving to visit the
laboratory, ascertain for
myself that Sherwin’s
wild words were the
mere hallucination of
his brain, and then
spend the rest of the
night by the dying
man’s side. Crossing
the hall I opened a
door leading to the
laboratory steps and
went quickly down.
Half - way down I
paused, stopped, and
listened. Late as the
hour was, someone was
moving about below.
I was not seriously
alarmed at this, for Chetwynd often worked
in the laboratory until morning. I hurried
on, therefore—a light streamed from under
the door. I flung it open and entered.
1 was just about to utter my friend’s name
when the words were arrested on my
lips. Chetwynd was nowhere to be seen,
but fully dressed and standing at the bench
was Banpfylde. I could not at first ascertain
what he was doing, but at the sound of my
voice he swung sharply round.

“ May I ask, sir, what your business is here
at this hour?” I inquired. “Are you not
aware that it is against the rules for members
to come to the laboratory ? ”

“ I am perfectly well aware of that fact,
Dr. Cato,” he replied, in the suavest tones,
and with wonderful self-control; “ but the
emergency which brought me here to-night
was so exceptional that I felt justified in
breaking a well-known rule. For days past I
have been suffering from spasmodic asthma,
the only thing that relieves me is oxygen—I
have a cylinder of my* own which I always
have in my room. It was empty; I came
here to fetch a fresh one.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

275

It was true that his position corroborated
his words, for he had in his hand a small
forty cubic feet cylinder, which he had taken
from the cupboard.

“ Whatever the emergency, you had no
right to do it,” I replied ; “ the doctors in this
establishment expect to be summoned in case
of need, and you did distinctly wrong when
you broke the rules. I must now ask you to
go to your room. Kindly do so without
delay.”

He did not answer me for a moment, but
stood looking full at me. He was a power¬
fully built man, some inches taller than
myself. His lips were compressed, and
he began to breathe heavily. I knew well
that he was not really suffering from asthma—
he had lied to me. What his motive was I
could not tell. Suddenly his eyes dropped,
and I saw that he was looking intently at my
waistcoat pocket, where I generally kept the
key of the safe in which the Diana Shpphire
had been placed. He had seen me produce
it from that receptacle on the night when
Sherwin had shown us the sapphire. It was
not there now. I always locked it at night in
my own small safe upstairs, but as he glanced
in the direction of my
coat I guessed what
he was about to do
in a flash. Before I
could even cry out or
utter a word the man
had sprung upon me,
and brought me by
the suddenness and
violence of the attack
to the floor. His
great hand was upon
my throat, and I saw
his bloodshot eyes
within an inch of
mine. I tried to
shout for help, but
with one of his hands
crushing my throat I
could not utter a
word. The next
instant, with the other
hand, he slipped from
his coat-pocket a short
jemmy, and brought
it down upon my head
with all his force. I
remembered nothing
more.

When I came to 4
myself I was lying
upon the Stone floor, “ HE WAS wrenching and tearing at the lock.'

sick and faint. I wondered dimly where
I was, then memory returned in a flash
and I struggled to rise; but I was
firmly bound hand and foot, and a duster
soaked in chloroform was tightly fastened
across my mouth. A light, hissing sound
fell on my ears, and I feebly turned my
head. Never shall I forget the sight that
met my eyes, dull and dim though they were.
Banpfylde was kneeling beside the safe at
the further end of the laboratory. In one
hand he held a lighted Bunsen burner, from
which glowed a dazzling white flame, and
with the other he was wrenching and tearing
at the lock of the safe with some tool which
I could not distinctly see.

To my astonishment and horror I perceived
that the metal round the lock was glowing
with a white heat. I heard it spit and crack,
and saw the white sparks flying as the man
gouged and tore away at the molten metal.
What he was really doing I could not at first
comprehend. All I knew was that he was
breaking into the safe in some marvellous
manner, and that I, within a stone’s throw,
was powerless to prevent him. I tried to
shout out, but my voice only came in a dull,

276

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

hoarse whisper. For one moment he turned
his face towards me. It was red with excite¬
ment, and distorted with the most feverish
anxiety—the next instant the safe door
swung back. I saw Banpfylde reach in his
hand and draw out the great Diana Sapphire.
He laid it on the stone flags and picked up
the short steel jemmy he had just been using.
Dazed and sick as I felt, I knew in a flash
what he was about to do. He was going to
smash the surrounding glass in which the
sapphire lay, and so liberate the gem. If
Chetwynd’s theory were true, and that glass
was, in reality, an enormous Prince Rupert’s
Drop, the man was rushing to his fate, and I,
in my present position, was powerless to save
him.

“ Stop, for God’s sake stop! ” I cried, but
my voice was choked down to a hoarse
growl.

Steadying the great mass of glass with
one hand, and gathering all his strength, he
brought the jemmy down with one terrific
blow upon the tail of the crystal globe.
There was a deafening explosion as of a
thousand cannon. Every light was instantly
extinguished, and with a shriek of pain
I heard the miserable man plunge heavily
forward upon the stone flags. We were in
total darkness, but at that awful instant I
could have sworn that something or some-
o'ne'brushed quickly past me and out of the
room. I felt the draught made by a hurried
movement. In sick despair I made another
frantic effort to rise, but all in vain—I was
tied down too tightly. The next instant,
to my intense relief, I heard the clamour of
approaching voices, quick footsteps hurried
down the corridor, and Chetwynd and Kort,
holding lights, rushed in. To release me
from my bonds was the work of a moment,
and then Kort ran up to Banpfylde and turned
the light full on his face. Chetwynd and I
gazed in horrified silence at what a moment
before had been a man—living, breathing, in
the full possession of every faculty. The
terrific explosion had done its deadly work—
the Diana Sapphire had avenged itself—a
large portion of the man’s skull had abso¬
lutely been blown away. He must have
died as he fell.

“I was right,” muttered Chetwynd.

As for me, I grasped the edge of the
nearest bench to support myself. I felt
faint and sick. Kort laid the dead man
quietly back on the floor, then he turned and
faced us.

“ What has happened ? ” he asked.
“ What caused the explosion ? ”

I pointed to the safe.

“ The Diana Sapphire,” I exclaimed ; “ the
legend was true.”

Kort was about to say something further
when a sound behind caused us all to turn
our heads. Sherwin, partly dressed, his face
ghastly white, his eves almost starting from
his head, was standing in the doorway. The
noise of the terrific explosion had doubtless
drawn him to the place. I rushed up to him
and laid detaining hands on his shoulders.

“ Back, back, Sherwin,” I cried; “ this is
no place for you. I will take you to your
room and explain.”

“ Explain ? ” he cried. “ I see for myself.
My dream was true. Don’t touch me, Cato,
don’t touch me. Oh, my God ! the Sapphire,
where is it ? ”

He did not take the least notice of poor
Banpfylde’s dead body, but began frantically
to peer about, going down on his hands and
knees to examine for the lost treasure.

“ Gone,” he said; “ the legend was true.”
He looked full up at Kort, then staggered
forward and lay insensible, not far from
the dead body of the would-be burglar.

“ We must take him away before he
recovers,” said Chetwynd; “ this will finish
him, poor chap.”

Between us we lifted ti e dying man from
the floor, took him upstairs, and laid him on
his bed. He lay insensible for over an hour,
and then feebly opened his eyes. He looked
at me, but without recognition; indeed, he
never recognised anyone again. It was a
relief to feel that he had lost all memory of
the terrible scene which he had witnessed.
He murmured faintly, and I thought he said
the word “Jsobel,” but I am not sure. He
died at nine o’clock on the following
morning.

Early on the ensuing day we three doctors
met in the laboratory. Banpfylde’s body had
been removed, and the debris caused by the
terrific explosion had been partly cleared
away.

“ But what does it mean ? ” said Kort.
“ You two seem to-know something—I want
an explanation—for God’s sake tell me what
really happened ? ”

“It is about the strangest thing I ever
heard of,” answered Chetwynd. “ That glass
crystal was in reality an enormous Prince
Rupert s Drop.”

I gazed at Kort as my brother doctor
spoke. My impression was that he knew of
this already. If he did, however, he did not
turn a hair; his dark eyes were fixed with
intense interest on Chetwynd’s face.

S TO HIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

277

WE LIFTED THE DYING MAN FROM THE FLOOR.”

“You have heard of a Prince Rupert’s
Drop, of course ? ” continued Chetwynd.

“Yes, but I have never seen one.”

“ The sapphire was embedded in one. I
had thought out the whole idea no later than
yesterday, and told Cato about it. I little
knew how soon my theory was to be verified.
The terrific explosion which occurred last
night proves that the sapphire was imprisoned
in one.”

Kort took up a fragment of glass which
still remained on the floor, examined it care¬
fully, and laid it down.

“ But there is something still stranger to
be explained,” continued Chetwynd, “and
with regard to that' I have formed no
theory at present.”

“To what do you allude?” asked Kort.

“ I allude to the strange way in which
Banpfylde opened the safe. That was no
work of an ordinary jewel dealer. It was
something beyond all burglars’ resources.

See for yourselves : the lock has been melted
out with this Bunsen burner—look, the blow¬
pipe junction runs to that oxygen cylinder—
a cut above drills. It was nothing
less than a masterpiece. See, the
man literally melted out the
iron like butter with the oxy-
hydrogen flame. There was
someone behind this job—a
chemist, and no ordinary one
at that. I shall never believe
that that was Banpfylde’s work,
and, what is more,” continued
Chetwynd, “ I shall not rest
until I find out who instigated
him to do the job.”

“You are never likely
to know,” said Kort. “ I
happened to hear that
the man was in des¬
perate circumstances,
and desperate men find
desperate means to
recover themselves.
But, by the way, what
has become of the
sapphire? Did it dis¬
appear when the glass
was shattered ? ”

“It looks like it,”
answered Chetwynd ;
“ I have searched for
it, but have seen it
nowhere.”

“ Then poor Sherwin’s theory was right,” I
could not help saying; but as I uttered the
words I glanced at Kort. For one quarter of
an instant he had given himself away. The
look of relief on his face was too marked. I
thought once again of that footfall which
had hurried past me in the dark, of the
slight draught made' by a person moving
quickly. Had Kort stolen the priceless
sapphire? Was Sherwin right in his suspi¬
cions of the man whom I also deeply dis¬
trusted ? What was the story of Isobel?
Why had Sherwin died with his secret un¬
revealed ?

“At least one thing is true,” said Chet¬
wynd, turning suddenly to me in that
moment of stillness in which it almost
seemed as if Kort and I were challenging
each other. “ At least one thing is obvious :
the Diana Sapphire has proved the truth
of its own legend. It has vanished from
our sight.”

With regard to the awful mystery of Isobel, the readers must wait for further developments.

The “Southern Cross” Antarctic Expedition.

By Sir George Newnes, Bart.

With Photographs taken during the Expedition.

OR a long time past it has been
the belief of eminent geogra¬
phers and scientists that the
most important work of ex¬
ploration yet to be accom¬
plished lies in the Antarctic
Continent. This subject has occupied a
prominent place in the addresses delivered

parations for the dispatch of an expedition
in August, 1900; and the Royal Geographical
Society of Great Britain, under the presidency
of Sir Clements Markham, hope to send out
another about the same time, and, if possible,
to act in consort with the German effort.
Towards the fund for equipment, Mr. Long-
staff has munificently subscribed ^25,000. A

MK. BORCHGREVINK IN ARCTIC DRF.SS.

From a Photo, by IF. Plank.

at the important gatherings of the leading Belgian expedition was sent out two years ago
geographical institutions of the world. in the ship Belgica. For a long time there

Many enterprises have been projected, was considerable anxiety as to its fate, but,

The German Government have made pre- happily, the vessel has returned with the loss

THE “SOUTHERN CROSS” ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION. 279

Nicolai Hansen Dr. Klovstad Louis Bemacchi

(zooolgist). (medical adviser). (magnetic observer and photographer).

From a Photo. \ Hugh Evans Sub-Lieut. Colbeck, lt.N.R. A. Fougner. \by George Nevmes, Ltd.

(zoologist). (magnetic observer).

OFFICERS OF THE “ SOUTHERN CROSS.”

of only one life. It was locked in the ice for
twelve months, and the captain was com¬
pelled, on its release, to return without having
effected a landing in the Antarctic. The
Southern Cross , under the leadership of Mr.
C. E. Borchgrevink,
has been more fortu¬
nate. Eor the first
time in the world’s
history, a
equipped exploring
expedition has
landed at Cape
Adair, in Victoria
Land, within 200
miles of the South
Magnetic Pole.

It is for the pur¬
pose of giving some
account of how this
landing was effected
that this article is
written.

The materials are
gathered from the
log of the Southern
Cross , and from
letters received. It
is obvious that this

account must end where the most import¬
ant work of the expedition begins ; but
from the fact that it is the first time such
landing has been effected, and also because
Mr. Borchgrevink and his brave band have

SCOUTS FROM THE PACK ICE.

280

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

The Southern Cross was
to have been entirely re¬
fitted in England, but
owing to the great engi¬
neers’ strike here it was
necessary to send her to
Norway for the renewal of
her engines and boilers.
After this was completed
the ship came to the
Thames, and was for the
rest—food stores, clothing,
scientific instruments, etc.
—completely equipped in
London. On the day
before the departure a

already encountered many dangers and adven¬
tures, it may prove interesting.

Mr. Borchgrevink was selected as leader
of the expedition because of his enthusiasm
for Antarctic exploration, bis courage and
determination, his study of the question, and
because he himself had already five years
before actually set foot on Victoria Land,
though only for a few hours, and therefore
knew something of the difficulties likely to
be incurred in getting there. His chief
officers are Captain Jensen, Sub-Lieutenant
Colbeck, R.N.R., Mr. Hugh Evans, and Mr.
Bernacchi (an Australian), having under their
command a fine, stalwart crew.

THE ICE-PACK SEEN FROM ALOFT.

luncheon was held on
board, presided over by
the writer of this article,
at which several eminent
geographers and explorers
were present for the pur¬
pose of giving a hearty
send-off to the intrepid
band who were to go so
far and risk so much.
The Southern Cross sailed
next day under the British
flag presented to the ship
by H.R.H. the Duke of

York.

LITERALLY BURIED.

THE “SOUTHERN CROSS ” ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION 281

It seems to have be¬
come known all down
the river that this inter¬
esting vessel was starting
on her bold enterprise,
and very many ships
displayed their bunting,
and the crews assembled
on deck to lustily cheer
the Southern Cross as
she steamed past. This
last demonstration of
kindness was much ap¬
preciated by all on board
as a pleasing and, indeed,
an affecting farewell.

The voyage to Hobart
Town was comparatively
uneventful. On reaching
that port they were very
heartily welcomed.

The keenest interest in Antarctic research
is felt in Australasia, as is natural from its
geographical position. The Governor, His
Excellency Viscount Gormanston, G.C.M.G.,
presided at a banquet in their honour, and
parties and conversaziones and fetes were
given to them, which must have been in

THE SCREWING COMMENCES.

On Friday, the 30th, she sighted the great
ice-pack in lat. bi^bdeg. south and long.
T 53*53deg. east—somewhat sooner than had
been expected. The greatest enthusiasm
prevailed on board, for the sight, to those
who looked upon it for the first time, was
one to fill the spectator with wonder and

AN ANTARCTIC BERG AND FLOES.

striking contrast to the rough life they were
about to commence. Mr. Borchgrevink
writes with much gratitude of the kindness
they all received at Hobart Town.

The vessel left that port for Cape Adair on
the 19th of December, 1898.

Vol. xviii.—36

admiration. Some of the floes were several
miles in diameter, and from 4ft. to 8ft.
thick. The channels between them were
very narrow, and at times closed up com¬
pletely. The danger to the ship was great;
but the Southern Cross proved equal to her

2 S 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

MAGNETIC OBSERVATIONS ON THE ICE.

task, and came triumphantly out of ice-
pressures which would have crushed a less
solid vessel like an egg-shell.

The 22nd sind 23rd of January in especial
were days of terrible anxiety. The ship was

fairly buried in the ice; the great blocks rose
to the level of the bowsprit; and the pres¬
sure of the floes was so stupendous as to lift
the vessel bodily 4ft. out of the water.

They were at that time off the coast of

MR. BORCHGREVINK WITH THE THEODOLITE.

THE “SOUTHERN CROSS ” ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION. 283

ANXIOUS DAYS IN THE PACK NEAR BALLENY. HEAVY SCREWING—SHI I* LIFTED 4FT. OUT OF THE WATER,

JANUARY 23, 1899.

Balleny Islands. No more appalling scene
of desolation can be imagined than those
sinister and ice-bound shores. At evening,
however, gorgeous sunsets, which surpass
description, glowing on iridescent floe and
ice-peak, lend them a wild magnificence of
beauty which compensates for all. Nor
were the adventurers without resources.
Very valuable scientific work was done,
especially in the zoological department. No
fewer than a hundred and seventy-five rare

birds’ skins were prepared, many seals, in¬
cluding one of an entirely new species, were
procured, as well as penguins and beautiful
white petrels. More than a hundred species
of various fauna were collected. Meteoro¬
logical and magnetic observations were made,
deep-sea temperatures were taken, and a
number of most interesting photographs
secured.

Still encompassed by the horrors of the
ice-pack, and making little progress, the

284

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

HANSEN AND THE NEW SPECIES OF SEAL DISCOVERED JANUARY 27, 1899.

ship remained for no less than forty-three
interminable days! During the 8th, 9th,
and 10th of February, the crew made
strenuous efforts to reach open water to the
north, and succeeded in doing so on the
nth. All progress was then made due east
in order to re-enter the pack at a point likely
to afford an easier transit, and on the 14th

causing the main¬
mast to quiver for
some seconds with
the shock. Towards
midnight the ice be¬
came much scattered,
and at five o’clock
in the morning the
vessel was again in
clear water to the
south, having been
only a few hours in
the pack.

On February 16th
Cape Adair was
sighted. A terrific gale
was blowing, and the
ship was compelled
to lay-to that night
under two half-top¬
sails in a storm of
blinding sleet, and
with the decks and rigging covered thick with
ice. Next day, the gale subsiding, they
steamed into Robertson Bay, and for the first
time in history, at ten o’clock in the morning,
an anchor was let fall, in ten fathoms of
water.

In half an hour the staff were all on shore.
On the beach were penguins, gulls, stone-

FIRST LANDING OF THE DOGS ON THE ICE—NEW YEAR’S DAY.

the brave ship once more thrust herself
among the floes. At this place they were
loose and broken, though the danger was
still great. The sea was heaving with a
heavy swell; masses of ice would crash
into the ship’s sides with terrific force,

petrels, giant-petrels, and many huge seals of
an unknown species. Two of the adventurers,
Mr. Evans and Mr. Bernacchi, started off to
climb to the summit of the cape. The
ascent, over a thousand feet, proved terrible,
and they did not reach the top till midnight.

THE “SOUTHERN CROSS” ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION 285

But they must have felt full compensation in
the thought that they were the first to set
foot upon the summit of Victoria Land.

The next few days were employed in land-

which were then pulled to the land, and the
boxes carried through the surf by bearers
waist-deep in the icy water. But all kept well
and “game,” and in due course the stores,

MAGNIFICENT SEALS BASKING ON THE FLOES.

ing stores and erecting huts. This was a
task of no small difficulty and hardship.
The vessel was at anchor in the bay, some
200yds. from shore, and the workers were
obliged to discharge the cargo in small boats,

the scientific apparatus, the sledges, and
seventy-five sledge-dogs were landed safe and
sound.

But now a new disaster was before them.
On the 23rd of February a great blizzard

286

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

ropes, to prevent it
blowing away. All
that terrible night
they were toiling in
the blizzard to save
the cargo from being
washed away. Mr.
Bernacchi got frost¬
bitten in the ears,
which turned quite
black, and were only
saved with difficulty.
The hair of the party
froze into solid

came on. It was a
terrible experience. The
wind rose suddenly and
blew ; thousands of tons
of snow upon the little
camp. The gale blew
with cyclonic force, and
it was piercing cold— :
i8deg. below zero !. Four
members of the staff—
the doctor, Fougner,
Colbeck, and Bernacchi
—were on shore and
could not reach the ship.
The only shelter was the
tent, which they were
obliged to bury with
stones and to lash with

MR. BORCHGREVINK SHOOTING A SEAL.

ANTARCTIC ICE-TOWERS.

THE “SOUTHERN CROSS ” ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION. 287

lumps, and the ice upon
their beards took hours
to melt, while their
clothes clashed with ice
like coats of mail. The
waves froze solid as they
dashed upon the shore,
and the water froze in
the barrels, though they
lay beside a roaring fire
in the tent.

A more awful experi¬
ence it would be difficult
to imagine.

The next afternoon
they managed to get on
board, where they found
that their companions
had also had a terrible

experience. Stones
from the mountain
had been blown on
board. The cable
had parted during
the night and the
ship was driving
ashore. They en¬
deavoured to cut
the main-mast, but
could not do so.
They were forced
to steam out of the
bay and, even then,

THE “SOUTHERN CROSS " IN ROBERTSON BAY, FEBRUARY, 1899.

288

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

nothing could have saved the ship had she
not proved herself remarkably seaworthy.

On the 23rd it blew another storm, but not
quite so strong. But the vessel again lost an
anchor, and, driving ashore, bumped on the
rocks four times with terrific force. By
steaming full speed ahead they contrived to
get her off, but a boat was smashed to atoms,
and they had to steam for shelter to the
other side of the bay, and to moor the ship
with ropes to the edge of the glacier.

There they found good shelter, and on the
afternoon of February 27th three members
of the staff, Colbeck, Hansen, and Fougner,
were permitted to go ashore for the purpose

These discoveries gave them strong hope
that their subsequent explorations will meet
with great and valuable reward.

Such is a brief account of the experiences
upon the Southern Cross up to February 27th.
What has happened since then none but the
brave band of ten determined men can know
until January next.

They are shut up in the ice, and no ship
could till then approach near to the
wonderful continent upon which they have
voluntarily chosen to live for a year, during
which time they will explore those unknown
regions to the fullest extent of their powers.
Our winter is, of course, their summer,

THE HUTS ON. THE SHORE AT CAPE ADAIR.

"of climbing the great glacier, taking alpen¬
stocks, ropes, provisions, cognac, etc. They
started at half-past three and returned at
midnight. They made some valuable dis¬
coveries, although they were not able to
reach the top, attaining, however, an altitude
of 2,300ft., as indicated by the aneroid. At
1,600ft. they discovered an abundance of
moss, of three distinct kinds, exactly the
same as reindeer-moss in the north; and
more important than all, near the bottom of
the mountain they lighted on a huge quartz
outcrop, which looked as if it contained gold !
It was milky, with blue streaks and very
heavy, and had walls of soft slaty matter.

and then the ice will break up and melt;
and the Southern Cross , which has returned
to warmer latitudes during the interval, will
steam to Cape Adair once more. As they
approach we can imagine the interest and
anxiety to those on board to know whether
they are to find the band still muster¬
ing their full strength of ten souls, and
the hopes they will entertain that the
objects of the grand undertaking have been
attained.

I am sure these good wishes and kindly
thoughts will be shared by thousands of us
at home who admire the exercise of endur¬
ance, courage, and determination.

A Master of Craft .

By W. W.
IX.

HE mate awoke next morning
to a full sense of the un¬
pleasant task before him, and,
after irritably giving orders for
the removal of the tarpaulin
from the skylight, a substitu¬
tion of the ingenious cook’s for the drawn
blinds ashore, sat down to a solitary break¬
fast and the composition of a telegram to
Captain Barber. The first, a beautiful piece
of prose, of which the key-note was resigna¬
tion, contained two shillings’ worth of
sympathy and fourpence-halfpenny worth
of religion. It was too expensive as it
stood, and boiled down he was surprised to
find that it became unfeeling to the verge of
flippancy. Ultimately he embodied it in a
letter, which he preceded by a telegram,
breaking the sad news in as gentle a form as
could be managed for one-and-three.

The best part of the day was spent in
relating the sad end of Captain Fred Flower

Jacobs.

to various inquirers. The deceased gentle¬
man was a popular favourite, and clerks from
the office and brother skippers came down
in little knots to learn the full particulars,
and to compare the accident with others in
their experience. It reminded one skipper,
who invariably took to drink when his feelings
were touched, of the death of a little nephew
from whooping-cough, and he was so moved
over a picture he drew of the meeting of the
two, that it took four men to get . him off the
schooner without violence.

The mate sat for some time after tea
striving to summon up sufficient courage for
his journey to Poplar, and wondering whether
it wouldn’t, perhaps, be better to communi¬
cate the news by letter. He even went so
far as to get the writing materials ready,
and then, remembering his promise to the
skipper, put them away again and prepared
for his visit. The crew who were on deck
eyed him stolidly as he departed, and Joe
made a remark to the cook, which that
worthy drowned in
a loud and trouble¬
some cough.

The Wheeler
family were at
home when he
arrived, and re¬
ceived him with
some surprise.
Mrs. Wheeler, who
was in her usual
place on the sofa,
shook hands with
him in a genteel
fashion, and call¬
ing his attention
to a somewhat
loudly attired
young man of un¬
pleasant appear¬
ance, who was
making a late tea,
introduced him as
her son Bob.

“ Is Miss Tyrell
in ? ” inquired
Fraser, shaking his

‘BROTHER SKIPPERS CAME DOWN TO LEARN THE FULL PARTICULARS.

Copyright, 1S99, by W. W. Jacobs, in the United States of America.

Vol. xviii.— 37 .

290

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

head as Mr. Wheeler dusted a small Wheeler
off a chair and offered it to him.

“ She’s upstairs,” said Emma Wheeler;
“shall I go and fetch her?”

“ No, I’ll go up to her,” said the mate,
quietly. “ I think I’d better see her alone;
I’ve got rather bad news for her.”

“ About the captain ? ” inquired Mrs.
Wheeler, sharply.

“ Yes,” said Fraser, turning somewhat red.
“ Very bad news.”

He fixed his eyes on the ground, and, in a
spasmodic fashion made perfect by practice,
recited the disaster.

“ Pore feller,” said Mrs. Wheeler, when he
had finished. “Pore feller, and cut down
suddenly like that. I s’p’ose he ’adn’t made
any preparation for it ? ”

“ Not a bit,” said the mate, starting, “ quite
unprepared.”

“You didn’t jump over after him?”
suggested Miss Wheeler, softly.

“ I did not,” said the mate, firmly; where¬
upon Miss Wheeler, wjio was fond of penny
romance, sighed and shook her head.

“ There’s that pore gal upstairs,” said Mrs.
Wheeler, sorrowfully, “ all innocent and
happy, probably expecting him to come to¬
night and take her out. Enima’d better go
up and break it to ’er.”

“ I will,” said Fraser, shortly.

“ Better to let a woman do it,” said Mrs.
Wheeler. “ When our little Jemmy smashed
his finger we sent Emma down to lireak it to
•his father and bring ’im ’ome. It was ever
so long before she let you know the truth,
wasn’t it, father ? ”

“ Made me think all sorts of things with
her mysteries,” said the dutiful Mr. Wheeler,
in triumphant corroboration. “ First of all
she made me think you was dead ; then I
thought you was all dead—give me such a
turn they ’ad to give me brandy to bring me
round. When I found out it was only
Jemmy’s finger I was nearly off my ’ed with
joy.”

“I’ll go and tell her,” interrupted Mr. Bob
Wheeler, delicately, using the inside edge of
the tablecloth as a serviette. “ I can do it
better than Emma can. What she wants is
comforting ; Emma would go and snivel all
over her.”

Mrs. Wheeler, raising her head from the
sofa, 2*egarded the speaker with looks of tender
admiration, and the young man, after a
lengthy glance in the small pier - glass
ornamented with coloured paper, which
stood on the mantel-piece, walked to the
door.

“ You needn’t trouble,” said Fraser, slowly ;
“ I’m going to-tell her.”

Mrs. Wheeler’s dull eyes snapped sharply.
“ She’s our lodger,” she said, aggressively.

“ Yes, but I’m going to tell her,” rejoined
the mate ; “ the skipper told me to.”

A startled silence was broken by Mr.
Wheeler’s chair, which fell noisily.

“ I mean,” stammered Fraser, meeting the
perturbed gaze of the dock fireman, “ that he
told me once if anything happened to him
that I was to break the news to Miss Tyrell.
It’s been such a shock to me I hardly know
what I am saying.”

“ Yes, you’ll go and frighten her,” said
Bob Wheeler, endeavouring to push past
him.

The mate blocked the doorway.

“Are you going to try to prevent me going
out of a room in my own house ? ” blustered
the young man.

“ Of course not,” said Fraser, and, giving
way, ascended the stairs before him. Mr.
Wheeler, junior, after a moment’s hesitation,
turned back and, muttering threats under his
breath, returned to the parlour.

Miss Tyrell, who was sitting by the window
reading, rose upon the mate’s entrance, and,
observing that he was alone, evinced a little
surprise as she shook hands with him. It
was the one thing necessary to complete his
discomfiture, and he stood before her in a
state of guilty confusion.

A MASTER OF CRAFT

“ Cap’n Flower couldn’t come,” he stam¬
mered.

The girl said nothing, but with her dark
eyes fixed upon his flushed face waited for
him to continue.

“ It’s his misfortune that he couldn’t
come,” continued Fraser, jerkily.

“ Business, I suppose ? ” said the girl after
another wait. “ Won’t you sit down ? ”

“ Bad business,” replied Fraser. He sat
down, and fancied he saw the way clear
before him.

“ You’ve left him on the Foam, I suppose ? ”
said Poppy, seeing that she was expected to
speak.

“ No ; farther back than that,” was the
response.

“ Seabridge ? ” queried the girl, with an air
of indifference.

Fraser regarded her with an expression of
studied sadness. “ Not so far back as that,”
he said, softly.

Miss Tyrell manifested a slight restless¬
ness. “ Is it a sort of riddle ? ” she de¬
manded.

“No, it’s a tale,” replied Fraser, not with¬
out a secret admiration of his unsuspected
powers of breaking bad news ; “ a tale with
a bad ending.”

The girl misunderstood him. “ If you
mean that Captain Flower doesn’t want to

come here, and sent you to say so-” she

began, with dignity.

“ He can’t come,” interrupted the mate,
hastily.

“Did he send you to tell me?” she
asked.

braser shook his head mournfully. “ He
can’t come,” he said, in a low voice ; “ he
had a bad foot—night before last he was
standing on the ship’s side—when he lost
.his hold-”

He broke off and eyed the girl nervously,
“ and fell overboard,” he concluded.

Poppy Tyrell gave a faint cry and, springing
to her feet, stood with her hand on the back
of her chair regarding him. “Poor fellow,”
she said, softly—“ poor fellow.”

She sat down again by the open window
and nervously plucked at the leaves of a
geranium. Her face was white and her dark
eyes pitiful and tender. Fraser, watching
her, cursed his resourceful skipper and hated
himself.

“ It’s a terrible thing for his friends,” said
Poppy, at,length.

“And for you,” said Fraser, respectfully.

“I am very grieved,” said Poppy, quietly;
“ very shocked and very grieved.”

291

“ I have got strong hopes that he may
have got picked up,” said Fraser, cheerfully ;
“ very strong hopes. I threw him a life-belt,
and though we got the boat out and pulled
about, we couldn’t find either of them. I
shouldn’t be at all surprised if he has been
picked up by some vessel outward-bound.
Stranger things have happened.”

The girl shook her head. “ You didn’t go
overboard after him ? ” she asked, quietly.

“ I did not,” said the mate, who was some¬
what tired of this tactless question ; “I had
to stand by the ship, and besides, he was a
much better swimmer than I am—I did the
best I could.”

Miss Tyrell bowed her head in answer.
“ Yes,” she said, softly.

“If there’s anything I can do,” said
Fraser, awkwardly, “ or be of use to you
in any way, I hope you’ll let me know—
Flower told me you were all alone, and-”

He broke off suddenly as he saw the
girl’s lips quiver. “ I was very fond of
my father,” she said, in extenuation of this
weakness.

“I suppose you’ve got some relatives?”
said Fraser.

The girl shook her head.

“No cousins?” said Fraser, staring. He
had twenty-three himself.

“I have some in New Zealand,” said
Poppy, considering. “ If I could, I think I
should go out there.”

“ And give up your business here ? ”
inquired the mate, anxiously.

“ It gave me up,” said Poppy, with a little,
tremulous laugh. “ I had a week’s pay
instead of notice the day before yesterday.
If you know anybody who wants a clerk who
spells ‘impatient’ with a ‘y’ and is off-hand
when they are told of it, you might let me
know.”

The mate stared at her blankly. This
was a far more serious case than Captain
Flower’s. “ What are you going to do ? ” he
asked.

“Try for another berth,” was the reply.

“ But if you don’t get it ? ”

“ I shall get it sooner or later,” said the
girl.

“ But suppose you don’t get one for a
long time ? ” suggested Fraser.

“I must wait till I do,” said the girl,
quietly.

“You see,” continued the mate, twisting
his hands, “ it might be a long job, and I—I
was wondering—what you would do in the
meantime. I was wondering whether you
could hold out.”

292

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Hold out ? ” repeated Miss Tyrell, very
coldly.

“ Whether you’ve got enough money,”
blurted the mate.

Miss Tyrell turned upon him a face in
which there was now no lack of colour.
“That is my business,” she said, stiffly.

“ Mine too,” said Fraser, gazing steadily at
the pretty picture of indignation before him.
“ I was Flower’s friend as well as his mate,
and you are only a girl.” The indignation
became impatience. “ Little more than a
child,” he murmured, scrutinizing her.

“ I am quite big enough to mind my own
business,” said Poppy, reverting to chilly
politeness.

“ I wish you would promise me you won’t
leave here or do anything until I have seen you
again,” said Fraser, who was anxious to consult
his captain on this new phase of affairs.

“ Certainly not,” said Miss Tyrell, rising
and standing by her chair, “ and thank you
for calling.”

Fraser rubbed his chin help¬
lessly.

“ Thank you for calling,” re¬
peated the girl, still standing,

“ That is telling me to go, I
suppose ? ” said Fraser, looking
at her frankly. “ I wish I knew
how to talk to you. When I
think of you being here all
alone without friends and with¬
out employment, it seems wrong
for me to go and leave you here.”

Miss Tyrell gave a faint
gasp and glanced anxiously
at the door. Fraser hesitated a
moment, and then rose to his
feet.

“If I hear anything* more,
may I come and tell you ? ” he
asked.

“Yes,” said Poppy, “or
write; perhaps it would be
better to write; I might not be
at home. Good-bye.”

The mate shook hands, and,
blundering down the stairs,
shouted good-night to a segment of the
Wheeler family visible through the half-open
door, and passed out into the street. He
walked for some time rapidly, gradually
slowing down as he collected his thoughts.

“ Flower’s a fool,” he said, bitterly; “ and,
as for me, I don’t know what I am. It’s so
long since I told the truth I forget what it’s
like, and I’d sooner tell lies in a church than
tell them to her.”

X.

He looked expectantly on the cabin table
for a letter upon his return to the ship,
but was disappointed, and the only letter
yielded by the post next morning came from
Captain Barber. It was couched in terms
of great resignation, and after bemoaning the
unfortunate skipper’s untimely demise in
language of great strength, wound up with a
little Scripture and asked the mate to act as
master and sail the schooner home.

“You’ll act as mate, Ben, to take her
back,” said the new skipper, thrusting the
letter in his pocket.

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Ben, with a side glance
at Joe—“but I’ll keep for’ard, if you don’t
mind.”

“As you please,” said Fraser, staring.

“And you’re master, I s’pose?” said Joe,
turning to Fraser.

Fraser, whose manner had already effected
the little change rendered necessary by his

promotion from mate to master, nodded
curtly, and the crew, after another exchange
of looks, resumed their work without a word.
Their behaviour all day was docile, not to say
lamb-like, and it was not until evening that
the new skipper found it necessary to enforce
his authority.

The exciting cause of the unpleasantness
was Mr. William Green, a slim, furtive-eyed
young man, whom Fraser took on in the

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

2 93

afternoon to fill the vacancy caused by Ben’s
promotion. He had not been on board half
an hour before trouble arose from his attempt
to introduce the manners of the drawing¬
room into the forecastle.

“ Mr. Will-yum Green,” repeated Joe,
when the new arrival had introduced him¬
self; “well, you’ll be Bill ’ere.”

“ I don’t see why, if I call you Mr. Smith,
you shouldn’t call me Mr. Green,” said the
other.

“Call me wot?” inquired Joe, sternly;
“ you let me ’ear you callin’ me mister any-
think, that’s all; you let me ’ear you.”

“ I’m sure the cook ’ere don’t mind me
callin’ ’im Mr. Fisher,” said the new seaman.

“ Cert’nly not,” said the gratified cook ;
“ only my name’s Disher.”

The new-comer apologized with an urbanity
that rendered Joe and old Ben speechless.
They gazed at each in silent consternation,
and then Ben rose.

“We don’t want no misters ’ere,” he said,
curtly, “ an’ wot’s more, we won’t ’ave ’em.
That chap’s name’s Bob, but we calls ’im
Slushy. If it’s good enough for us it’s good
enough for a ordinary seaman wot’s got an
A.B. discharge by mistake. Let me ’ear
you call ’im Slushy. Go on now.”

“ I’ve no call to address ’im at all
now,” said Mr. Green,
loftily.

“You call ’im Slushy,”
roared Joe, advancing
upon him; “call ’im
Slushy till I tell you to
stop.”

“ Slushy,” said Mr.

Green, sullenly, and
avoiding the pained
gaze of the cook ;

“ Slushy, Slushy, Slushy,

Slushy, SI-”

“That’ll do,” said the
cook, rising, with a scowl.

“You don’t want to
make a song abart it.”

Joe, content with his
victory, resumed his seat
on the locker and ex¬
changed a reassuring
glance with Ben; Mr.

Green, with a depreca¬
tory glance at the cook,
sat down and offered
him a pipe of tobacco.

“ Been to sea long ? ”
inquired the cook, ac¬
cepting it.

just

“ Not long,” said the other, speaking very
distinctly. “ I was brought up for some¬
thing quite different. I’m just doing this till
something better turns up. I find it very
difficult to be a gentleman at sea.”

The cook, with an eye on Joe, ventured
on a gentle murmur of sympathy, and
said that he had experienced the same
thing.

“I ’ad money,” continued Mr. Green,
musingly, “and I run through it, then
I ’ad more money, and I run through
that.”

“Ben,” said Joe, suddenly, “pass me over
that boot o’ yours.”

“ Wha’ for?” inquired Ben, who had
just taken it off.

“To chuck at that swab there,” said the
indignant seaman.

Ben passed it over without a word, and
his irritated friend, taking careful aim,
launched it at Mr. Green and caught him on
the side of the head with it. Pain standing
the latter in lieu of courage, he snatched it
up and returned it, and the next moment
the whole forecastle was punching some¬
body else’s head, while Tim, in a state
of fearful joy, peered down on it from his
bunk.

Victory, rendered cheap and easy by reason

Sc?,

1 LET ME EAR YOU CALL "iM SLUSHY.”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

294

“ I tell you he’s drownded,” said the
watchman, raising his voice ; “ if you don’t
believe me, go and ask Mr. Fraser. He’s
skipper in his place now.”

He waved his hand in the direction of
Fraser, who, having heard the noise, was
coming on deck to
see the cause of it.
Mrs. Tipping, com¬
pressing her lips, got
on board, followed
by her daughter,
and marching up
to him eyed him
severely.

“ I wonder you
can look us in the
face after the trick
you served us the
other night,” she
said, fiercely.

“ You brought it
on yourselves,” said
Fraser, calmly. “You
wouldn’t go away,
you know. You
can’t always be com¬
ing here worrying.”

“ We shall come
whenever we
choose,” said Mrs.
Tipping. “ In the
first place, we want to see Mr. Robinson;
anyway, we intend to see Captain Flower,
so you can save that fat old man the trouble
of telling us lies about him.”

“ Captain Flower fell overboard night before
last, if that’s what you mean,” said Fraser,
gravely.

“ I never saw such a man in all my life,”
exclaimed Mrs. Tipping, wrathfully. “You’re

a perfect-what’s the man’s name in the

Scriptures?” she asked, turning to her
daughter.

Miss Tipping, shaking her head despond¬
ently, requested her parent not to worry
her.

“ Well, it doesn’t signify. I shall wait here
till he comes,” said Mrs. Tipping.

“ What, Ananias ? ” cried Fraser, forgetting
himself.

Mrs. Tipping, scorning to reply, stood for
some time gazing thoughtfully about her.
Then, in compliance with her whispered
instructions, her daughter crossed to the side
and, brushing aside the outstretched hand of
the watchman, reached the jetty and walked
into the office. Two of the clerks were still
working there, and she came back hastily to

Explanations, all different and all ready to
be sworn to if desired, ensued, and Fraser,
after curtly reminding Ben of his new posi¬
tion and requesting him to keep order,
walked away.

A silence, broken only by the general
compliments of the much-gratified Tim,
followed his departure, although another out¬
break nearly occurred owing to the cook
supplying raw meat for Mr. Green’s eye and
refusing it for Joe’s. It was the lack of
consideration and feeling that affected Joe,
not the want of the beef, that little difficulty
being easily surmounted by taking Mr.
Green’s. The tumult was just beginning
again, when it was arrested by the sound of
angry voices above. Tim followed by Joe
sprang up the ladder, and the couple with
their heads at the opening listened with
appreciative enjoyment to a wordy duel
between Mrs. Tipping and daughter and
the watchman.

“ Call me a liar, then,” said old George, in
bereaved accents.

“ I have,” said Mrs. Tipping.

“ Only you’re so used to it you don’t
notice it,” remarked her daughter, scathingly.

of the purblindness of the frantic cook, who
was trying to persuade Mr. Green to raise his
face from the floor so that he could punch it
for him, remained with Joe and Ben, who in
reply to the angry shouts of the skipper from
above pointed silently to the combatants.

“the frantic cook.”

A MASTER OF CRAFT

2 95

her mother with the story of the captain’s
death unmistakably confirmed.

Mrs. Tipping, loth to accept defeat, stood
for some time in consideration. “ What had
Captain Flower to do with Mr. Robinson ? ”
she asked at length, turning to Fraser.

“ Can’t say,” was the reply.

“ Have you ever seen Mr. Robinson ? ”
inquired the girl.

“ I‘ saw him one night,” said the other,
after some deliberation. “ Rather good-
ldoking man, bright blue eyes, good teeth,
and a jolly laugh.”

“Are you likely to see him again?”
inquired Miss Tipping, nodding in confirma¬
tion of these details.

“Not now poor Flower’s gone,” replied
Fraser. “ I fancy we shipped some cases of
rifles for him one night. The night you first
came. I don’t know what it was all about,
but he struck me as being rather a secretive
sort of man.”

“He was that,” sighed Miss Tipping,
shaking her head.

“I heard him say that night,” said the
mate, forgetful of his recent longings after
truth, “that he was off abroad. Fie said
that something was spoiling his life, I re¬
member, but that duty came first.” ;•

“ There, do you hear that, mother ? ” said
Miss Tipping.

“Yes, I hear,” said the other, with an
aggressive sniff, as she moved slowly to the
side. “But I’m not satisfied that the
captain is dead. They’d tell us anything.
You’ve not seen the last of me, young man,
I can tell you.”

“ I hope not,” said Fraser, cordially.
“ Any time the ship’s up in London and you
care to come down, I shall be pleased to see
you.”

Mrs. Tipping, heated with the climb,
received this courtesy with coldness, and
having inquired concerning the fate of Cap¬
tain Flower of six different people, and
verified their accounts from the landlord of
the public-house at the corner, to whom she
introduced herself with much aplomb as
being in the profession, went home with
her daughter, in whom depression, in its
most chronic form, had settled in the form
of unfilial disrespect.

Two hours later the Foam got under way,
and, after some heated language owing to the
watchman mistaking Mr. Green’s urbanity
for sarcasm, sailed slowly down the river.
The hands were unusually quiet, but their
behaviour passed unnoticed by the new
skipper, who was too perturbed by the false¬

hoods he had told and those he was about
to tell to take much heed of anything that
was passing.

“ I thought you said you preferred to keep
for’ard ? ” he said to Ben, as that worthy dis¬
turbed his meditations next morning by
bustling into the cabin and taking his seat
at the breakfast-table.

“ I’ve changed my mind; the men don’t
know their place,” said the mate, shortly.

Fraser raised his eyebrows.

“ Forget who I am,” said Ben, gruffly. “ I
was never one to take much count of such
things, but when it comes to being patted on
the back by an A.B., it’s time to remind ’em.”

“Did they do that?” said Fraser, in a
voice of horror.

“Joe did,” said Ben. “’E won’t do it
ag’in I don’t think—I didn’t say anything,
but I think ’e knows my feelings.”

“There’s your berth,” said Fraser, indi¬
cating it with a nod.

Ben grunted in reply, and being dis¬
inclined for conversation busied himself
with the meal, and as soon as he had
finished went up on deck.

“Wot yer been down there for, Bennie?”
asked Joe, severely, as he appeared; “your
tea’s all cold.”

“ I’ve ’ad my breakfast with the skipper,”
said Ben, shortly.

“You was always fond of your stummick,
Bennie,” said Joe, shaking his head, sorrow¬
fully. “ I don’t think much of a man wot
leaves his old mates for a bit o’ bacon.”

The new mate turned from him haughtily.
“ Tim,” he said, sharply.

“Yes, Ben,” said the youth. “Why, wot’s
the matter ? Wot are you looking like that
for ? Ain’t you well ? ”

“Wot did you call me?” demanded the
new mate.

“I didn’t call you anything,” said the
startled Tim.

a Let me ’ear you call me Ben ag’in and
you’ll ’ear of it/ said the other, sharply.
“Go and clean the brass work.”

The youth strolled off, gasping, with an
envious glance at the cook, who, standing
just inside the galley, cheerfully flaunted a
saucepan he was cleaning as though defying
the mate to find him any work to do.

“ Bill,” said the mate.

“Sir,” said the polite seaman.

“ Help Joe scrub paint-work,” was the
reply.

“ Me ! ” broke in the indignant Joe.
“ Scrub—Look ’ere, Ben.”

“ Pore old Joe,” said the cook, who had

296

THE S TRA ND MAGAZINE.

not forgiven him for the previous night’s affair.
“ Pore old Joe.”

“ Don’t stand gaping about,” commanded
the new mate. “ Liven up there.”

“ It don’t want cleaning. I won’t do it,
said Joe, fiercely.

“ I’ve give my orders,” said the new mate,
severely; “ if they ain’t attended to, or if I
’ear any more about
not doing ’em, you’ll
’ear of it. The idea
o’ telling me you
won t do it. The
idea, o’ setting such
an example to the
young ’uns. The

idea-Wot are

you making that
face for ? ”

“ I’ve got the ear¬
ache,” retorted Joe,
with bitter sarcasm.

“ I thought you
would ’ave, Joe,”
said the vengeful
cook, retiring be¬
hind a huge frying-
pan, “ when I ’eard
you singing this
morning.”

Fraser, coming on
deck, was just in
time to see a really
creditable imitation
of a famous sculp¬
ture as represented
by Joe, Tim, and
Ben, but his criti¬
cism was so sharp
and destructive that
the group at once
broke and never re-formed. Indeed, with a
common foe in the person of Ben, the crew
adjusted their own differences, and by the
time Seabridge was in sight were united by
all the fearful obligations of a secret society
of which Joe was the perpetual president.

Captain Barber, with as much mourning as
he could muster at such short notice, was
waiting on the quay. His weather-beaten
face was not quite so ruddy as usual, and
Fraser with a strong sense of shame fancied,
as the old man clambered aboard the
schooner, that his movements were slower
than of yore.

“This is a dreadful business, Jack,” he
said, giving him a hearty grip.

“ Shocking,” said Fraser, reddening.

“ I’ve spoken to have the coastguards look

out for him,” said the old man. “He may
come ashore, and I know he’d be pleased to
be put in the churchyard decent.”

“I’m sure he would,” said Fraser. “I
suppose there’s no chance of his having
been picked up. I slung a life-belt over¬
board.”

Captain Barber shook his head. “ It’s a
mysterious thing,”
he said, slowly : “ a
man who’d been at
sea all his life to go
and tumble over¬
board in calm
weather like that.”

“ There’s a lot
that’s mysterious
about it, sir,” said
Joe, who had drawn
near, followed by
the others. “ I can
say that, because I
was on deck only
a few minutes be¬
fore it happened,”
“Pity you didn’t
stay up,” said Cap¬
tain Barber, ruefully.

“So I thought,
sir,” said Joe, “but
the mate saw me on
deck and made me
go below. Two
minutes afterwards
1 heard a splash,
and the skipper was
overboard.”

There was a mean¬
ing in his words
that there was no
mistaking. The old
man looking round at the faces saw that
the mate’s was very pale.

“What did he. make you go below for?”
he asked, turning to Joe.

“ Better ask him, sir,” replied the seaman.
“I wanted to stay,up on deck, but I ’ad to
obey orders.' If I ’ad stayed on deck he
wouldn’t have been cap’n’.”

Captain Barber turned and regarded the
mate fixedly ; the mate, after a vain attempt
to meet his gaze, lowered his eyes to the
deck.

“ What do you say to all this ? ” inquired
Barber, slowly.

“ Nothing,” replied the mate. “ I did send
Joe below and the skipper fell overboard a
minute or two afterwards. It’s quite true.”

“ Fell ? ” inquired Captain Barber.

“‘don’t stand gaping about,’ commanded the new mate.”

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

297

“ AS MUCH MOURNING AS HE COULD MUSTER.”

“ Fell,” repeated the other, and looked him
squarely in the eyes.

For some time Captain Barber said nothing,
and the men, finding the silence irksome,
shuffled uneasily.

“Fred saved your life once,” said Barber,
at length.

“ He did,” replied Fraser.

The old man turned and paced slowly up
and down the deck.

“ Fie was my sister’s boy,” he said, halting
in front of the mate, “ but he was more like
my son. His father and mother were
drownded too, but they went down fair and
square in a gale. Fie stuck by his ship and
she stuck by him, God bless her.”

Fraser nodded.

“ I’m obliged to you for bringing my ship
from London,” said Barber, slowly. “I
sha’n’t want you to take ’er back. I sha’n’t
want you to stay in ’er at all. I don’t want
to see you again.”

“ That’s as you please,” said Fraser, trying
to speak unconcernedly. “ It’s your ship, and
it’s for you to do as you like about her. I’ll
put my things together now.”

“ You don’t ask for no reason ? ” asked
Barber, eyeing him wistfully.

The other shook his head. “ No,” he
said, simply, and went below.

He came up some little time later with his
belongings in a couple of chests, and, the
men offering no assistance, put them ashore
himself, and hailing a man who was sitting
in a cart on the quay, arranged with him to
convey them to the station.

“ Is ’e to be let go like this?” said Joe,
hotly.

“ Will you stop me ? ” demanded Fraser,
choking with rage, as he stepped aboard
again.

‘•Joe,” said Ben, sharply.

The seaman glared at him offensively.

“Go for’ard,” said the new mate, per¬
emptorily, “ go for’ard, and don’t make your¬
self so busy.”

The seaman, helpless with rage, looked
to Captain Barber for guidance, and, the
old man endorsing the new mate’s order,
went forward indulging in a soliloquy
in which Ben as proper noun was mixed
up in the company of many improper
adjectives.

Fraser, clambering into the cart, looked
back at the Foam. The old man was stand¬
ing with his hands clasped behind his back
looking down on the deck, while the hands
stood clumsily by. With an idea that the
position had suddenly become intolerable
he sat silent until they reached the station,
and being for the first time for many
months in the possession of a holiday,
resolved for various reasons to pay a dutiful
visit to his father at Bittlesea.

(To be continued .)

Vol, xviii.—38.

The Assassin of the Empress.

By Benj. H. Ridgely,

N the various newspaper ac¬
counts of the assassination of
the Empress of Austria, which
occurred in Geneva on the
ioth day of last September,
there were invariably some
untruthful or misleading statements \ and
since the condemnation of the assassin,
Lucheni, so many ridiculous reports have
been published as to the nature of the
punishment to which he is being subjected,
that nobody seems to know the real facts.
In my official capacity I have received
numerous letters from persons in the United
States asking for information as to Lucheni’s
prison life, and in one instance the wife of
a distinguished New York lawyer, believing
that the assassin is being tortured, proposes
to institute a “ humane movement,” looking
to an amelioration of his condition. In
view of these facts and circumstances, it
has occurred to me to write a brief and
exact account of the assassination, and to
give the true details of Lucheni’s regime in
the Geneva penitentiary.

There is also a most important and in¬
teresting bit of history in the episode of the
Empress and the pastrycook which has here¬
tofore been unpublished and unknown. But
for this little circumstance, which comes to
me directly from
a friend of
the Baroness de
Rothschild, the
assassination of the
Empress would not
have been possible
in Geneva.

Certainly no gaol
in the universe
holds a more im¬
portant criminal
than Lucheni, and
if the spirit of re¬
pentance, which
appears to have re¬
cently taken hold
of him, works as
effectively upon his
conscience as those
who are watch¬
ing him hope,
it may result in

U.S. Consul at Geneva.

revelations which will not only bring about
the exposure and capture of his accom¬
plices, but may lay bare the secrets of the
Anarchists for the past ten years to so full
an extent that we shall probably even know
when and where and under what circum¬
stances the sullen and cynical Caserio
was chosen to assassinate President Sadi
Carnot of France, at Lyons, in 1894,
and just how the plot was designed and
developed. Thus, after all, perhaps it is
fortunate that capital punishment is not
inflicted in Geneva,, otherwise Lucheni, with
the bravado of his kind, would have gone
under the guillotine in the conventional way,
crying : “ Vive l’Anarchie,” and his brethren
would have been spared the demoralizing
spectacle of the most reckless and vicious
and audacious of their lot turned into a
trembling gaol-bird, singing Gospel hymns
and weeping tears of repentance. Solitary
confinement for life is a thousand times more
trying than death. Ravachol, Emile Henry
Vaillant, Caserio, were none of them more
audacious or devilish than Lucheni, yet each
of them died haughtily, with a sneer t>n his
lips and heaping curses upon society. Seven
months alone in his cell finds Lucheni
demoralized and repentant. Perhaps it would
be well to try all the Anarchists in Geneva.

(The tree in the foreground is close to the spot where the Empress was assassinated.)

THE ASSASSIN OF THE EMPRESS .

299

But to return to the assassination. The
sun never shone upon a fairer day in Geneva
than the 10th day of September, 1898. The
fine, broad Quay du Mont-Blanc, the most
beautiful promenade in the city, upon which
the Brunswick Monument seems to rise up
out of the blue waters of the lake, was asleep
in the noonday sun. It was not yet the
hour for promenaders, and the quay was
almost deserted except at the landing-stage
near the Pont du Mont-Blanc, where the
fine, fast steamer Le Geneve lay at ‘the pier
with steam up ready to depart at 1.40 for the
upper end of the lake.

At twenty nfinutes past one o’clock the
Empress, unaccompanied except by her
lady-in-waiting, the Countess Szarey, left
the Hotel Beau-Rivage on foot to walk
to the landing - stage, a hundred and
seventy-five yards down the quay, to take
the Geneve for Territet, which is the boat-
station for Caux, where Her Majesty was
spending the season. The two ladies crossed
the street from the Beau-Rivage, and followed
the side-walk close to the iron railing of the
quay. . They were unostentatiously attired,
and none of the people they passed had any
knowledge of their identity. At a point
four-fifths of the way, between the Hotel
Beau-Rivage and the. boat-landing,‘ a man ' The port, and was fully half a mile out in the
was leaning over the jailing of; . theqpay,~ lake when it was. discovered that Her Majesty
ostensibly looking out upbjv the port in front had lost consciousness. !The boat put back
r»f TTAt^l de la Paix. His’ back- was:

side-walk. He.wasya^onng,

Myish - looking little fefiow of-the .day- - n
nnrpr fvno— an linmistakable^'Italian A 0

had fallen swiftly and surely upon the bosom
of the Empress. No quicker or truer blow
was ever struck. The instrument penetrated
to a distance of nearly eight inches and
pierced the heart through and through. The
wretch, quickly withdrawing, his horrible
stiletto, raised his arm as if to strike again;
but as the poor Empress tottered and fell, he
seemed to change his mind, and darting
between two fiacres fled up the Rue des
Alpes, only to be captured after a run of
two minutes.

Meanwhile, the Empress having been
helped to her feet by several of the cockers
under whose very eyes the awful crime had
been committed, had walked steadily on to
the boat, and although feeling very faint and
looking very pale, had apparently suffered no
serious injury, and did not even dream she
had been stabbed. She believed she had
been assaulted by a robber, and that he had
merely struck her a blow with his fist. This
was also the idea, of her companion, the
Countess of Szarey, and of the several
passengers who had witnessed the assault
from the deck of the Gekeve. In any event,
the . Empress retired into the cabin of the boat
and reclined upon a divan.

The Geneve left her pier, proceeded out of

his

of the Hotel
turned to the
row

labourer type — an unttjistakable-
His clothes were ordinary.'cheap
garments. Under
wore a sort of
jersey of blue and
white; , on his
head a black felt
hat. There was
absolutely nothing
in his appear¬
ance to arouse
suspicion. In all
Empress, he was

to port, and'the Emprqss was carried upon a
stretcher to the- Hotel Beau-Rivage. She
pever regained consciousness, and expired
: thh .t\va,surgeons who had been hastily
ivoojlen .’ ''summoned wqre able to administer any
slovenly sack-coat he v remedy* : v - •

THE WEAPON \£ITIP-AyHICH THE CRIME WAS COMMITTED.
/'Yom a Photograph in the hands of the police at’Geneva.

the pathway of the* It was thought she had died from shock
the most Aommonplace' until -an examination djsclosed the wound,
figure; but he was aBout to make Jhe world .One. small drop of Blood bubbling on the
ring with the story'of the mpsC abominable J skill was the only external evidence of the

crime of the century.;

Just as the two ladies Had approached
within two steps of this man, he leapt quickly
back from the railing and, whirling about,
confronted them. Before they could even
cry out, his right arm was raised and the fatal
blow was struck. The blade of the shoe¬
maker’s awl, a sort of great, three-sided
darning-needle, with a rough wooden handle,

istiletto’s: . deadly work, ; The autopsy dis¬
closed the fact that' the ’terrible needle had
passed directly through the heart. Internal
bleeding caused the quick and almost pain¬
less death. Such is th’e exact story of the
assassination.

Meanwhile Lucheni had been arrested and
taken to the prison St. Antoine, garrulous,
boastful, enthusiastic—a poor, misled fool,

3 00

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE .

who in perpetrating the most abominable of
crimes believed himself a hero. His re¬
sponses to the questions that were put to
him at the moment showed that he was well
trained in his part.

“ What led you to commit so outrageous a
crime ? ” he was asked.

“ I. am an Anarchist,” he replied, glibly ;
“we are the agents of those who eat not,
drink not, and have not; we kill to call
attention to ourselves.”

“ Who were your accomplices ? ”

“ My accomplices are all those who suffer,”
he answered, dramatically.

“ And why did you select an Empress for
your victim, instead of a President or a
King ? ”

“ It was the good God who placed her in
my path,” answered the assassin, devoutly.
And so on’ with all the glib and senseless
arguments of
this awful
Brotherhood.

It is unneces¬
sary to follow
Lucheni through
the two months
of judicial in¬
vestigation and
examination that
preceded his
final trial and
condemnation.

His conduct was
marked by the
usual cynicism
and bravado.

He liked above
all things to
boast. His
lawyer appointed
by the Court to
defend him
made an elo¬
quent plea for
mercy. It was
the only plea pos¬
sible. Lucheni
had been aban¬
doned even by
his mother, and
had been
brought up in
vice and poverty.

How could society • expect such a being to
have the least moral perception ? Plow
could the law hold him responsible ?

The jury promptly found the assassin guilty
without extenuating circumstances, and the

Court immediately sentenced him to imprison¬
ment for life at hard labour in the Geneva
penitentiary. Lucheni did not disappoint
the crowd. He heard his sentence passed
with the accustomed cynical smile, and
shouted the conventional cry of the
Anarchists : “ Death to Society — Long

live Anarchy.”

Thus he was led out of court and back to
his prison. That was the last the public
ever saw of him, and perhaps will ever see.

Almost before daybreak, one black
November morning in 1898, the prison guards
of St. Antoine, accompanied by a small squad
of gendarmes, sent by the Prefet of Police,
escorted Lucheni from St. Antoine Gaol to
the prison of the £veche — the cantonal
penitentiary of Geneva. The transfer was
made when the streets were absolutely empty,
and nobody saw or knew anything of it.

Hence there was
no demonstra¬
tion, as there
might otherwise
have been.

The Eveche
is a grim, old
stone building,
standing in a
dark, narrow
street . hard by
the famous old
Church of St.
Pierre—Calvin’s
church — of
which famous
institution it was
formerly the
bishopry. At six
o’clock in the
morning Lucheni
heard its great
iron doors close
upon his heels ;
he saw the
streets and
houses, the life
and bustle of the
world, shut out
from him for
ever, and passed
in to his living
death. But the
spirit of repent¬
ance had not yet touched him, and as the
prison doors closed him in he shouted once
more down the vacant street, “ Vive
l’Anarchie.”

Within six weeks he had admitted to his

LUCHENI BEING TAKEN BACK TO PRISON AFTER HIS CONDEMNATION. THE
SCENE OF THE PICTURE IS THE COURT OF ST. ANTOINE PRISON, WHICH
ADJOINS THE PALACE OF JUSTICE.

From a Photo, by d'lllin and Jacom, Geneva.

THE ASSASSIN OF THE EMPRESS .

3 01

priest that his cynicism was all bravado ;
that within three hours after committing his
awful crime he repented of it. He has also
declared at last that he had accomplices,
and it is believed he will tell who they were
and all about them. Thus does the hardship
of solitary confinement demoralize even the
most dramatic and audacious of Anarchists.

The question now turns upon Lucheni’s
regime in the cantonal penitentiary. All sorts
of stories have been
circulated as to the
nature of the punish¬
ment to which he is
being subjected. It
has been published
broadcast that he
is confined in an
underground cell
into which no ray
of light ever pene¬
trates; that his
food, which is
rough and barely
sufficient to sustain
life, is passed to
him through a hole
as if to a beast in
a cage, and that he
is never allowed to
speak a word to
any living being ;
in short, that he is
being tortured.

In this connec¬
tion, I publish the
following extracts
from a letter re¬
cently addressed to
me in my official
capacity by the
wife of a distin¬
guished New York
lawyer :—

New York City, March 13th, 1899.

To Benj. IT. Ridgely, United States Consul, Geneva.

Sir,—I t is with no little reluctance that I bring to
your notice some recent facts that are painful and
distressing in the extreme. Let me briefly say I was
shocked and horrified, with the whole Christian
world, by the assassination of the late Empress of
Austria. A crime so unprovoked and cold-blooded
calls for the deepest indignation, the severest punish¬
ment. But does the just severity of law exact such
modes of punishment as involve the unnecessary
infliction of pain and suffering that amount to the
torture of the “Dark Ages”?

If the end of punishment is not only to prevent
further crime, but in the light of Christianity to open
the eyes of the criminal to the enormity of his crime
with the hope of final reformation, then is not the
treatment of the assassin of the lamented Empress a

dark blot on the boasted civilization of the nineteenth
century? If the public journals are correct in their
statements, this poor, deluded, wretched murderer is
confined in a dark dungeon twenty feet below ground ,
without a ray of light and only sufficient air to enable
him to live for the daily torture , while his food is
passed to him through a hole in his prison door , etc.

Now, the facts are that Lucheni is ?iot
being tortured; nor is he being pampered
or heroized. Primarily, it is. true that he is
for the time being kept in solitary confine¬
ment, but not in
an underground
cell. On the other
hand, his cell is on
the rez-de-chaus see
of the prison, and
well lighted by a
window that looks
out into the prison
court. It is a neat
and clean cell,
much larger and
better ventilated
than any cell I
ever remember to
have seen in an
American peniten¬
tiary. The convict
has a good, clean
bed, with a straw
mattress ; he has a
small table and a
chair. He is com¬
fortably clad, not in
convict stripes, but
in good woollen
garments, and is, in
short, living under
better conditions
of cleanliness and
whole som e n es s
than he ever
knew before in his
life.

Here is the daily routine of his regime:
At six o’clock every morning he is aroused
by the prison bell, and compelled to get out
of bed and clean up his cell. He then
works at paper-box making, a trade he has
just begun to learn, until eight o’clock, when
he is served a litre of cafe an lait without
sugar. At noon he has a dinner of soup
and vegetables, and if he behaves himself
well, a goblet of light red wine. For supper,
at six o’clock, he has only soup. He is
allowed a kilogram — 2 1-5 th lb. — of coarse
dark bread a day. This he may eat at his
three repasts in such proportion as pleases him,
but he is not allowed to eat between meals. .

THE GENEVA CANTONAL PENITENTIARY, WHERE LUCHENI IS NOW
UNDERGOING HIS SENTENCE.

From a Photo, by d'lllin and Jacom, Geneva.

3° 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Twice a week—that is to say, on every
Thursday and Sunday—all the prisoners of
the Eveche, Lucheni included, are given a
generous portion of some sort of boiled
meat at the noonday repast. Thus it will be
seen that the Anarchist, though his daily bill
of fare is by no means luxurious, is very well
fed, better, doubtless, than he ever was before
in his life, and much better than the great
majority of the lower classes of his country-
people.

Twice every day Lucheni leaves his cell
and goes to walk in the prison court for
thirty minutes with all the* other convicts.

It is a mournful procession. The convicts
are compelled to walk in single file one metre v
apart, and are not allowed to speak. Ihp
courtyard is small, and as the silent pioces-
sion moves round and round in a narrow
circle, it presents a very sad and pitiful
spectacle. On Sunday there is a service in
the-prison.chapel, which all the convicts may
attend if they desire; and in spite, of the
fact that Anarchists pretend to scorn all
religions, I am informed that Lucheni has
become a regular attendant at the piison

service. .

There is also a prison library, from which
the prisoners may each take a book every
Sunday. They are permitted to spend the
whole of Sunday in reading, and may also
find a few moments for .the same pastime
every day at the dinner-hour. When I. went
through the Eveche the other day, and when
Lucheni’s cell door was opened* I taw.-on his
table a picturesque history': of. .Switzerland,
which he had evidently been reading as he

worked. ' . '

I found that Lucheni had changed con¬
siderably since the day of his* condemnation.
His moustache
was gone, and his
face looked sleek
and white and fat.

The lithe figure
had also grown
much stouter; he
still wore the gum-
elastic smile, but
the air of bravado
was missing. His
eyes were down¬
cast; his mien
humble. It was
easy to see that the
spirit of the Anar¬
chist was broken.

The only terrible
feature of Lucheni’s From a]

punishment is the continued silence and
solitude. This is harder to support than
death, and it is particularly hard to the
verbose Lucheni. He sees before him a life
absolutely without hope; the ceaseless
babbler is reduced to everlasting silence;
the preacher of the bad cause is without a
public. The idle and noisy Anarchist must
work industriously every day of his life from
six in the morning until six at night, and
cannot even expend the fruit of his labour,
which must, on the other hand, go to support
the institutions of the very society which he
' has so scorned and spat upon. No wonder
his- spirit is broken ; no wonder he repents.
Certainly, if the Anarchists have any wit, they
must see a dreadful satire in the fate of Luigi

Lucheni. .

The. question as to how long Lucheni will
remain in solitary confinement remains to.be
seen. Solitary confinement is a mere question
of prison discipline, and if Lucheni conducts
himself well, .'it is not likely that, he will be
lohg denied the privilege which is accorded
the other convicts of working in the prison
shops.’ True, this is not much of a distraction,
as a guard is constantly kept mounted over
the prisoners as they work, and the exchange
of a single word is forbidden, and punished.
However, they prefer it infinitely to solitary
confinement, as. it at least brings them
together and enables them to see each other,
and Lucheni will always be a hero to the
lesser knaves, even though he may not speak
to diem.

In -concluding this sketch, let me add a
little bit of history—now published for the
first time—to the^ story of the assassination
of the Empress : a bit of history which will
show what a trifling circumstance it was that

THE CHATEAU OF THE BARONESS ROTHSCHILD NEAR GENEVA,

{.Photo.

THE ASSASSIN OF THE EMPRESS.

3°3

GITANA. THE STEAM YACHT OF TH

From a Photo, by Lacombe and Arlaud, Geneva.

made it possible for Lucheni to perpetrate
his abominable crime in Geneva.

It will be remembered that the ioth
day of September, 1898, was Saturday. On
the day before, Her Majesty had come down
from Caux to lunch with the Baroness
Rothschild, whose great white chateau on the
heights, just outside of Geneva, is the finest
show-palace on Lake Leman.

The Baroness Rothschild also has the
finest and fastest
yacht on the lake.

As a matter of
fact, it is said to be
one of the fastest
crafts afloat, and
can do the forty-
five miles from the
Baroness’s boat¬
house at Bellevue
to Territet, the
station for Caux at
the other end of
the lake, in a little
less than two
hours.

After the lun¬
cheon on Friday,
the Baroness in¬
sisted upon send¬
ing the Empress
back to Territet in
her yacht, and Her From «]

Majesty was about to
accept the invitation
when she remembered
that she had sent word
to a little confectioner
in the Boulevard du
Theatre, of whose
chocolate she was very
fond, that she would
visit his shop that
afternoon to take a
cup of chocolate and
to get some chocolat
bonbons and other
sweets. And in spite of
the insistence of the
Baroness, she kept to
this engagement and
went with her com¬
panion, the Countess
Szarey, to the bright
little patisserie , where
the two great
ladies had a famous little spree with their
chocolate and cakes, and gladdened the
heart of the little pastrycook beyond all ex¬
pression by their compliments and purchases.

But it cost the poor Queen her life. For
instead of going directly from the Chateau
de Rothschild in the yacht of the Baroness,
as she would otherwise have done, she
spent the night in Geneva, and found
death in her pathway the next day.

THE CONFECTIONER’S SHOP IN THE BOULEVARD DU THEATRE, GENEVA.

[Photo.

An Amateur Buddha.

By John Foster Fraser.

I.

IGMORE went to the door of
his bungalow, and yelled “ Qui
hi!” And a free translation
of the Hindustani “ Qui hi”
means, “If there’s a lazy beggar
of a servant about, I want him.”

The Madrasee slowly crawled from the
shadow of the jungle and softly muttered,
“ Sahib !”

“ Well, come here, you confounded nigger,
you ; where are my shirts ? ” Then he went
back to the bungalow.

Presently he shouted again, “ Halliwell,
are you dressing ? ”

There was a grunt from the next room.
“ Well, I’m trying to. It’s a blessed nuisance,
though. Upper Burma in whites is bad
enough ; but Upper
Burma in starched
shirt and stand-up
collar and dress-coat
—well, it’s the deuce.

This collar of mine
will be like a limp
rag in five minutes.

Isn’t it hot ? ”

“ Hot ! ” yelled
back Wigmore, “ hot
isn’t the word. It
was hot at Lahore,
but that was noth¬
ing. If I hadn’t
made such an ass
of myself getting
into debt, I wouldn’t
have had to volun¬
teer for police ser¬
vice up here — the
last place on God’s
earth. I suppose in
about five years I’ll
be able to go back
to civilization.”

“ Have you got a
spare collar-stud ? ”

“No. Tie your
collar with a. bit of
string.”

There was more

grunting in the next room. “ This brute of
a shirt,” roared Halliwell, “is beginning to
melt already. I think Sugden ought to be
shot getting up a dinner-party when the
thermometer is ninety-eight in the shade.”

“ Well, he’s obliged to be civil to the Mrs.
Deputy-Commissioner. She’s the only woman
in Bhamo, and we’d step back, double-quick,
into rank savagery if she didn’t keep us up to
scratch.”

The two men went on dressing.

The bungalow they shared was a plain,
two-storied building. The thick, matted
Burmese jungle rose like a shield at the back.
In front swirled the brown waters of the
Irawaddy River. Over the dull line of
jungle, far on the other side, the sun was
dropping quickly, and all the western sky
was splotched with blood-reds and gaudy
saffrons, and then, like an arc through the
heavens, stretched a sheet of green, and the
green merged into a dull blue overhead, and
the blue deadened into a black far behind
the veranda, China-
wards.

The bugle in the
Bhamo fort blared
hollow through the
thick Burmese air.
There was no breeze,
and the atmosphere
shook with heat.

A handful of men
are at Bhamo. They
live on quinine and
whisky, or die of
malaria, or brave
risks for three or
four years for the
sake of the double
pay. A soldier can’t
save money in India.
He has a difficulty
to spend it in
Burma.

A cluster of rough
bungalows make the
place. A couple of
companies of Sepoys
are there, ready for
rows with the
Kachins or other
tribes. But the offi¬
cers, three of them,
are British. Wig-
more is an officer, but he’s with the
Military Police; there’s better pay with the
Military Police than with his regiment.
Halliwell—old Hal, as they call him—is in
the Forests Department, and the sale of

THIS BRUTE OF A SHIRT IS
BEGINNING TO MELT.”

AN AMATEUR BUDDHA.

3°5

Burmese teak is a gold mine to the Indian
Government. Sugden— the fool who is
giving the dinner-party—is interpreter to the
D.C.; he knows Chinese, and Shan, and
Kachin, and he can talk to the warrior Wahs
like a father.

And then the D.C. himself! Well, every¬
body in Burma knows about Douglas being
mad. A man doesn’t spend fifteen years in
malarious valleys without developing every
little eccentricity in his nature into some¬
thing perilously near insanity. And Douglas
was one of these men, tall, lank, cadaverous,
taciturn, but clever—“ mad, but clever,” they
said down at the Pegu Club at Rangoon.

But the maddest thing Douglas did was to
fall in love with a little Irish governess. She
was going to Shanghai. He was coming
back to Burma after a year’s leave. She
never went to Shanghai. Douglas persuaded
her to leave the boat at Colombo, and they
were married. Then he brought her up
to the stewing, sweltering, fever realm of
Bhamo. And there she was now. There
wasn’t another English lady nearer than
Mandalay.

Her coming had upset everything. The
chief outer thing noticeable, however, was
that all the men shaved daily, instead of
twice a week as before. And they took off
their jungle boots and put on shoes that had
actually trodden the pavement of Piccadilly,
and went over to the Deputy-Commissioner’s
bungalow in the afternoon to have tea and
cake with the Mrs. D.C.

And now Sugden was giving a dinner¬
party, and the men were swearing and climb¬
ing into their crumpled dress suits !

Wigmore went on the veranda, and lay
back in a long-armed chair, and stuck his
legs up. He was a good-looking fellow,
bright-eyed, bronzed, the sort of chap of
whom you find many in Burma, larky, reckless,
much of a dare-devil. But he was unflinch¬
ing as wrought steel when a Kachin stockade
had to be rushed ; a man not of much note
in the long roll of the Empire’s employes,
but a man all the same, who was doing his
little share to knitting up, and tightening
up, and welding that swampy corner of the
Queen’s dominions into useful property.

Old Hal came out fuming and swearing as
only a man in the Forests Department can
swear.

“ Sugden’s a silly ass,” he said, fastening a
silk handkerchief in between his neck and
his collar. Then—“ Halloa, you! ” he bawled,
as a slim Britisher came sauntering along the
jungle path. “ Why, Sugden, what the hang-

Vol. xviii.— 39.

ment brings you here ? Aren’t you giving
a dinner to-night, and aren’t I cursing you
because I’ve got into this beastly garb of
civilization ? Aren’t you going to dress your¬
self?”

“ No, I’m not,” said Sugden, looking up.
“ Hasn’t Wright been here ? ”

“ Devil a bit. But you’re not going to
give a dinner to the Mrs. D.C. in flannels,
are you ? ”

“No, you fool. Got any whisky up there?
Well, I want a ‘peg.’ I told Wright to let
you know that the Mrs. D.C. couldn’t come.
The heat’s bowled her over, and she’s got
fever, and she’s taking ten grains of quinine
every two hours.”

“Well, what about the feed?” asked
Wigmore.

“ Oh, the feed’s all right; come along.”

“ I’m hanged if I’m coming in this dress,”
gasped Halliwell. “ I’ll go through a good
deal of discomfort to be courteous to a lady,
but neither you, the D.C., Wigmore, and the
whole shoot of you, including the Lieutenant-
Governor himself, will get me to dine in June
in a stand-up collar.”

“ Pull the thing off. Now that the Mrs.
D.C. isn’t coming, let us feed as we’ve always
fed.”

“ In pyjamas ? ”

“Yes, in pyjamas! You needn’t bring
any along. I’ve plenty for the lot of us.
We’ll have one of the old nights—long pegs,
long chairs, and pyjamas.”

“Sugden, you’re not the idiot I thought
you were,” shouted Halliwell.

Then he dived back into the bungalow.

“ Quihi ! You lazy sweep, come and help
me to pull these things off.”

II.

It was a good dinner. And when it was
over, and the men got into the long chairs
—chairs that the laziness of the East has
invented—and the smoke of the cheroots
went curling overhead, the Madrasee boy was
busy walking from sahib to sahib making
stiff “ pegs.”

They were half-a-dozen men — cheery,
merry, and garrulous—brought together in
that far outpost. They were taking life
easily, though next week one of them might
“ go under ” from malaria. Men are always
“going under” in Burma.

“ Dead ! Is he dead—really ? ” people
would say. “ He was a decent sort of fellow.
Who’s going to have his crib ? ”

They laughed, did these half-dozen sallow,
climate-racked Britishers, for Halliwell of the

3°6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ we’ll have one of the old nights.”

Fgrests was speaking. He was round and
stout, and he spoke in gusts.

“The rummiest go I ever came across!”
he was saying. “ I’d be hanged if the old
chap wasn’t perspiring. It’s all right for a
fat Englishman like me to perspire, but when
stone Buddhas start perspiring—well, I’m
thinking the end of the world is near at
hand. There was the great image, as big
as six men, his legs crossed, and him sitting
on his heels, and one palm bent down and
another bent up, as though he wanted half¬
pence, and that idiotic, vacant stare of his,
as though he wanted kicking and waking up !
And water was trickling out of his brain and
his neck and his chest and all over him. It
was curious. You bet the Burmese got into
a pretty blue funk. They came for miles
round, and they sat down and watched the
trickles, and they made offerings to the god.
There was one old woman brought a splendid
bunch of plantains.”

“ How do you know? ” interrupted Wright.

“ You don’t think I was going to leave the
plantains to waste, do you, when I wanted
some up at the dak bungalow ? Well, I sent
the boy out at dusk, and he stole them.”

“ If the D.C. heard of that he’d carpet
you.”

“Not him. But just you listen. You
know the Buddhists began to get frightfully
excited over that sweating old stone image of
theirs. I never saw folks get so fearfully
religious as the Burmese round that district.

But what do you
think—you, Wig-
more, what do
you think hap¬
pened ? ”

“Why, I should
not be surprised
to hear it was all
due to Buddha
having to wear
starched shirts.”

“Oh, you go to
the deuce,” said
Halliwell. “Well,
the thing that
happened was
this : another
blessed Buddha
took to the grow¬
ing of a mous¬
tache ! ”

A roar of laugh¬
ter ran round the
lolling group of
Sugden’s guests.

“ Oh, draw it mild ! ”

“That’s just what I did do,” said Halliwell,
feeling that his story was beginning to interest.
“ But don’t you interrupt. This Buddha is
a bigger chap than the other, and he’s in a
thick chunk of jungle between here and
Myothit. It’s pretty clammy and swampy,
and folks don’t go that way often. Who the
idiot was that stuck a great giant of a Buddha
figure there, the Lord knows and I don’t.
Anyhow, it’s been there a long time. Well,
some fool of a saintly Burman went and
found it about six weeks ago. And just then
the thing began to grow a moustache. It did,
no humbug, for I saw it myself. Of course,
the pongyees — the priests — in the district
were simply knocked all to pieces with excite¬
ment. The moustache grew and grew, and
there was no doubt it was a miracle, and all
sorts of wonderful things were going to
happen. It was a harvest time for those
bald-headed old pongyees , for I’m not
thinking the image of Buddha got away
with all the offerings made to him. That
moustache it grew: why—why it grew just
about six hundred times as fast as yours
does, Wright. I got wind of the thing a
fortnight ago. I got up early, told my bearer
not to say I had been out, and slipped off to
see the marvellous Buddha. And, as true as
the rupee is going down to a shilling, there it
was, right enough : a big lump of brown stuff
growing on the upper lip. I climbed up into
the lap of the Buddha, slipped out my knife,

AN AMATEUR BUDDHA.

307

and in two jiffies I had shaven the gentle¬
man. And you’d never believe it: why, that
moustache was nothing but a piece of fungus
that had selected the god’s upper lip as a
good growing ground. Heavens, you chaps
don’t know the hullabaloo there is out there.
A perspiring Buddha was marvel enough, but
a Buddha that
grew a moustache
and then mysteri¬
ously got shaved,
why, it’s knocked
the Burmese clean
off their feet. They
say the world’s
going to come to
an end, or that
Buddha’s coming
to the earth again.

Most of them
fancy the coming
again business.”

The bungalow
was thick with
smoke, and Wig-
more, who was
sprawling back,
trying to be both
undignified and
comfortable, was
converting his
cheroot into as
much smoke as
possible.

“ It would be
rather a good joke,”
he said, “if Bud¬
dha did come
again ! ”

“If Buddha
grew ringlets! ” grunted Halliwell, who,
having finished his story, didn’t want it spoilt
by irrelevant remarks.

“I mean,” Wigmore went on, “if a little
joke were played on the innocent Burman,
and an amateur Buddha was rigged up.”

“An amateur fiddlestick rigged up,” puffed
Halliwell.

“Well, it’s tame enough up here to go
in for any sort of excitement,” remarked
Sugden. “ We might make Halliwell into a
Buddha. He’s the only paunchy one among
us ; all the rest are a bit scraggy.”

“ Yes,” said Halliwell, “ you’ll catch me
going about dyed in walnut juice, sitting half
naked on a lump of stone, and then Wigmore
giving the whole show away by writing one of
those articles of his he thinks humorous in
the Rangoon Gazette , and me being the

laughing stock of the whole Irawaddy. You
catch me, don’t you? Not if I know it.”

But the other men caught the fun of the
idea. Life certainly was a bit monotonous
at Bhamo. And if a proposition had been
made to burn the whole place down to
provide an afternoon’s amusement, there
would have been
a majority of the
Englishmen there
enthusiastically in
favour. And the
plan of a hoax in
the shape of an
amateur Buddha
gave room for end¬
less complications
and not a little
entertainment.
The Burmese had
been worked into
a state of tremb¬
ling awe : first by
the perspiring
image, and then
by the image that
grew a moustache
and was so mys¬
teriously shaved.

“ I say, chaps,”
shouted Sugden, at
last, “ the thing’s
much too good to
be missed. If 1
weren’t a long,
lanky devil I’d take
on Buddhaship
myself.”

“Well, the pon-
gyees are pretty
lean, some of them,” interpolated the
representative of the Forests Department
with a glimmer of apprehension what was
coming.

“Oh, you’re no good for fun, Halliwell,”
answered back Sugden. “We want a well-
fed Buddha, and you’re the only well-fed
one among us.”

“ I’ll see you-”

“ I propose that Halliwell be delegated as
representer of Buddha for the space of a
fortnight,” said Wigmore, “ and general
amusement-provider for the whole British
crowd in Burma for the space of the next
two years.”

“That’s seconded by me,” said Wright,
mildly.

“ And it’s carried by the whole shoot of
us,” put in Sugden ; “ and if Halliwell shirks

IN TWO JIFFIES I HAD SHAVEN THE GENTLEMAN.”

3°8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“you’re the only well-fed one among us.”

it, the penalty is to be a dozen cases of
champagne, and I’ll do the ordering.”

III.

It was to be done. Even a Forests man is
obliged to have some sense of humour.

And Wigmore as co-partner with Halliwell
in the bungalow had opportunities of demon¬
strating to "the surveyor of teak that really he
was an extraordinarily lucky fellow.

“ Why, you old ass,” was the kindly way
he put it, “ you’ll have no end of a good
time. You’ll be a very emperor.”

“Yes, I suppose I will,” said Halliwell,
dubiously.

Within a week, however, his opposition
melted very curiously away. He was a marvel
to all fellows by reason of his joyousness.
The sudden change of front astonished them.
Had he a special scheme of his own up his
sleeve, or was he, belated humorist, beginning
to see that he was going to make a hero of
himself?

“When I go into a thing I go in neck or
nothing ; and if there isn’t a good deal of
fun, well, it won’t be my fault,” was all he
said.

The plot was kept a secret. Even the
Deputy-Commissioner was not made a party
to it. Only the stealthy-footed Madrasee had
to be taken into confidence. He showed no
surprise ; not a flicker of a smile came to his
lips ; he was passive. He said, “ Yes, sahib ! ”
as he would say, “ Yes, sahib ! ” when asked
to bring the whisky.

Joseph Halliwell
disappeared, and Wig-
more’s bearer, the
Madrasee, went with
him. For a whole
morning there was
suppressed excite¬
ment among five
men in Bhamo.

They came across
one another at in¬
tervals, and smiled
blankly. But at
noon they gathered
in the two-roomed
hut which they
dubbed “ The Bhamo
Club,” and while
having their ante-tiffin
gin-cocktails, Wright
came out dolefully
with the remark,

“ He’ll have a brute
of a time, with nothing
to wear, and nothing to eat but rice, and
not a peg nor a cocktail within seventeen
miles.”

“ That ivill be a bit stiff! ” added Sugden.

“You see,” said Wright, “I’ve been think¬
ing it all out. There may be fun in pretend¬
ing to be another Buddha, but he’ll have to
eat nothing but rice like the other p 07 igyees,
and only one meal of that a day. He’ll
starve and get fever, and I daresay we’ll have
to go out and look for his corpse.”

“ You’re a cheerful cuss, Wright,” said
Wigmore, “getting that sort of thing into
your head. Besides, he went readily enough.
Why, no chap saw the fun of the thing
clearer than he did.”

“Yes, but that was after we, and especially
you, had been badgering the life out of him.
Life in the jungle on rice and paddy water is
preferable to the dance we led him,” said
Wright, determined to be gloomy. “And
I’m ashamed of myself for egging old Hal
on.”

“It’ll be all right when it’s over,” said
Wigmore, with an attempt at cheerfulness,
though he himself began to doubt the entire
wisdom of the plot.

Finishing his cocktail, he exclaimed, “ Of
course, it’ll be all right, and this’ll be the best
joke that’s ever been played in Bhamo. I
shouldn’t mind if I were playing it myself.
Hal will be the lion of Mandalay when he
goes down river. But we’ll have a roaring
time when he comes back. Wait till those
cases come up on the steamer Swebo , the

AN AMATEUR BUDDHA,

3°9

champagne and the burgundy, and the pre¬
served meats and bottled fruits—why, we’ll
have a spread fit for the Viceroy.”

“That you won’t,” said the doleful Wright,
“ for I’ve heard that the things have been
dumped down at Katha, and—why, you your¬
self said you would send down your Madrasee
to bring them up. And now the Madrasee
has gone off with Hal, and the river has sunk
so precious low that the Sivebo gets on a
sand-bank every two miles, so that I’m
blessed if we’re likely to see those things for
a month.”

“ The deuce we’re not,” ejaculated
Wigmore, tn dismay.

Halliwell was forgotten in the general con¬
sternation at the food supply likely to be cut
short.

“We’ll have to fall back on that German
storekeeper,” ventured Sugden, “ and live
on sardines and tinned Army rations till
things come up. But it’s a nuisance.”

Anyway, Halliwell had disappeared, and
Sugden and Wigmore and Wright and the
others waited anxiously three days, four days,
and five days for news. But there was none.

The natives could not be openly ques¬
tioned. The conspirators listened for some
whispers among the
Burmese that crowd¬
ed round the D.C.’s
court-house about
the new Buddha.

But never a whis-
per could be heard.

Not till the sixth
day.

On the sixth day
Wigmore got a note
from Douglas, the
Deputy - Commis¬
sioner.

“ I wish you would
come over and see
me. A most
extraordinary
story has just been
brought in by a
man from the
hills. There’s a
fat Burman who’s
come down from
the upper reaches
of the river, who
pretends he is
Buddha. He’s
quite evidently
a madman, but
just the sort of

person to cause trouble among the natives.
I hear he’s preaching against the English.
This is in your department—the Military
Police.- What had better be done? Come
over, and let us stop any rising before it
gets out of hand.”

A low whistle escaped from the lips of
Lieut. Wigmore as he read.

“ Old Hal is playing it stiff,” he said.
“ There’ll be ructions, I’m afraid, when the
D.C. knows what the game really is. Hal
will get a wigging from his chiefs, and there’ll
be no end of a row. Phew ! ”

He went over to the Deputy-Commis¬
sioner’s court.

“ Come in, come in,” shouted Douglas, as
he saw the figure of the young lieutenant at
the door. The D.C. w r as sitting in a cheap
office chair before a big, square, wooden-
topped table plentifully besplashed with ink.
It was a dingy room, bare-boarded. A few
scale maps were on the wall.

“This is a curious business,” said Douglas,
leaning back and lighting a cheroot. He
was long and thin, and his face was that of a
man not given to much nonsense. “ You’d
better hear what the fellow says who came in
this morning from the hills.”

The man was called.
He was a squat-shaped
little Burman, with a
chequered lungee
wrapped about his
waist, and he was wear¬
ing a white jacket
and a tight-fitting
piece of yellow
silk twisted about
his head. He drop¬
ped on his knees,
native fashion,
upon entering
the D.C.’s pre¬
sence, and then
sat on his heels
all the time he
was talking with
Douglas, whom
he persistently
called “his lord.”

“ Look here,”
said the D.C.,
speaking in Bur¬
mese, “ I want
you to tell me
again about this
new Buddha of
yours — tell me
everything.”

“ WIGMORE GOT A NOTE FROM DOUGLAS, THE DEPUTY-
COMMISSIONER.”

3 IQ

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

The Burman made a cringing motion, as
though to suggest that his head be chopped
off if he failed in the truth.

“ Sahib, my lord,” he said, “ the Light of
the Universe has come. In the jungle below

Ky-han he has appeared. He is clad in
raiment of beautiful silks, he is round of
figure, and has the dignity of a king. He
declares he is the Buddha, the new teacher.”

“ Well, does he speak Burmese?” asked
the D.C.

“ Not well; indeed, badly. But lie has
come from the sacred mount of Omi, he
says, to tell of a new religion. The pongees
up to now have all been silent men,
ignoring the pleasures of life. But the
new Buddha says there is to be a fresh
dispensation—that life is to be merry and
glad. He has told the pongyees austerity
must cease. He has taken possession of the
Temple of the Sacred Blair, and there he
lives. And sahib, my lord, he has all the
food and drink that my lords the English
have: sparkling water in bottles with golden
necks, and wonderful foods out of tins.
Nobody knows where they come from ; he
says he commands them to come merely by
wishing, and then they come.”

A groan escaped Wigmore, and he bit his
cheroot in two. “That fiend, Halliwell,” he
muttered, “ has diverted those cases of
champagne from Katha and is living like a
fighting-cock, while we’re near starvation.”

The Burman went on : “ The Pleasure of
Life is what the new Master teaches. He
says there’s been enough sadness in the
world; now there is to be nothing but joy,
and he is the bringer of it. Every day he
has feasts. Then in the evening
there are pwes ; all the best dancing-
girls in the district appear before
him, and they dance and the
new Buddha claps his hands
and gives them to drink of
the sparkling water out
of the bottles with golden
necks, and everybody
gets very merry.”

“ He’s a bit of a
Turk, is this Bud¬
dha, eh?” said
Douglas, turning
to Wigmore, who
was nervously draw-
ing unmeaning
lines in ink on the
D.C.’s table.

“ A bit of a—oh,
yes, certainly : it is
odd, isn’t it? But
there’s — there’s a
sort of—sort of me¬
thod in his madness,
don’t you think?”
Douglas didn’t answer, but turning again
to the squatting Burman, said : “ How on
earth did he first appear; how was he able
to get people to believe in him ? ”

“ It was at night. The moon was clear as
day. We were all lying on our mats enjoy¬
ing the cool and watching a pivL Suddenly
down the jungle path there came a strange
thing. It was like a mass of silver light,
giving off fumes. When in shadow it glowed
mysteriously; but in the moonlight it
deadened almost to extinction. It was
shouting, ‘I am the Buddha; I am the
Buddha.’ We had all been laughing and
merry-making, and the dancing-girls were
very charming. But it all stopped in an
instant when this figure appeared. The
voice was so strange, not like a Burman’s at
all, and the night had something mysterious
about it, that we were all startled and
affrighted. We all fell on our faces before
the apparition, thinking the great hour had
come. When I looked up, there was the
wonderful thing standing among us, with
curious smoke, like moonlight rays, coming
from it. He—it spoke in a kind voice, and
told us he was the Buddha, and that true
happiness lay, not in subjection of the spirits,

<f I WANT YOU TO TELL RIE AGAIN ABOUT THIS NEW BUDDHA OF YOURS.

AN AMATEUR BUDDHA.

3ii

but in every person being natural, doing just
what he wanted to; that there was to be no
more restraint in the world. The pongyees ,
priests, at the temple didn’t know what to
say. He talked to them just as though he
were a god. He said they were to remain
pongyees , but their life must be altered : they
were to go in for enjoyment, they were to be
the directors of the feasts, they were each to
be married.”

Douglas had been sitting with tight features,
listening to the extraordinary story. But
when the narrator, without a ruffle on his
countenance, said that Buddhist priests were
to be married, this was too much for even
his cold officialism.

He broke out with a cracked, uneven
laugh that made Wigmore look up sharply.
For Wigmore was very uncomfortable. He
was glad to hear the laugh. He had a sort
of idea that yesterday he would have laughed
inordinately. Buddhist priests marrying ! It
was ridiculous.

“And Buddha the Second,” said the D.C.
to the Burman, “ I suppose he’s going to
marry?” There was a suggestion of mirth
in the question, and certainly the grey eyes
of Douglas twinkled.

“ My lord, yes; at the birth of the new
moon he takes to wife Mah Nay Tohn.”

“ Ah ! Miss Sunshine ! ” said the Deputy-
Commissioner, translating the name into
English. “ And what do the people in your
district think of it all ? ”

“ My lord, everybody knows this is the
new Buddha. He sits in state
in the temple, and worship-
offerings are Brought to him
from all the country round :
gold from over the frontier ;
jade—oh, such lovely jade—
and amber and rubies from
the Shan hills.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged,”
suddenly interrupted Wig¬
more, with a stare of sur¬
prise.

“ Eh ? ” said the D.C.

“ I say it’s mighty curious.”

“ It is curious.”

When the Burman had
made his salaams and de¬
parted, Douglas trifled with a
lead pencil. He knit his brows,
and then glancing sideways at
the young lieutenant of the
Military Police, said, nonchalantly, “ I sup¬
pose you don’t know anything about this ? ”

Wigmore had never felt so ill at ease in

his life. He’d better make a clean breast of
the whole thing !

“ Well—that is, well, I think some joke is
being played.”

“ That’s just what I think,” said Douglas,
who was quite astute enough to see that the
capering of the amateur Buddha was not
the conduct of an irresponsible lunatic.
“ He’s no fool, whoever he is,” he said.

“No, he’s no fool,” agreed Wigmore. He
wanted to blurt straight out what was in
his mind, but somehow the words hung
back.

“Now, that moonshiny smoke the Burman
talked about was phosphorescence. That’s
plain enough. And that sparkling water in
bottles with the golden necks was cham¬
pagne. I’ve an intuition it was champagne.
Then, directing that the pongyees should
marry—that’s a master-stroke ! There’s a
farce on somewhere. I’ve half an idea it’s a
scheme of some of those roguish subalterns
down at Mandalay.”

“You think it’s—it’s a European, then?”
asked Wigmore, surprised at the D.C.’s easy
penetration of the plot.

“ Oh, I know Burmese tricks, and I know
British tricks. Now, that’s a British trick.
But it may cause bother, and I’ve a good
mind to arrest-”

“ Well, I was going to tell you,” Wig¬
more urged himself to say. “ I think it’s only
well you shouldn’t be—that is, that it’s not
right you should be—as D.C. you should
know everything and not be kept in the

3 12

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

dark. You see that Sugden and — and I,
and H alii well-”

Then he told the Deputy-Commissioner
the whole yarn. jy

It is not improbable the D.C. really enjoyed
the joke. But he was an official, and he had
sufficient appreciation of his official dignity
not to parade his enjoyment.

“It had better be stopped at once,” was
the curt way he gave his decision.

Wigmore and Sugden were deputed to
hurry off to the masquerading Forests
officer, and stop his fooling. For the mo¬
ment, at any rate, appearances had to be
kept up that the new Buddha was a dan¬
gerous impostor. So Wigmore went because
he was Lieutenant of the Military Police,
and Sugden went because it was known he
could talk all the strange tongues from Tibet
to Siam.

Certainly they were loth to go. Their
great joke was about to end in a fizzle.
Besides, the laugh was against them. Halli-
well would always have the telling of the
story. And it isn’t pleasant to twist un¬
comfortably in a chair while another man
is telling a yarn against you.

The rains were still holding off. Upper
Burma was quivering with the heat, and the
swampy jungles oozed stifling and sickly
odours. The little mounds were parched
dun. The tall, sword - like jungle grass
withered and split and drooped from lack
of sap. The ground caked and foot-wide
gaps yawned. The tremendous heat made all
distant objects seem to shake as though
reflected in a quivering mirror.

Wigmore swore.

Sugden swore also.

They were upon a pair of rough, shaggy
nags.

“ Anyway,” said the interpreter to the
D.C., “if old Hal, the ruffian, hasn’t finished
all the champagne, I’m going to crack a
couple of bottles to my own cheek. Why
the hangment didn’t the D.C. get a note
sent up to Halliwell instead of us trapesing
off goodness knows where ? ”

“ A sort of punishment, I reckon,” ventured
Wigmore.

“Punishment be hanged. Lord, isn’t it
hot ? ”

The ponies plunged and stumbled over the
uneven ground. And at every plunge and
every stumble the two men groaned. Occa¬
sionally they cursed.

Suddenly the sharp thud of a tabor was
heard. They swung along the narrow path

that cut through the forest, and ropes of
giant creepers swayed above them, and once
or twice nearly unhorsed them. Presently
shrill pipes joined with the clatter of the
tabor ; and then came gusts of song, the
clapping of hands, and tinkling laughter.

Bursting through the foliage the two men
drew rein. For the sight was a strange one.
The village was farther up the valley, but
here was the temple, a wide building, with
broad, shadowy eaves, the balustrades curved
grotesquely and painted red. Two writhing
monsters with long fangs glared by the
entrance. The pagoda was five-storied, each
story lapping over the other like a pile of
ornamented silk hats. A hundred little bells
jangled.

On the ground in front sat a merry throng
of Burmese. Their mats were spread, and
they were making holiday. The men’s
gorgeous hi 71-gees, or skirts, were a blaze of
colour, and above their brown faces, encir¬
cling their heads, were even more gorgeous
handkerchiefs. The girls were as merry and
as frolicsome as Burmese girls always are.
Their little skirts were tied tight about their
hips, but their green and yellow and purple
waistcoats were loose, and their little under¬
vests were of dazzling wffiiteness. Jade beads
entwined their necks, and gold bangles
clattered on their wrists. The hair of every
girl was greasy and glossy, and in the folds
was always a bright-tinted flow r er. Every¬
body smoked cheroots—big, cumbersome
things, much like a maize cob before being
stripped of its leaves.

A pwe was in progress. A pivc is a native
entertainment, generally of dancing. A score
of long, slim Burmese girls, graceful limbed,
were slowly gyrating through the intricacies
of a posture dance. Their attire w 7 as gaudy,
even fantastic, and every figure swung at the
beat of the tabor and in unison to the
piercing squeal of the pipes.

A double row 7 of priests, shaven-headed,
with yellow 7 robes about their shoulders,
squatted on either side of the dancers.

It w 7 as a picturesque scene. The quaint,
carved temple with the writhing dragons, the
smooth gliding dancers, butterfly clad, the
dun-vestured and tonsured pongyees , the
sprawling throng of holiday-making Burmese,
and behind, the tall thick jungle : that was
the sight that struck the two Britishers at
first glance.

“ I’ll be jiggered ! ” said Wigmore, deter¬
minedly.

“ And I! ” added Sugden.

“ Look at him ; look at the old reprobate.

AN AMATEUR BUDDHA

3i3

Well, if that doesn’t lick cock-fighting, may I
never see Ranjcon again.”

Beneath the darkened eave of the temple
sat Halliwell. There was no doubt it was
Halliwell, despite he had stained his face till

he was like a mulatto. A green scarf was
round his head ; a loose, green silk jacket,
gold-embroidered, hung upon his shoulder.
His I un-gee was the variegated hue of a
Neapolitan ice-cream.

“And that’s Miss Sunshine, is it? ” Sugden
said, in a sort of half-whisper. “ Well, Halli¬
well has got taste; yes, he’s got taste ; more
taste than I thought a bald-headed old sinner
like him ever could have.”

By Halliwell’s side was sitting a pleasant-
featured little Burmese lass, daintily dressed
and with smiling eyes, which she frequently
raised towards the flabby face of the English
impostor.

Wigmore turned in his saddle to Sugden.
“ I’m going to smash the whole show
up right away,” he exclaimed. “ Come
on ! ”

He dug his spurs into the pony. With a
bound it dashed right among the merry¬
makers. Podgy Burmese rolled on the
ground, and all the Mah-me’s and Mah-To’s
and other maidens screamed. The priests
jumped to their feet. One dashed into the
temple and belaboured a gong.

For two minutes there was scampering
confusion. A grin broke from the lips of
the amateur Buddha, and began to crawl
up both cheeks. But he put his hand on

Yol, xviii.--4Q,

the long, neat arm of the affrighted girl by
his side, and whispered to her.

The two ponies, a little frisky from the
din that was going on, were restless.

Halliwell rose with mock dignity.

“ W hat the
dickens brings you
chaps ? ” he bawl¬
ed, pompously, in
English, as though
he were saying,

“ Begone, ye ac-
cursed of the
earth ! ”

“It’s all up,”
yelled Wigmore
back, trying with
difficulty to keep
his pony still.

“ The D.C. knows
all about this busi¬
ness ; he’s in a
brute of a rage,
and is going to
report it to Ran¬
goon if it’s not
stopped at once.”

Halliwell kept
up his defiant atti¬
tude, but he said, “Not one of them knows a
word of English, so it’s all right. My Bur¬
mese is a bit shaky; but I explained, as I
had just come from Heaven, I hadn’t got
quite accustomed to the language of mortals.
However, I’ve got on all right—oh, indeed,
I’ve got on splendidly.”

“You look it,” roared Wigmore. “Con¬
found this pony ! Do, for goodness sake,
tell that old fellow to stop banging the gong.”

The Burmese, seeing their new Buddha
was boldly speaking to the strangers in their
own tongue, began cautiously to crawl back.

Halliwell addressed them in Burmese, a
little haltingly, it is true, but he made him¬
self understood. “My people,” he said,
“ these two lords are strangers from over the
ocean. Already the wonders I have achieved
are known the wide world over. These lords
are deputed by their king to bring me his
gracious request that I go to his land and
teach his people the new joys. For I am a
great god, and when I come back to this
land of the beautiful, then in the full moon
will I be wedded to Miss Sunshine here, and
I will bring with me many of the mysteries in
tin boxes I have already shown you, and many
of the bottles of the sparkling water that
makes even a poiigyee laugh.”

Sugden was laughing at that moment.

“ WELL, IF THAT DOESN’T LICK COCK-FIGHTING.”

3i4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

For Sugden knew Burmese as the natives
knew it, and he found Halliwell’s splutterings
amusing.

“To-night,” Halliwell struggled on, “when
the sun sinks and all is dark, then will I put
on my robe of light, and to-morrow I will
be with the people of these two lords. But
let us show them courtesy, the courtesy of
Burma. Let the five continue.”

They had a merry alfresco meal. Miss
Sunshine blushed and laughed.

When, however, Sugden began to pay her
compliments in Burmese, the amateur
Buddha became jealous.

The native musicians tootled and banged
and sang, the girls danced and swayed their
symmetrical figures, laughter once more
filled the air, and the puffing of whacking big
cheroots was greater
than before.

That night three
strange figures crawled
through the jungle.
They all sat unsteadily
on their ponies, and
one figure gave off
gusts of blue smoke
and smelt nastily of
sulphur.

Perhaps it was
three in the morning
when Mrs. Doug¬
las, the wife of
the Deputy-Com¬
missioner, was
awakened by a
noise outside the
bungalow.

She peeped out
carefully.

“ I know it—I

“THE.LIEUTENANT OF THE MILITARY 1 * ^ Jf.

POLICE AND THE INTERPRETER TO U1U KI1UW 11

THE D.C. DRANK LONG AND SLOWLY.” better’ 11 yOU.

Itsh :—

Sugden and Wigmore got off their ponies
and climbed up the steps and sat down by
the side of the amateur Buddha. Miss
Sunshine was shy.

Halliwell clapped his hands. The dancing
re-commenced. Then the wily Madrasee
once more crawled out from the shadow of
the far inner temple. And he carried a bottle
with a golden neck in each hand.

Pop !

The lieutenant of the Military Police and
the interpreter to the D.C. drank long and
slowly, and then they drew long breaths.

“ Welt, Halliwell, you’ve been going it,”
said Wigmore.

“ Have some of this fate de fois gras,” said
the amateur Buddha.

“ You thief! ” exclaimed Sugden.

“ Shipsh me somewheres easht of Sue—k,

Where a mansh can raise a—a thirsh,

Wheresh there ain’t—ain’t no ten command men—lc,
An’ the besh is like the wush.”

“Why,” said Mrs. Douglas, softly to the
D.C., “ I believe that’s Mr. Halliwell down
there. And—and I really do think he’s
drunk. He’s been out in the jungle, hasn’t
he?”

“Yes,” grunted the D.C., from the bed¬
clothes.

The three men staggered through the
moonlight.

“ Qui hi l” they shouted.

The Madrasee slipped out like a cat.

“ Whisky-loa and soda-loa and geldi (hurry
up).”

“ Yes, sahibs ! ”

Water Polo.

By Albert H. Broad well.
Photos, specially taken by A. /. Johnson.

THE CYGNUS POLO TEAM.

EVEN minutes each way, or
fourteen minutes with three
minutes’ interval at half-time,
is the
total
dura¬
tion of a water polo
match. Short
though the allotted
time may seem, the
excitement is fast
and furious, and so
is the swimming.

The Cygnus
Swimming Club of
Tunbridge Wells,
captained by Mr.

W. Tyrrell Biggs,
who also acts as
hon. secretary, owns
one of the finest
open-air baths in
the kingdom, and
it was through the
kindness of Mr.

Biggs and the
other members of
the Cygnus team
that we were en¬
abled to obtain the

LINING UP.”

wonderful snap - shots repro¬
duced herewith — a series
which gives an excellent idea
of the game wherever played,
as the rules of different clubs
do not differ materially.

The members of the
“ Cygnus,” according to rules,
number seven ; we reproduce
a group of the team, with Mr.
Biggs in the centre.

The game as a whole is not
unlike a football match. The
“kicking” is done with the
fist, and speed in swim¬
ming is essential. The goal¬
posts are ioft. apart, the
cross - bar being about 3 ft.
above the water. There are
a referee, who stands on shore
midway between the goals,
and two goal - scorers, who
stand one at each end of the “ field.” In
the picture below the players are shown in
the act of “ lining up ” preparatory to a start.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

16

Look at the picture entitled “Go,” and
here you have one of the most important
moves in the game. The snap-shot was
taken a few seconds after the referee had
thrown the ball into the centre of the
field, shouting “ Go.” It shows the whole

by obtaining the ball first. It may be seen
floating between the first and second
man on the left-hand side of the picture.
The following illustration shows that it
has been reached, and is being “ dribbled ”
towards the opponents’ goal.

“nearing the goal.”

of one side and two of the opposing side In “Nearing the Goal” the head of the ever-
nearing the ball at top speed. watchful goal-keeper can be seen, photo-

Who will reach it first ? The tension is graphed as it was bobbing up and down like
great—for an advantage may readily be gained a cork between the goal-posts. Will a

IVA TER POLO.

3 1 7

THE GOAL-KEEPER IS WELL OUT OF THE WATER.”

dexterous blow send the ball flying through
his posts, or will he be able to parry in time ?
The next picture shows that he need not fear;
the ball is being “ dribbled ” over to the other
side, and then has reached the opposing goal,
where the fight is of a most exciting nature.
The goal-keeper is well out of the water; he

cannot afford to
lose sight of the
ball for a moment;
a hit—whizz—and
up goes the ball—
bang — and it is
parried with won¬
derful accuracy
right over the
heads of the com¬
batants towards
the middle of the
“field”; there it
is caught again
and brought back;
whizz again and,
hurrah ! the parry
comes too late;
the goal - keeper’s
arm has failed
him, it falls back
as though ashamed of itself, and a goal
is scored.

We would call special attention to this
particular illustration : the ball can be seen
actually flying through the goal-posts — a
piece of snap-shotting which does consider¬
able credit to the man with the camera.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

3i8

It may not be uninteresting to quote here
one or two of the more important rules of
the game. For
instance, as re¬
gards starting,
we note that
very specified
arrangements are
forth com i n g,
namely : “ The

players shall
enter the water
and place them¬
selves in a line
with their re¬
spective goals.

The referee shall
stand in a line
with the centre
of the course,
and h avin g
ascertained that the captains are ready,
shall give the word ‘go/ and immediately
throw the ball into the water at the
centre. A goal shall not be scored after
starting or re-starting until a ball has
been handled by an opposing player or
by a player on the same side, who shall
be within half distance of the goal at¬

been scored, the time from the scoring of
the goal to the re-starting of the game, or

time occupied
by disputes or
fouls, shall not
be reckoned as
in the time of
play,” which ex¬
cellent provision
therefore insures
a full fourteen
minutes’ play.

Now let us
return to the
match :—

“ Half-time ”
says the referee’s
whistle. Our
heroes may
rest for three
minutes if they
choose'; they are eager for a fresh start, how¬
ever,and we witness some exciting scrimmages.
Look at the three pretty snap-shots taken
whilst the fight for the coveted possession of
the ball was strongest. It is almost im¬
possible to follow the bobbing thing as it is
submerged, caught, snatched away, and sub¬
merged again. But the camera’s eye is
quicker than the
spectator’s; it gives
undeniable proof
of excitement and
hard work.

The illustration
on the next page
shows a splendid
“ pass ” from one
player to another of
his own side in the
distance. Here

A SCKI MM AGE.

tacked; the ball
must be handled
by more than
one player before
a goal can be
scored.” As will
be perceived
from the above,
the rules in water

polo are as stringent as those in football
pr cricket. Furthermore, “ when a goal has

MORE SCRIMMAGES.

again the ball is caught by the camera
in mid-air not more than a second after it

WATER FOLO.

3 T 9

had left the fist which has sent it on its
errand of victory.

It may here be added that the ball is an
ordinary “ Association ” ball. The rule
says : “ The ball should be waterproof, with

are the boundary posts; they are used to
mark the half-way line and also the penalty
lines on the sides of the field.

“ Should a player send the ball out of the
field of play at either side, it shall be thrown

no strapped seams outside, and no grease or
other objectionable substance on the sur¬
face ”; while another interesting rule says :
“ In baths, no grease, oil, or other objec¬
tionable substance shall be rubbed on the
body.”

In the picture entitled “A Long Throw

in any direction from where it went out
by one of the opposing side, and shall be
considered a free throw,” says the “ Out
of Play ” rule, and there is no doubt
that this provision is a very useful one;
the field of play being necessarily some¬
what limited, the case of the ball getting

“a long throw from a scrimmage.”

from a Scrimmage ” the right arm of the
player in the centre may be distinctly seen
fully stretched out after the blow. The posts,
which are shown standing out of the water,

outside the proper boundaries becomes a
somewhat frequent occurrence.

The illustration on the next page, justly
entitled “ A Grand Throw,” gives an excellent

3 2 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

idea of the whole bath, and, consequently, of
the “field of play” also. The throw, which is a
magnificent one, was, however, of no avail.
In the photograph the ball is shown in mid¬
air in the act of passing over the goal-posts
of the opposing side, and as the rule says that
“ a goal shall be scored by the entire ball
passing beyond the goal-posts and under
the cross - bar,”
this pretty piece
of work is use¬
less, save for the
wild enthusiasm
and applause of
the excited spec¬
tators.

We now come
to an amusing
little picture
which illustrates
a “ foul.” The
playfulness

and good humour of the combatants were
shown repeatedly throughout the match.
We cannot say that we have ever seen the
slightest inclination to roughness or ill-feeling,
though the little episode shown here is not of
the mildest kind imaginable. There are really
two players at work here, but, alas! one of them
has to be kept out of harm’s way until the ball

is rescued by a
third man, com¬
ing on at full
speed, but not
shown in the pic¬
ture. The success¬
ful party seems
highly amused at
his exploit; a
happy smile indi¬
cates his feelings.
Does the other
man smile too?
We doubt it.

Hilda Wade.

By Grant Allen.

VII.—THE EPISODE OF THE STONE THAT LOOKED ABOUT IT.

ILDA took me back with her
to the embryo farm where she
had pitched her tent for the
moment : a rough, wild place :
it lay close to the main road
from Salisbury to Chimoio.

Setting aside the inevitable rawness and
newness of all things Rhodesian, however,
the situation itself was not wholly un-
picturesque. A ramping rock or tor of
granite, which I should judge at a rough
guess to extend to an acre in size, sprang
abruptly from the brown grass of the upland
plain. It rose like a huge boulder. Its
summit was crowned by the covered grave of
some old Kaffir chief—a rude cairn of big
stones under a thatched awning. At the
foot of this jagged and cleft rock the farm¬
house nestled — four square w&lls of
wattle-and-daub, sheltered by its mass
from the sweeping winds of the South
African plateau. A stream brought
water from a spring close by : in front
of the house—rare sight in that thirsty
land—spread a garden of flowers. It
was an oasis in the desert. But the
desert itself stretched grimly all round :

I could never quite decide how far
the oasis was caused by the water from
the spring, and how far by Hilda’s
presence.

“ Then you live here ? ” I cried,
gazing round — my voice, I suppose,
betraying my latent sense of the un¬
worthiness of the position.

“ For the present,” Hilda answered,
smiling. “You know, Hubert, I have no
abiding city anywhere, till my Purpose is
fulfilled. I came here because Rhodesia
seemed the furthest spot of earth where
a white woman just now could safely
penetrate—in order to get away from
you and Sebastian.”

“That is an unkind conjunction!”

I exclaimed, reddening.

“ But I mean it,” she answered, with
a wayward little nod. “ I wanted
breathing-space to form fresh plans. I
wanted to get clear away for a time
from all who knew me. And this

Vol. xviii.— 41.

promised best. ... But nowadays, really,
one is never safe from intrusion anywhere.”
“You are cruel, Hilda ! ”

“Oh, no. You deserve it. I asked you
not to come—and you came in spite of
me. I have treated you very nicely under
the circumstances, I think. I have behaved
like an angel. The question is now, what
ought I to do next ? You have upset my
plans so.”

“ Upset your plans ? How ? ”

“ Dear Hubert ”—she turned to me with
an indulgent smile—“ for a clever man, you
are really too foolish ! Can’t you see that
you have betrayed my whereabouts to
Sebastian ? I crept away secretly, like a
thief in the night, giving no name or place ;
and, having the world to ransack, he might

3 22

THE STEAJVE MAGAZINE .

have found it hard to track me ; for he had
not your clue of the Basingstoke letter—nor
your reason for seeking me. But now that
you have followed me openly, with your
name blazoned forth in the company’s
passenger-lists, and your traces left plain in
hotels and stages across the map of South
Africa—why, the spoor is easy. If Sebastian
cares to find us, he can follow the scent all
through without trouble.”

“ I never thought of that ! ” I cried,
aghast.

She was forbearance itself. “No, I knew,
you would never think of it. You are a man,
you see. I counted that in. I was afraid
from the first you would wreck all by follow¬
ing me.”

I was mutely penitent. “And yet, you
forgive me, Hilda ! ”

Her eyes beamed tenderness. “To know
all, is to forgive all,” she answered. “ I have
to remind you of that so often ! How can
I help forgiving, when I know why you came
—what spur it was that drove you ? But it
is the future we have to think of now, not
the past. And I must wait and reflect. I
have no plan just at present.”

“What are you doing at this farm?” I
gazed round at it, dissatisfied.

“ I board here,” Hilda answered, amused
at my crestfallen face. “ But, of course, I
cannot be idle; so I have found work to do.
I ride out on my bicycle to two or three
isolated houses about,* and give lessons to
children in this desolate place, who would
otherwise grow up ignorant. It fills my time,
and supplies me with something besides
myself to think about.”

“ And what am / to do ? ” I cried,
oppressed with a sudden sense of helpless¬
ness.

She laughed at me outright. “And is
this the first moment that that difficulty has
occurred to you ? ” she asked, gaily. “You
have hurried all the way from London to
Rhodesia without the slightest idea of what
you mean to do now you have got there ? ”

I laughed at myself in turn. “ Upon my
word, Hilda,” I cried, “ I set out to find you.
Beyond the desire to find you, I had no plan
in my head. That was an end in itself. My
thoughts went no further.”

She gazed at me half saucily. “ Then
don’t you think, sir, the best thing you can
do, now you have found me, is—to turn back
and go home again ? ”

“ I am a man,” I said, promptly, taking a
firm stand. “And you are a judge of
character. If you really mean to tell me you

think that likely—well, I shall have a lower
opinion of your insight into men than I have
been accustomed to harbour.”

Her smile was not wholly without a touch
of triumph.

“In that case,” she went on, “I suppose
the only alternative is for you to remain
here.”

“That would appear to be logic,” I replied.

“ But what can I do ? Set up in practice ? ”

“ I don’t see much opening,” she answered.
“If you ask my advice, I should say there is
only one thing to be done in Rhodesia just
now—turn farmer.”

“ It is done,” I answered, with my usual
impetuosity. “ Since you say the word, 1 am
a farmer already. I feel an interest in oats
that is simply absorbing. What steps ought
I to take first in my present condition ? ”

She looked at me, all brown with the dust
of my long ride. “ I would suggest,” she
said, slowly, “ a good wash, and some
dinner.”

“ Hilda,” I cried, .surveying my boots, or
what was visible of them, “ that is really
clever of you. A wash and some dinner!
So practical, so timely ! The very thing !

I will see to it.”

Before night fell I had arranged every¬
thing. I was to buy the next farm from the
owner of the one where Hilda lodged : I was
also to learn the rudiments of South African
agriculture from him for a valuable considera¬
tion : and I was to lodge in his house while
my own was building. He gave me his views
on the cultivation of oats. He gave them at
some length—more length than perspicuity.
I knew nothing about oats, save that they
were employed in the manufacture of porridge
—which I detest: but I was to be near
Hilda once more, and I was prepared to
undertake the superintendence of the oat
from its birth to its reaping, if only I might
be allowed to live so close to Hilda.

The farmer and his wife were Boers, but
they spoke English. Mr. Jan Willem Ivlaas
himself was a fine specimen of the breed—
tall, erect, broad-shouldered, and genial.
Mrs. Klaas, his wife, was mainly suggestive,
in mind and person, of suet-pudding. There
was one prattling little girl of three years old,
by name Sannie, a most engaging child ; and
also a chubby baby.

“You are betrothed, of course?” Mrs.
Klaas said to Hilda before me, with the
curious tactlessness of her race, when we
made our first arrangement.

Hilda’s face flushed. “No; we are
nothing to one another,” she answered—

HILDA WADE.

323

which was only true formally. “ Dr. Cum-
berledge had a post at the same hospital in
London where I was a nurse ; and he thought
he would like to try Rhodesia. That is all.”

Mrs. Klaas gazed from one to other of us
suspiciously. “You English are strange!”
she answered, with a complacent little shrug.
“But there—from Europe! Your ways, we
know, are different.”

Hilda did not attempt to explain. It
would have been impossible to make the
good soul understand. Her horizon was so
simple. She was a harmless housewife, given
mostly to dyspepsia and the care of her
little ones. Hilda had won her heart by
unfeigned admiration for the chubby baby.
To a mother that covers a multitude of
eccentricities, such as one expects to find in
incomprehensible English. Mrs. Klaas put
up with me because she liked Hilda.

We spent some months together on Klaas’s
farm. It was a dreary place, save for Hilda.
The bare daub-and-wattle walls ; the clumps
of misshapen and dusty prickly-pears that
girt round the thatched huts of the Kaffir
workpeople; the stone-penned sheep-kraals
and the corrugated iron roof of the bald
stable for the waggon-oxen—all was as crude
and ugly as a new country can make things.
It seemed to me a desecration that Hilda
should live in such an unfinished land —
Hilda whom I imagined as moving by

nature through broad English parks, with
Elizabethan cottages and immemorial oaks—
Hilda whose proper atmosphere seemed to
be one of coffee-coloured laces, ivy-clad
abbeys, lichen - incrusted walls, all that is
beautiful and gracious in time - honoured
civilizations.

Nevertheless, we lived
on there in a meaningless
sort of way — I hardly
knew why. To me it was
a puzzle. When I asked
Hilda, she shook her head
with her sibylline air and
answered, confidently,
“ You do not understand
Sebastian as well as I do.
We have to wait for him.
The next move is his. Till
he plays his piece, I cannot
tell how I may have to
checkmate him.”

So we waited for Sebas¬
tian to advance a pawn.
Meanwhile, I toyed with
South African farming—
not very successfully, I
must admit. Nature did
not design me for growing
oats. I am no judge of
oxen, and my views on
the feeding of Kaffir sheep raised broad
smiles on the black faces of my Mashona
labourers.

I still lodged at Tant Mettie’s, as every¬
body called Mrs. Klaas: she was courtesy
aunt to the community at large, while Oom
Jan Willem was its courtesy uncle. They
were simple homely folk, who lived up to
their religious principles on an unvaried diet
of stewed ox-beef and bread : they suffered
much from chronic dyspepsia, due in part at
least, no doubt, to the monotony of their
food, their life, their interests. One could
hardly believe one was still in the nineteenth
century: these people had the calm, the
local seclusion of the prehistoric epoch.
For them, Europe did not exist: they knew
it merely as a place where settlers came from.
What the Czar intended, what the Kaiser
designed, never disturbed their rest. A sick
ox, a rattling tile on the roof, meant more to
their lives than war in Europe. The one
break in the sameness of their daily routine
was family prayers : the one weekly event,
going to church at Salisbury. Still, they had
a single enthusiasm. Like everybody else
for fifty miles around, they believed profoundly
in “the future of Rhodesia.” When I gazed

“he gave me his views on the cultivation of oats."

324

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

about me at the raw new land—the weary
flat of red soil and brown grasses—I felt at
least that, with a present like that, it had need
of a future.

I am not by disposition a pioneer: I

them to me, please, when Tant Mettie isn’t
looking.” His nod was all mystery.

“You may rely on my discretion,” I re¬
plied, throwing the time-honoured prejudices
of the profession to the winds, and well

“ I GAZED ABOUT ME AT THE RAW NEW LAND.”

belong instinctively to the old civilizations.
In the midst of rudimentary towns and
incipient fields, I yearn for grey houses, a
Norman church, an English thatched cottage.

However, for Hilda’s sake I braved it out,
and continued to learn the A B C of agricul¬
ture on an unmade farm with great assiduity
from Oom Jan Willem.

We had been stopping some months at
Klaas’s together when business compelled
me one day to ride into Salisbury. I had
ordered some goods for my farm from
England, which had at last arrived. I had
now to arrange for their conveyance from
the town to my plot of land—a portentous
matter. Just as I was on the point of
leaving Klaas’s, and was tightening the saddle-
girth on my sturdy little pony, Oom Jan
Willem himself sidled up to me with a
mysterious air, his broad face all wrinkled
with anticipatory pleasure. He placed a
sixpence in my palm, glancing about him
on every side as he did so, like a con¬
spirator.

“ What am I to buy with it ? ” I asked,
much puzzled, and suspecting tobacco.
Tant Mettie declared he smoked too much
for a church elder.

He put his finger to his lips, nodded, and
peered round. “ Lollipops for Sannie,” he
whispered low, at last, with a guilty smile.
“ But he glanced about him again—“ give

pleased to aid and abet the simple-minded
soul in his nefarious designs against little
Sannie’s digestive apparatus.

He patted me on the back. “ Peppermint
lollipops, mind ! ” he went on in the same
solemn undertone. “ Sannie likes them best
peppermint.”

I put my foot in the stirrup, and vaulted
into my saddle. “They shall not be for¬
gotten,” I answered, with a quiet smile at
this pretty little evidence of fatherly feeling.

I rode off. It was early morning, before
the heat of the day began. Hilda accom¬
panied me part of the way on her bicycle.
She was going to the other young farm, some
eight miles off, across the red-brown plateau,
where she gave lessons daily to the ten-year-
old daughter of an English settler. It was a
labour of love, for settlers in Rhodesia
cannot afford to pay for what are beautifully
described as “ finishing governesses ” ; but
Hilda was of the sort who cannot eat the
bread of idleness. She had to justify herself
to her kind by finding some work to do
which should vindicate her existence.

I parted from her at a point on the
monotonous plain where one rubbly road
branched off from another. Then I jogged
on in the full morning sun over that scorch¬
ing plain of loose red sand all the way to
Salisbury. Not a green leaf or a fresh flower
anywhere. The eye ached at the hot glare

HILDA WADE .

325

of the reflected sunlight from the sandy
level.

My business detained me most of the day
in the half-built town, with its flaunting
stores and its rough new offices; it was not
till towards afternoon that I could get away
again on my sorrel, across the blazing plain
once more to Klaas’s.

I moved on over the plateau at an easy
trot, full of thoughts of Hilda. What could
be the step she expected Sebastian to take
next ? She did not know, herself, she had
told me : there, her faculty failed her. But
some step he would take : and till he took it,
she must rest and be watchful.

I passed the great tree that stands up like
an obelisk in the midst of the plain beyond
the deserted Matabele village. I passed the
low clumps of dry karroo-bushes by the
rocky kopje. I passed the turning of the
rubbly roads where I had parted from Hilda.
At last I reached the long, rolling ridge
which looks down upon Klaas’s, and could
see in the slant sunlight the mud farmhouse
and the corrugated iron roof where the oxen
were stabled.

The place looked more deserted, more
dead-alive than ever. Not a black boy
moved in it. Even the cattle and Kaffir
sheep were nowhere to be seen. . . . But,
then, it was always quiet : and perhaps I
noticed the obtrusive air of solitude and
sleepiness even more
than usual, because
I had just returned
from Salisbury. All
things are compara¬
tive. After the lost
loneliness of Klaas’s
farm, even brand-new
Salisbury seemed
busy and bustling.

I hurried on, ill at
ease. But Tant
Mettie would, doubt¬
less, have a cup of
tea ready for me
as soon as I arrived,
and Hilda would be
waiting at the gate
to welcome me.

I reached the
stone inclosure and
passed up through
the flower-garden.

To my great sur¬
prise, Hilda was
not there. As a
rule, she came to

meet me with her sunny smile. But perhaps
she was tired, or the sun on the road
might have given her a headache. I dis¬
mounted from my mare, and called one of
the Kaffir boys to take her to the stable.
Nobody answered. . . . I called again. Still
silence. ... I tied her up to the post, and
strode over to the door, astonished at the
solitude. I began to feel there was some¬
thing weird and uncanny about this home¬
coming. Never before had I known Klaas’s
so entirely deserted.

I lifted the latch and opened the door.
It gave access at once to the single plain
living-room. There, all was huddled. For
a moment my eyes hardly took in the truth.
There are sights so sickening that the brain
at the first shock wholly fails to realize them.

On the stone slab floor of the low living-
room Tant Mettie lay dead. Her body was
pierced through by innumerable thrusts,
which I somehow instinctively recognised as
assegai wounds. By her side lay Sannie, the
little prattling girl of three, my constant play¬
mate, whom I had instructed in cat’s cradle
and taught the tales of Cinderella and Red
Riding Hood. My hand grasped the lolli¬
pops in my pocket convulsively. She would
never need them. Nobody else was about.
What had become of Oom Jan Willem—and
the baby?

I wandered out into the yard, sick with
the sight I had already seen.
There Oom Jan Willem him¬
self lay stretched at full
length: a
bullet had
pierced his
left temple:
his body was
also riddled
through with
assegai
thrusts.

“OOM JAN WILLEM LAY STRETCHED AT FULL LENGTH.”

3 2 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

I saw at once what this meant. A rising
of the Matabele !

I had come back from Salisbury, unknow¬
ing it, into the midst of a revolt of blood¬
thirsty savages.

Yet, even if I had known, I must still
have hurried home with all speed to Klaas’s
—to protect Hilda.

Hilda? Where was Hilda? A breathless
sinking crept over me.

I staggered out into the
open. It was impossible to
say what horror might not
have happened. The Mata¬
bele might even now be
lurking about the kraal
—for the bodies were
hardly cold. But
Hilda? Hilda? What¬
ever came, I must
find Hilda.

Fortunately, I had
my loaded revolver
in my belt. Though
we had not in the
least anticipated this
sudden revolt — it
broke like a
thunder-clap from
a clear sky—the
unsettled state of
the country made
even women go
armed about their
daily avocations.

I strode on,
half maddened.

Beside the great
block of granite
which sheltered
the farm there
rose one of those
rocky little hil¬
locks of loose
boulders which
are locally known
in South Africa by
the Dutch name
of kopjes. I

looked out upon it drearily. Its round brown
ironstones lay piled irregularly together,
almost as if placed there in some earlier
age by the mighty hands of prehistoric giants.
My gaze on it was blank. I was thinking,
not of it but of Hilda, Hilda.

I called the name aloud : “ Hilda ! Hilda!
Hilda ! ”

As I called, to my immense surprise, one
of the smooth round boulders on the hillside

seemed slowly to uncurl, and to peer about
it cautiously. Then it raised itself in the
slant sunlight, put a hand to its eyes, and
gazed out upon me with a human face for a
moment. After that it descended, step by
step, among the other stones, with a white
object in its arms. As the boulder uncurled
and came to life, I was aware, by degrees
.... yes, yes, it was Hilda, with Tant

Mettie's baby !

In the fierce
joy of that dis¬
covery I rushed
forward to her,
trembling, and
clasped her in my
arms. I could
find no words but
“ Hilda ! Hilda ! ”
“Are they
gone ? ” she asked,
staring about her
with a terrified
air, though still
strangely preserv¬
ing her wonted
composure of
manner.

“Who gone?
The Matabele ? ”

“ Yes, yes ! ”

“ Did you see
them, Hilda ? ”
“For a mo¬
ment—with black
shields and asse¬
gais, all shouting
madly. You have
been to the house,
Hubert ? You
know what has
happened ? ”

“ Yes, yes, I
know — a rising.
They have massa¬
cred the Klaases.”
She nodded.

IT WAS HILDA. WITH TANT METTIE’S BABY ! ”

“ I came back
on my bicycle,
and, when I opened the door, found Tant
Mettie and little Sannie dead. Poor,
sweet little Sannie ! Oom Jan was lying
shot in the yard outside. I saw the cradle
overturned, and looked under it for the baby.
They did not kill her—perhaps did not
notice her. I caught her up in my arms,
and rushed out to my machine, thinking to
make for Salisbury and give the alarm to the
men there. One must try to save others—

HILDA WADE,

3 2 7

and you were coming, Hubert! Then I
heard horses’ hoofs—the Matabele returning.
They dashed back, mounted—stolen horses
from other farms—they have taken poor Oom
Jan’s—and they have gone on, shouting, to
murder elsewhere! I flung down my
machine among the bushes as they came—I
hope they have not seen it: and I crouched
here between the boulders, with the baby in
my arms, trusting for protection to the
colour of my dress, which is just like the
ironstone.”

“ It is a perfect deception,” I answered,
admiring her instinctive cleverness even then.
“ I never so much as noticed you.”

“No, nor the Matabele
either, for all their sharp eyes.

They passed by without stop¬
ping. I clasped the baby hard,
and tried to keep it from crying
— if it had cried, all would
have been lost : but they
passed just below, and swept
on towards Rozenboom’s. I
lay still for a while, not
daring to look out: then
I raised myself warily and
tried to listen. Just at
that moment, I heard
a horse’s hoofs ring
out once more. I
couldn’t tell, of
course, whether it was
you returning, or one
of the Matabele, left
behind by the others.

So I crouched again.

. . . Thank God, you
are safe, Hubert! ”

All this took a
moment to say, or
was less said than

hinted. “Now, what must we do? ” I cried.
“ Bolt back again to Salisbury ? ”

“It is the only thing possible—if my
machine is unhurt. They may have taken
it . . . or ridden over and broken it.”

We went down to the spot, and picked it
up where it lay, half-concealed among the
brittle, dry scrub of milk-bushes. I examined
the bearings carefully; though there were
hoof-marks close by, it had received no hurt.
I blew up the tyre, which was somewhat
flabby, and went on to untie my sturdy pony.
The moment I looked at her, I saw the poor
little brute was wearied out with her two
long rides in the sweltering sun. Her flanks
quivered. “It is no use,” I cried, patting
her, as she turned to me with appealing eyes

that asked for water. “ She can't go back as
far as Salisbury, at least till she has had a
feed of corn and a drink. Even then, it will
be rough on her.”

“ Give her bread ! ” Hilda suggested.
“That will hearten her more than corn.
There is plenty in the house : Tant Mettie
baked this morning.”

I crept in reluctantly to fetch it. I also
brought out from the dresser a few raw eggs,
to break into a tumbler and swallow whole :
for Hilda and I needed food almost as sorely
as the poor beast herself. There was some¬
thing gruesome in thus rummaging about for
bread and meat in the dead woman’s cup¬

‘ THEY PASSED JUST BELOW.

board, while she herself lay there on the
floor: but one never realizes how one will
act in these great emergencies until they
come upon one. Hilda, still calm with un¬
earthly calmness, took a couple of loaves
from my hand and began feeding the pony
with them. “ Go and draw water for her,”
she said, simply, “while I give her the
bread : that will save time : every minute is
precious.”

I did as I was bid, not knowing each
moment but that the insurgents would
return. When I came back from the spring
with the bucket, the mare had demolished
the whole two loaves, and was going on
upon some grass which Hilda had plucked
for her.

328

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ She hasn’t had enough, poor dear,”
Hilda said, patting her neck. “ A couple of
loaves are penny buns to her appetite. Let
her drink the water, while I go in and fetch
out the rest of the baking.”

I hesitated. “You can't godn there again,
Hilda ! ” I cried. “ Wait and let me do it.”

Her white face was resolute. “ Yes, I
can” she answered. “ It is a work of neces¬
sity : and in works of necessity a woman, I
think, should flinch at nothing. Have I not
seen already every varied aspect of death at
Nathaniel’s ? ” And in she went, undaunted,
to that chamber of horrors, still
clasping the baby.

The pony made short wor
the remaining loaves,
which she devoured
with great zest. As
Hilda had predicted,
they seemed to hearten
her. The food and
drink, with a bucket of
water dashed on her
hoofs, gave her new
vigour like wine. We
gulped down our eggs
in silence. Then I
held Hilda’s bicycle.

She vaulted lightly on
to the seat, white and
tired as she was, with
the baby in her left
arm, and her right
hand on the handle¬
bar.

“ I must take the
baby,” I said.

She shook her head..

“Oh, no. I will not trust her to you.”

“ Hilda, I insist.”

“ And I insist too. It is my place to take
her.”

“ But can you ride so?” I asked,anxiously.

She began to pedal. “ Oh, dear, yes. It
is quite, quite easy. I shall get there all
right—if the Matabele don’t burst upon us.”

Tired as I was with my long day’s work, I
jumped into my saddle. I saw I should
only lose time if I disputed about the baby.
My little horse seemed to understand that
something grave had occurred, for, weary as
she must have been, she set out with a will
once more over that great red level. Hilda
pedalled bravely by my side. The road was
bumpy, but she was well accustomed to it.
I could have ridden faster than she went, for
the baby weighted her. Still, we rode for
dear life. It was a grim experience.

All round, by this tune, the horizon was
dim with clouds of black smoke which went
up from burning farms and plundered
homesteads. The smoke did not rise high :
it hung sullenly over the hot plain in
long smouldering masses, like the smoke of
steamers on foggy days in England. The
sun was nearing the horizon : his slant red
rays lighted up the red plain, the red sand,

HILDA PEDALLED BRAVELY BY MY SIDE.

the brown-red grasses, with a murky, spectral
glow of crimson. After those red pools of
blood, this universal burst of redness appalled
one. It seemed as though all nature had
conspired in one unholy league with the
Matabele. We rode on without a word.
The red sky grew redder.

“They may have sacked Salisbury!” I
exclaimed at last, looking out towards the
brand-new town.

“ I doubt it,” Hilda answered. Her very
doubt reassured me.

We began to mount a long slope. Hilda
pedalled with difficulty. Not a sound was
heard save the light fall of my pony’s feet on
the soft new road, and the shrill cry of the
cicalas. Then, suddenly, we started. What
was that noise in our rear? Once, twice, it
rang out. The loud ping of a rifle !

Looking behind us, we saw eight or ten

HILDA

WADE.

329

mounted Matabele ! Stalwart warriors they
were—half naked, and riding stolen horses.
They were coming our way ! They had seen
us ! They were pursuing us !

“ Put on all speed ! ” I cried, in my agony.
“ Hilda, can you manage it ? ”

She pedalled with a will. But as we
mounted the slope, I saw they were gaining
upon us. A few hundred yards were all our
start. They had the descent of the opposite
hill as yet in their favour.

One man, astride on a better horse than
the rest, galloped on in front and came
within range of us. He had a rifle in his
hand. He pointed it twice, and covered us.
But he did not shoot. Hilda gave a cry of
relief. “ Don’t you see ? ” she exclaimed.
“ItisOom Jan Willem’s rifle! That was
their last cartridge. They have no more
ammunition.”

I saw she was probably right : for Klaas
was out of cartridges, and was waiting for my
new stock to arrive from England. If that
were correct, they must get near enough to
attack us with assegais. They are more
dangerous so. I remembered what an old
Boer had said to me at Bulawayo: “ The
Zulu with his assegai is an enemy to be
feared : with a gun, he is a bungler.”

We pounded on up the hill. It was deadly
work with those brutes at our heels. The
child on Hilda’s arm was visibly wearying
her. It kept on whining. “ Hilda,” I cried,
‘that baby will lose your lifeJ You cannot
go on carrying it.”

She turned to me with a flash of her eyes.
“ What! you area man,” she broke out, “and
you ask a woman to save her life by abandon¬
ing a baby ! Hubert, you shame me ! ”

I felt she was right. If she had been
capable of giving it up, she would not have
been Hilda. There was but one other way
left.

“Then you must take the pony,” I called
out, “ and let me have the bicycle ! ”

“You couldn’t ride it,” she called back.
“It is a woman’s machine, remember.”

“Yes, I could,” I replied, without slowing.
“ It is not much too short: and I can bend
my knees a bit. Quick, quick ! No words !
Do as I tell you ! ”

She hesitated a second. The child’s
weight distressed her. “We should lose
time in changing,” she answered at last,
doubtful but still pedalling, though my hand
was on the rein, ready to pull up the pony.

“Not if we manage it right. Obey orders !
The moment I say ‘Halt,’ I shall slacken
my mare’s pace. When you see me leave the

Vol. xviii. —42.

saddle, jump off instantly, >ou, and mount
her! I will catch the machine before it falls.
Are you ready ? Halt, then ! ”

She obeyed the word without one second’s
delay. I slipped off, held the bridle, caught
the bicycle, and led it instantaneously. Then
I ran beside the pony—bridle in one hand,
machine in the other—till Hilda had sprung
* with a light bound into the stirrup. At that,
a little leap, and I mounted the bicycle. It
was all done nimbly in less time than the
telling takes, for we are both of us naturally
quick in our movements. Hilda rode like a
man, astride—her short bicycling skirt,
unobtrusively divided in front and at the
back, made this easily possible. Looking
behind me with a hasty glance, I could see
that the savages, taken aback, had reined in
to deliberate at our unwonted evolution. I
fed sure that the novelty of the iron horse,
with a woman riding it, played not a little on
their superstitious fears; they suspected, no
doubt, this was some ingenious new engine
of war devised against them by the un¬
accountable white man : it might go off un
expectedly in their faces at any moment.
Most of them, I observed as they halted,
carried on their backs black ox-hide shields,
interlaced with white thongs; they were
armed with two or three assegais apiece and
a knobkerry.

Instead of losing time by the change, as it
turned out, we had actually gained it. Hilda
was able to put on my sorrel to her full pace,
which I had not dared to do, for fear of out¬
running my companion ; the wise little beast,
for her part, seemed to rise to the occasion,
and to understand that we were pursued, for
she stepped out bravely. On the other hand,
in spite of the low seat and the short crank
of a woman’s machine, I could pedal up the
slope with more force than Hilda, for I am a
practised hill-climber : so that in both ways
we gained, besides having momentarily
disconcerted and checked the enemy. Their
ponies were tired, and they rode them full
tilt with savage recklessness, making them
canter up-hill, and so needlessly fatiguing
them. The Matabele, indeed, are unused to
horses, and manage them but ill. It is as
foot soldiers, creeping stealthily through bush
or long grass, that they are really formidable.
Only one of their mounts was tolerably fresh:
the one which had once already almost over¬
taken us. As we neared the top of the slope,
Hilda, glancing behind her, exclaimed, with
a sudden thrill, “ He is spurting again,
Hubert! ”

I drew my revolver and held it in my right

330

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

hand, using my left for steering. I did not
look back : time was far too precious. I set
my teeth hard. “ Tell me when he draws
near enough for a shot,” I said, quietly.

Hilda only nodded. Being mounted on
the mare, she could see behind her more
steadily now than I could from the machine;

spurred by necessity, I somehow did it. I
fired three shots in quick succession. My first
bullet missed : my second knocked the man
over: my third grazed the horse. . With a
ringing shriek, the Matabele fell in the road,
a black writhing mass; his horse, terrified,
dashed back with maddened snorts into the

WITH A RINGING SHRIEK, THE MATABELE FELL IN THE ROAD.”

and her eye was trustworthy. As for the
baby, rocked by the heave and fall of the
pony’s withers, it had fallen asleep placidly
in the very midst of this terror !

After a second I asked once more, with
bated breath, “ Is he gaining? ”

She looked back. “Yes: gaining.”

A pause. “ And now ? ”

“ Still gaining. He is poising an assegai.”
Ten seconds more passed in breathless
suspense. The thud of their horses’ hoofs
alone told me their nearness. My finger
was on the trigger. I awaited the word.
“ Fire ! ” she said at last, in a calm, unflinch¬
ing voice. “ He is well within distance.”

I turned half round and levelled as true
as I could at the advancing black man. He
rode nearly naked, showing all his teeth
and brandishing his assegai ; the long white
feathers stuck upright in his hair gave him a
wild and terrifying barbaric aspect. It was
difficult to preserve one’s balance, keep the
way on, and shoot, all at the same time ; but

midst of the others. Its plunging discon¬
certed the whole party for a minute.

We did not wait to see the rest. Taking
advantage of this momentary diversion in our
favour, we rode on at full speed to the top of
the slope—I never knew before how hard I
could pedal—and began to descend at a
dash into the opposite hollow.

The sun had set by this time. There is
no twilight in those latitudes. It grew dark
at once. We could see now in the plain all
round, where black clouds of smoke had
rolled before, one lurid red glare of burning
houses, mixed with a sullen haze of tawny
light from the columns of prairie fire kindled
by the insurgents.

We made our way still onward across the
open plain without one word towards Salis¬
bury. The mare was giving out. She strode
with a will: but her flanks were white with
froth : her breath came short: foam flew
from her nostrils.

As we mounted the next ridge, still dis

HILDA WADE.

-331

tancing our pursuers, I saw suddenly, on its
crest, defined against the livid red sky like a
silhouette, two more mounted black men !

“ It’s all up, Hilda! ” I cried, losing heart
at last. “ They are on both sides of us now !
The mare is spent: we are surrounded ! ”

She drew rein and gazed at them. For a
moment suspense spoke in all her attitude.
Then she burst into a sudden deep sigh of
relief. “No, no,” she cried; “these are
friendlies ! ”

“How do you know?” I gasped. But I
believed her.

“ They are looking out this way, with
hands shading their eyes against the red
glare. They are looking away from Salisbury,
in the direction of the attack. They are
expecting the enemy. They must be friend¬
lies !—See, see ! they have caught sight of
us ! ”

As she spoke, one of the men lifted his
rifle and half pointed it. “ Don’t shoot !
don’t shoot! ” I shrieked aloud. “ We are
English ! English ! ”

The men let their rifles drop and rode
down towards us. “ Who are you ? ” I cried.

They saluted us, military fashion. “ Mata-
bele police, sah,” the leader answered,
recognising me. “You are flying from
Klaas’s ? ”

“ Yes,” I answered. “ They have murdered
Klaas, with his wife and child. Some of
them are now following us.”

The spokesman was a well-educated Cape
Town negro. “All right, sah,” he answered.
“ I have forty men here right behind de
kopje. Let deni come ! We can give a
good account of deni. Ride on straight wit
de lady to Salisbury ! ”

“ The Salisbury people know of this rising,
then ? ” I asked.

“Yes, sah. Deni know since five o’clock.
Kaffir hoys from Klaas’s brought in de news :
and a white man escaped from Rozenboom’s
confirm it. We have pickets all round. You
is safe now : you can ride on into Salisbury
witout fear of de Matabele.”

I rode on, relieved. Mechanically, my
feet worked to and fro on the pedals. It was
a gentle down-gradient now towards the town;
I had no further need for special exertion.

Suddenly, Hilda’s voice came wafted to
me as through a mist. “ What are you doing,
Hubert ? You’ll be off in a minute ! ”

I started, and recovered my balance with
difficulty. Then I was aware at once that
one second before I had all but dropped
asleep, dog tired, on the bicycle. Worn out
with my long day and with the nervous

strain, I began to doze off, with my feet still
moving round and round automatically, the
moment the anxiety of the chase was re¬
lieved, and an easy down-grade gave me a
little respite.

I kept myself awake even then with diffi¬
culty. Riding on through the lurid gloom,
we reached Salisbury at last, and found the
town already crowded with refugees from the
plateau. However, we succeeded in securing
two rooms at a house in the long street, and
were soon sitting down to a much-needed
supper.

As we rested an hour or two later, in
the ill-furnished back-room, discussing this
sudden turn of affairs with our host and some
neighbours—for, of course, all Salisbury was
eager for news from the scene of the
massacres—I happened to raise my head,
and saw, to my great surprise .... a hag¬
gard white face peering in at us through the
window.

It peered round a corner, stealthily. It
was an ascetic face, very sharp and clear-cut.
It had a stately profile. The long and wiry
grizzled moustache, the deep-set, hawk-like
eyes, the acute, intense, intellectual features,
all were very familiar. So was the outer
setting of long, white hair, straight and
silvery as it fell, and just curled in one wave¬
like inward sweep where it turned and rested
on the stooping shoulders. But the expres¬
sion on the face was even stranger than the
sudden apparition. It was an expression
of keen and poignant disappointment—as of
a man whom fate has baulked of some well-
planned end, his due by right, which mere
chance has evaded.

“They say there’s a white man at the
bottom of all this trouble,” our host had been
remarking, one second earlier. “ The niggers
know too much: and where did they get
their rifles ? People at Rozenboom’s believe
some black-livered traitor has been stirring
up the Matabele for weeks and weeks. An
enemy of Rhodes’s, of course : jealous of
our advance : a French agent, perhaps : but
more likely one of these confounded Trans¬
vaal Dutchmen. Depend upon it, it’s
Kruger’s doing.”

As the words fell from his lips, I saw the
face. I gave a quick little start, then re¬
covered my composure.

But Hilda noted it. She looked up at me
hastily. She was sitting with her back to the
window, and therefore, of course, could not
see the face itself, which indeed was with¬
drawn with a hurried movement, yet with a
certain strange dignity, almost before I could

33 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ I SAW THE FACE.”

feel sure of having seen it. Still, she caught
my startled expression and the gleam of
surprise and recognition in my eye. She
laid one hand upon my arm. “ You have
seen him ?” she asked quietly, almost below
her breath.

“ Seen whom ? ”

“ Sebastian.”

It was useless denying it to her. “ Yes, I
have seen him,” I answered, in a confidential
aside.

“Just now—this moment—at the back of
the house—looking in at the window upon
us?”

“You are right—as always.”

She drew a deep breath. “ He has played
his game,” she said low to me, in an awed
undertone. “ I felt sure it was he. I
expected him to play; though what piece, I
knew not ; and when I saw those poor dead
souls, I was certain he had done it—indirectly
done it. The Matabele are his pawns. He
wanted to aim a blow at me; and this was
the way he chose to aim it.”

“ Do you think he is capable of that ? ” I
cried. For in spite of all, I had still a sort

of lingering
respect for Sebas¬
tian. “ It seems
so reckless—like
the worst of anar¬
chists — when he
strikes at one
head, to involve
so many irrelevant
lives in one com¬
mon destruction.”

Hilda’s face was
like a drowned
man’s.

“ To Sebastian,”
she answered,
shuddering, “ the
End is all : the
Means are un¬
essential. Who
wills the End, wills
the Means : that
is the sum and
substance of his
philosophy of life.
From first to last,
he has always acted up to it. Did I not tell
you once he was a snow-clad volcano ? ”

“ Still, I am loth to believe-” I cried.

She interrupted me calmly. “ I knew it,”
she said. “ I expected it. Beneath that
cold exterior, the fires of his life burn fiercely
still. I told you we must wait for Sebastian’s
next move ; though I confess, even from him,
I hardly dreamt of this one. But from the
moment when I opened the door on poor
Taut Mettie’s body, lying there in its red
horror, I felt it must be he. And when you
started just now, I said to myself in a flash
of intuition—‘ Sebastian has come ! He has
come to see how his devil’s w r ork has
prospered.’ He sees it has gone wrong. So
now he will try to devise some other.”

I thought of the malign expression on that
cruel white face as it stared in at the window
from the outer gloom, and I felt convinced
she was right. She had read her man once
more. For it was the desperate contorted
face of one appalled to discover that a great
crime attempted and successfully carried out
has failed, by mere accident, of its central
intention.

A nimal A dualities.

Note. — These articles consist of a series of perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal lije, illustrated
by Mr. J. A. Shepherd , an artist long a favourite with readers of The Strand Magazine. While
the. stories themselves are matters of fact , it must be understood that the artist treats the subject
with freedom and fancy , more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere representation
of the occurrence.

baboon.

HIS is an older story than most
of our others. It dates back,
indeed, to the year 1864, when
the pet of a British regiment,
stationed in Jamaica, was a
He was a meditative and ex¬

windows his dwelling was placed. He was
tethered by a long, light chain, but even
with this restraint he managed to get into a
good deal of mischief. As, for instance, on
one day, when he conceived himself insulted
by a certain young officer, and instantly fell

tremely thoughtful baboon, and his habits
and manners provided continual amusement
for the officers, before whose mess-room

to pelting the mess-room windows with such
terrific effect that his habitation was removed
to a less commanding spot. Here his amuse-

334

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THIS WAY-

ments still went on, however. Any living
creature that ventured within his chain-radius
was apt to have a busy minute or two, and
the unhappy fowls, who often strayed within
reach, were grabbed instantly, and sometimes

but he neither plucked it nor wrung its neck,
but, instead, dandled and fondled it with
such demonstrative affection that quite pos¬
sibly the unfortunate cock would have pre¬
ferred plucking. He squeezed it, he stroked

strangled, though he more often amused
himself by plucking or half-plucking his
unhappy prisoner before releasing it.

One fowl, however, he took a sudden and
violent fancy for. He grabbed it, it is true,

it, rubbed it, nursed it, held it aloft and
danced it, released it for a moment, and
playfully hauled it back by the leg when it
made for liberty. The bird did not in
any way reciprocate his affection; in fact,

AND THE OTHER.

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

335

KILLED BY KINDNESS.

altogether misunderstood it. But the when he had secured a creature he could really
baboon persevered, and held firmly on to love, it should die ere he could induce it

his pet. He felt confident
of winning it over by per¬
sistent kindness, and since
his earlier demonstrations had
proved unsuccessful, he re¬
newed them with more
vigour. He stroked it the
other way, rubbed it more
persistently, danced it more
quickly, and squeezed it a
good deal harder. But even
these attentions failed to
rouse its affection, and at
last, in the midst of an extra¬
friendly hug, the perverse cock
died, misunderstanding the
devoted baboon to the last.

He was overwhelmed with
grief. To think that at last,

MOURNED.

fittingly to reciprocate his
affection ! It was very sad.
He set about the last sad
rites with every manifestation
of sorrow. In solemn grief
he buried his departed play¬
mate at the foot of a tall
tree, where the grass might
grow and the birds sing over
its grave. Then he sat him
down before the grave and
mourned; neglected all his
usual amusements, and
mourned sorely day by day
for a fortnight. But at the
end of that time he could
bear his grief no longer; so
he dug up his departed pet
and ate it !

A CANNIBAL SAVAGE.

By Neil Wynn Williams.

Author of “ The Bayonet That Came Home,” “ The Green Field” “ Greek Peasant Stories,” etc.

R. RICHARD DAVIS, a
married man with a family,
had lately retired from busi¬
ness upon a substantial com¬
petency. Office life had given
him no opportunity of de¬
veloping his muscles. He looked a frail
figure as, steadying his boat under the shade
of a tree, he once more summed up the
points upon his fingers. “ Shall I settle,
here, in Salsey ? ” he reflected. “ The town
seems pleasant enough. The house ! It is
somewhat small ; but the garden borders
upon the river exactly as I want it. The
schools ! Everybody says that I could not
do better for the children. There remains

the river to be considered. And that-”

Mr. Davis looked round with a peculiarly
critical glance. “ That ought to do. There
is not too much current for what I shall
want.Yes, I’ll settle in Salsey.”

Mr. Davis had a fixed intention to devote
himself to a certain aquatic hobby. It would
keep him in the open air, while filling up his
time and providing him with amusement.
“ Aye ! and it won’t be half such hard work
as handling these sculls,” he reflected to him¬

self, whilst rowing on. The pleasures of
anticipation kept Mr. Davis company till he
stepped from the boat upon the wharf of
Bonsor’s boat-yard.

“ I have had it out for an hour and a
half?” said he, interrogatively.

The waterman referred to a memorandum-
book. “ Ninepence, sir,” he replied.

“ There you are,” said the stranger, taking
the money from a purse, “ and threepence
for yourself.” Mr. Davis turned round to
look once more over the placid reach of river.
It was beautiful, and so was the grey stone
bridge, with the white ducks sailing into a
side arch. “You’ve a fine river here,” he
remarked, dreamily. “ Let’s see : what do
you call it ? ”

They are proud of the river at Bonsor’s,
and always ready to answer questions about
it. “ The Slowe, sir,” said the waterman,
briskly, measuring up the stranger as a
“ Londoner.” “ We calls it the Slowe, sir.
And there ain’t no finer river, not in the

kingdom.Schules ! Yes, the Sawley

Schules keep their boats ’ere. And so do
the Town Club. .... Do we build for ’em ?
Should say we did. Aye ! and for a score of

the event of the day.

337

others over the wide world beside.

’Enley ! Yes, sir; right, sir; you’ll ’ave seen
our boats at ’Enley.”

When Bonsor’s is not busy it gossips. Mr.
Davis yielded himself to the atmosphere
of the place, sitting himself down upon a
wooden trestle to watch and listen. Five
minutes passed-

“ ’Ere they come ! ” said the waterman,
admiringly. “ Now, mister, you’ll see ’im—
’e’s coachin’ ’em to-day ready for the regatta.”

The sharp nose of a racing boat had just
appeared under the central arch of the grey
bridge. Scarcely a second elapsed before an
eight-oar came into full view with a splendid
vigour of back and blade. Steering by the
boundary walls and gardens of the reach, the
“ Town eight ” travelled rapidly towards the
boat-yard with a rhythmic rise and fall of its
green and white jerseys.

“ Easy all! ” the coxswain shouted. His
voice was manly and authoritative. In an
instant the powerful “ clock, clock ” of the
oars ceased, their blades floated flatly upon
the surface of the dark green water; and
the boat, steadying of its throbs, hissed
slowly into rest alongside the yard.

Edward Foster, the coxswain who now
stepped ashore, was an old “ Blue ” and
President of the Salsey Rowing Club.
Though he no longer raced, being past the
age for severe exertion, the river was proud
of his record and the services which he gave
to the Salsey youth anxious to emulate his
exploits. “There’s legs for yer,” the water¬
man whispered, admiringly, directing Mr.
Davis’s attention to the bulging sinews of a
magnificent pair of calves. .“And his arms
and chest 1—you should see ’em when ’e is
stripped.”

The Londoner eyed the local celebrity all
over, taking in the green cap, the green
blazer, and the short flannel breeches reach¬
ing just above the knee. “ I wouldn’t
especially care to fall foul of him,” he re¬
marked, after a pause.

“ I shouldn’t think you would,” the water¬
man replied, glancing with a scarcely con¬
cealed disdain at the whippety figure of the
Londoner.

Bonsor’s is approached by a lane running,
first, through an open space, where Salsey’s
outdoor entertainments—such as circuses —
are held, and afterwards between high brick
walls to the gate of the boat-yard. Some
weeks after the conversation recorded above
a bath-chair was being drawn along this lane
by a boy in buttons. Its occupant was a
young lady—a cripple for life. Her approach

Vol. xviii.—43

was not noticed till she entered the gate of
the boat-yard. Then there was an immediate
stir among the watermen, and one ran for¬
ward. “Yes,” said the young lady; “tell
my brother that I am here, please.”

The waterman quitted her, to climb a
ladder leading to the Town Club’s dressing-
rooms. “ Miss Foster is waiting below, sir,”
he informed the President, respectfully.

If Edward Foster, with his physical
strength and personal popularity, was occa¬
sionally dictatorial with people, he was never
so with his sister. The lightest wish of the
invalid was a law to him. The man was
ever sensitive in the presence of her afflic¬
tion—thinking how to give pleasure—how to
ward off pain. Her appearance at the boat¬
yard was scarcely a surprise. Miss Foster
often came thither, to be rowed about by her
brother in an antiquated “ tub ” that she
fancied as safe. With the whole science of
the oar at his command, the President was
proud to do it. Pulling on his blazer, he
descended the ladder. A few seconds later
Edward Foster had gathered his sister
tenderly up in his arms and was carrying her
to the boat. It was a feat of strength that
the yard liked to see.

“ Shall we go up or down, May ? ” Edward
Foster asked, pausing upon his sculls, after
having paddled a few strokes to the centre
of the stream.

“Oh, up /” the invalid replied, tugging
eagerly at one of the rudder-strings, “ it is
the quietest.”

The environs of Salsey were soon left
behind, and the brother and sister found
themselves meandering with the river through
some flat green meadows. The sun was hot
enough to make Miss Foster unfold a crimson
parasol. They passed by a boat-load of
schoolboys. “ Easy, Edward,” she said,
suddenly. “ It is too warm to scull fast, and
I want some of that Ragged Robin.” Miss
Foster pointed to a pink flower growing upon
one of the banks.

The invalid did not talk much. Lazy
rowing, warmth, and the occasional pauses
here and there for a flower, made the
President of Salsey Rowing Club grow drowsy.
His eye began to watch the smooth, oily flow
of the current, his ear to listen to the water
rippling under their keel. Fringes of feathery
reeds appeared on either bank. Soon the
meadows were hidden, and the river was
twisting and turning with short reaches
towards the green grey bulk of a distant wood.
Suddenly there was a noise — a strange
mixture of rattle and splash ; and a man

338

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

seated upon an object like a cumbersome
tricycle came swiftly round a curve of the
river. There was just time for Edward
Foster to unship his left scull. Even then
the side of their boat was grazed dangerously.

“ Sorry ! Sorry ! ” said the stranger, spas¬
modically, checking the motor water-tricycle,
and looking over the shoulder of his crushed-
strawberry coloured blazer.

The President of Salsey Rowing Club had
no sympathy with muscle-saving machines.
They appeared unmanly to him. For a
moment he was dumb with indignation at the
peril to which his sister had just been ex¬
posed. Then he blazed out:—

“ Sorry—are you? You ought to be. I
have heard complaints of you before, sir.
You’re a nuisance upon the river.”

The stranger seemed taken aback. He
stared, making no reply.

“Take my advice!” the President added,
grimly. “ Learn to row like a man instead
of treadling away like an old woman at a
sewing machine. You’ll save yourself from
getting into trouble with the law. If you

had run us down I should-”

“But-,” the stranger interrupted, flush¬

ing warmly.

But—what, sir ? ” the President asked,
roughly.

“ You were upon the wrong side of the
'river,” the stranger said, simply.

The President started and looked round.
An expression of chagrin swept over his face.
“ The pace at which you were travelling gave
me no time to cross over,” he replied, after a
pause.

The stranger smiled
sarcastically. With a
bow to Miss Foster,
he touched a lever of
his machine and
moved away.

The brother and
sister watched him
out of sight. “ You
were a little too hasty,
Edward,” Miss Foster
remarked, regretfully.

“ The fellow ought
to row like a man,
then,” the President
remarked, moodily.
And he ran his left
scull out again with an
angry jerk.

The incident left a
strongly unpleasant
impression upon
Edward Foster’s mind.
The President’s
authority over all
aquatic matters con¬
nected with the Slowe
had so long been unquestioned that the
stranger’s assertion of independence came as
a shock. He felt that he had been “ set down ”
and called to order over an elementary law
regulating the traffic of the river—actually
told by implication to keep on the right
side.

The feeling was not to be allowed to die
away. Day after day the tricycle appeared
upon the river, and complaints came to the
President of its oily smell, of its noise, of the
pace at which it was driven. Soon it was
known who the stranger was —a mere new¬
comer and Cockney, Davis by name, who
had no more right to the special college
blazer that he wore than the man in the
moon.

For awhile Edward Foster let things drift,
fervently hoping that the tricycle might come
to a smash and the river be freed of a
nuisance that he could not see his way to
check. Then people began to make a
grievance of the President’s inaction. The
finest regatta that they had had for years
was rapidly drawing nigh. Everybody knew
that the attendance would be exceptional
owing to an unusually valuable prize-list

“the SIDE <>.• THEIR BOAT WAS GRAZED DANGEROUSLY.”

339

THE EVENT OF THE DAY.

and the country crowd that would be at¬
tracted for the menagerie and circus adver¬
tised to arrive in Salsey upon the same date.
It would be intolerable if the man, Davis,
were allowed to tricycle here, there, and
everywhere over the river, as he affirmed
that he intended to do. There would be
an accident. There must be an accident.
Mr. Foster should really move in the matter.

“ All very fine ! But how ? What can I
do ? ” the President grumbled. “ The man
does not care a tinker’s curse for you, or me,
or anybody.”

People, being irresponsible, were not
satisfied: the President, being President,
ought to move somehow in the matter. At
length Edward Foster determined to send
an official letter to the delinquent. An
answer came back by return of post.

Mr. Davis was of opinion that people were
envious of his novelty, and that they
exaggerated. If Mr. Foster was not aware
of the fact, as his letter would seem to imply,
and would refer to the Regatta Subscription
List, he would find that Mr. Davis was a
subscriber, and so had a moral right to be
present at the regatta. For the rest, Mr.
Davis affirmed that the tricycle was under
perfect control, and an appeal to the police
remained in the case of any breach of the
law.

The President of the Salsey Rowing Club
brooded over this reply for two days. Then
h^went to Bonsor’s and called one of the
watermen aside. “ Bill,” he said, “ I am
hiring the Jane for regatta day. I shall want
you just before the Salsey Schools’ race
comes off to row Miss Foster in her away
from this part of the river down to the
first lock.”

The Schools’ race is, for local reasons,
.always the great event of Salsey Regatta. It
attracts the attention of the crowd more than
any other detail of the programme. The
refreshment tents then empty entirely, and
the eyes of everyone are fixed upon the
river. In manoeuvring to get his sister away
from the neighbourhood of Bonsor’s at this
•especial juncture the President wished to
spare her nerves a scene which was not
included in the printed list of the day’s
•events. At the exciting moment when the
•course opposite to Bonsor’s was about to be
cleared for the great race, the President
intended to foul Mr. Davis’s tricycle with a
dinghy, so skilfully, that the Cockney would
be covered with public obloquy as a careless,
reckless fool who has at last .received what

he deserved—a well-merited upset and duck¬
ing. Edward Foster’s muscles were strong
and his eye and nerve good. If they had
known of the President’s scheme the river
would have bet odds upon its success.

A grey stone bridge, with several arches,
crosses the river a hundred yards below
Bonsor’s boat-yard. The stream widens
beyond the bridge, running by a fine
promenade upon the left to a terminal lock.
Half-way between the bridge and the latter
another side lock on the right gives access to
a lower river. It was towards this side lock
that Bill, according to his orders, began to
row Miss Foster upon the day of the regatta,
just before the course was cleared for the
Salsey Schools’ race. The river was crowded
with pleasure-boats. Their progress was
slow as Edward Foster watched them from
the midst of a gaily - dressed crowd at
Bonsor’s. At length they disappeared out
of sight under an arch of the bridge, and
Edward Foster immediately stepped into a
dinghy that was being held ready for him at
the wharf by a waterman.

“Shall I shove yer off, sir?” the man
asked.

The brass band of a circus and menagerie
was playing noisily in a field behind Bonsor’s
yard. “ What ? .... No, not yet. Hold
on a bit,” the President replied.

A minute passed. Suddenly, Mr. Davis’s
motor-tricycle rolled forth from an arch of
the distant bridge, and, trumpeting dis¬
cordant staccato warnings to the crowd of
boats, began to dodge its way in and out of
them towards Bonsor’s. “All right. Shove
out! ” said the President, sharply, catching
sight of it.

The waterman obeyed, pressing hard upon
the outrigger, and afterwards hand over hand
along the length of a scull. The light craft
yielded steadily outwards, till there was
water enough for the President to take a
stroke. A glance over his shoulder told him
that the tricycle was advancing rapidly. He
must be quick. He began to head the boat
hastily round into a position that would
enable him, after taking a few strokes, to
deliver a slanting blow into the wheel of the
tricycle as it passed. Presently another
glance behind told him that the revolution
was satisfactorily completed. A weak man
would now have dashed forwards. But the
President’s nerves were of steel! He saw
that he must wait five seconds more for the
advance of a heavy family boat. The blow,
delivered from behind this, would make the

340

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

tricyclist appear more plausibly in the wrong.
One, two, three seconds passed. The Pre¬
sident leant forwards. His blue eyes
gleamed-

But the stroke was never taken that would

narrow aperture before it. There was a
splintering crash. The gate buckled up like
matchwood. And upsetting the table of a
ticket collector, dispersing the bowls of coins
in a clinking shower, the animal entered the
yard. For a brief second it
seemed that the thick-lipped,
brutal head would run itself in
its mad fury against a red brick
wall. But the four feet came

“ THERE WAS A SPLINTERING CRASH.”

have launched him at the tricyclist. The
President’s purpose was suddenly distracted
by an outburst of terrific bellowing. It
seemed to be approaching the river by the
lane leading to Bonsor’s, growing louder and
louder. There was scarcely time to speculate
what it might be when the gaily dressed
crowd in Bonsor’s scattered in all directions
like a flock of frightened hens. Some began
to climb the ladders leading to the lofts,
others ran in under the sheds amongst the
eight-oar boat-racks — it seemed that they
were fleeing anywhere, everywhere for refuge.

With a powerful action of the wrists, the
President reversed the blades of his sculls to
back water so that he could come into view
of the yard gate. Suddenly he looked past
the angle of a tarred plank shed. A half of
the flimsy gate of the yard was open ; and,
bellowing, blundering, trampling towards it,
he saw the dark brown body of an enormous
animal shaped like a rhinoceros. Quick as
lightning, a thought of the menagerie made
the President glance up at the white canvas
showing over Bonsor’s roofs. Ini mediately
afterwards the huge carcass entered the

together like a pivot. The enormous body
swung round. There followed a moment’s
frightful expectation when the pig-like eyes
examined the shadow of the sheds where
women were crouching. Afterwards a
dreadful, many-voiced cry rose from the
boats upon the river as, with one tre¬
mendous curvet—a veritable caricature of
animal motion — the hippopotamus made
straight for the river, entering it with a
thunderous splash.

The brute sank deeply under. As it re¬
appeared with dripping tusks, the crowd of
pleasure-boats began to flee, some up, some
down the river, with frantic strokes of their
oars.

“ S-shush ! ” Edward Foster hissed, holding
his position amidst the panic with a superb
bravery, and splashing wildly with his sculls
in an endeavour to drive the beast back to
land.

But the monstrous head had already set
itself to follow that portion of the crowd of
boats fleeing up the river ! There was a
bellow that echoed over the water like the
note of a fog-horn. A wave came towards

THE EVENT OF THE DAY.

34i

the light skiff, almost upsetting it. When it
had passed the President saw the hip¬
popotamus swimming open-jawed in full
pursuit.

The chase very soon began to tell upon
the crowded, jostling boats. The interval
between them and the powerfully swimming
brute diminished and diminished. Presently
the peril of a boat, containing women and
children, was becoming fearfully evident. It
was falling behind the rest. It was yawing
undecidedly from a straight course, giving
the pursuing animal greater and greater
advantage. A man was watching the terrible
sight from where he had halted after the first
panic. Suddenly he touched a lever. There
was a whirring, rattling splash. And putting
on full oil-power, Mr. Davis began to steer
his tricycle after the hippopotamus. It was
an impulse of gallantry, taking him to do he
scarcely knew what.

The tricycle gained up to a few yards
astern of the hippopotamus before the clear
idea came to Mr. Davis that he was going to
try and divert the
furious animal in pur¬
suit of himself. He
began to hish and
halloa, at first faintly,
but soon with the
growing passion of a
desperate man enter¬
ing his whole energy
and heart into a
splendid attempt to
save life.

The monstrous,
wallowing, barrel¬
like bulk was not
to be diverted
from the boat !

The curved white
tusks travelled
closer and closer
to its frail stern.

A catastrophe
seemed immi¬
nent. Suddenly
Mr. Davis re¬
moved his hat,
casting it cut¬
tingly downwards

with his whole force. The ragged edge of the
straw caught the brute’s eye painfully. The
hippopotamus swerved and turned. In a
second the tricycle was following round on
a wide curve, gashing up the surface of the
river into treble lines of foam.

“ Come on, you beast ! ” the man shouted

tauntingly to the brute-passion glaring at him.
“ Come on ! ”

The challenge seemed understood. The
small pointed ears cocked themselves
cunningly. With a surging leap that exposed
its shoulders, the hippopotamus began to
chase Mr. Davis down the river towards the
bridge. They passed by Edward Foster at a
furious rate. The direction which they took
made him anxious for his sister’s safety.
After a brief pause of indecision he followed
at some thirty yards behind.

The tricyclist, gaining palpably upon the
savage brute in his wake, approached the
town bridge at full speed. A dense crowd
was standing upon the latter, their faces
peering red and white through the stone
balustrades. It was no sooner evident that
Mr. Davis intended to shoot the central arch
than there was an agitation amidst this mass
of people. They began to shout. The con¬
fused babel of shrill cries appeared to’ be a
warning. But of what ? Mr. Davis looked
affrightedly over his shoulder. No, it was

THE RAGGED EDGE OF THE STRAW HAT CAUGHT THE BRUTE’S EYE.

not that ! He was still gaining. Imme¬
diately afterwards, with one glance up, he
swept unenlightened under the uproar of the
crowd. As Mr. DtTvis again flashed out into
the sunshine beyond the arch a sight met his
gaze which explained.

Straining along the foot of a high pro-

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

menade was the crowd of pleasure-boats
that had fled down the river from Bonsor’s
when the hippopotamus had first appeared.
They, were some two hundred and fifty yards
away. It was a necessity, if Mr. Davis were
to save them, that he should slacken speed
—that he should keep the hippopotamus in
play till they could reach and land upon a
low bank some hundreds of yards beyond
a side lock on the right. A few seconds passed
amidst an agony of indecision. Then Mr.
Davis’s hand went resolutely to the machine’s
brake. He began to press it harder and
harder, looking over his shoulder. Suddenly
the awfully critical moment, that he had
been anticipating, came. The hippopotamus
was almost upon him when, with a clever
touch of the steering-rod, Mr. Davis deflected
the machine aside. It was the commence¬
ment of a second duel between man and
brute. The rushes of the latter were now
like those of a ravenous fish after a wing-
wetted gadfly. The tricycle moved from
point to point of the contracted space with
energies of merely spasmodic strength.

The crowd watched the conflict gradually
withdraw in the
wake of the
fleeing boats. A
score of times
Mr. Davis en¬
deavoured to
escape past the
hippopotamus
into the open
water up river.

A
the
the

f oiled
Presently

were opposite to the side lock, and it seemed
that the cyclist must be driven back and
followed among the boats. The crowds upon
the bridge and the promenade grew breath¬
lessly silent. There was a moment when the
tricycle was stationary. Then the great brute
rushed-

And women shut their eyes.

But the ringing, vociferating cheer !

The cyclist had escaped into the open
gate of the lock.

But again the horror of it ! The lower
gates of the lock were closed—were firm and
fast as iron. The hippopotamus was follow¬
ing in after him. . . .

The rescue took place just in the nick of
time. A tall figure, landing from a dinghy,
rushed across a meadow to the lower end of
the lock. The crowd saw it kneel and
stoop over, and pull up the cyclist by main
force.

Then the man who was saved and the
man who had saved him ran back together
to close the lock gate. The hippopotamus
was trapped.

“ But your tricycle is smashed up! ” said
Edward Foster,
glancing down
upon the event
of the day.

Mr. Davis
held out his
hand. “ You’d
have saved it
too, if you
could,” he said.

The President
of the Salsey
Rowing Club
did not deny
the assertion.

“the kescue took place just in the nick ok time.

The Youngest Engine-Driver in the World.

By George Dollar.

THE YOUNG ENGINE-DRIVER READY TO START ON A MOUNTAIN RIDE.
From, a Photograph.

HE “Brownie Engine-driver,”
as the people in the West know
him, is a real
person, aged f
four. His full
name is Hume
Gibson Richards, and he lives
with his grandfather, Mr. Henry
A. Richards, at Laramie,

Wyoming. To everybody he is
known as “ Buster,” and there
is not an engine-driver on the
Union Pacific system, popular
as they all are, who possesses
half the popularity owned by
this diminutive throttle-holder.

He is, indeed, the pride of his
friends and a wonder among
boys—the greatest little man
on the railways of America.

Many will think this boy
can’t run a train. Well, in the
parlance of one of his friends,

“You just ought to see him
try ! ” Of course, he is not
hired by the railroad to run
a fast express, because pas¬
sengers might object to so
much responsibility on such

ready for a
taken just

youthful shoulders. But what
he doesn’t know about the
parts of a locomotive is hardly
worth acquisition. He is as
much at home near the boiler
of a big express locomotive as
he is in his own little bed, and
a speed of fifty or sixty miles
an hour, either at midday or
midnight, has no terrors for
his manly little heart. He has
even been known to go to sleep
beside the boiler of an express
running at sixty miles an hour.

We must all admit that
“ Buster ” makes a rejnarkable
and commanding figure as an
engine-driver. His regulation
suit of overalls, and his oil-can,
almost as large as himself, are
attractive and conspicuous as
he stands at the cab-window of
No. 1600 on the Union Pacific,
spin. This first photograph was
before No. 1600 started with

THE YOUNG ENGINE-DRIVER IN CHARGE OF THE UNION PACIFIC LOCOMOTIVE.
From a Photograph.

344

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

that he kept clean.
Not a spot to
speak of on his
clothes, not a
smudge on his face
—two facts that
entitle him to the
honour of being
the cleanest engine-
driver in the world,
as well as the
youngest.

It was on a trip
like this that the
disaster occurred

HE HAS JUST FINISHED
OILING.

From a Photograph.

“ Buster ” on a trip over the
highest mountain on the U. P.
system, 8,240ft. above the level of
the sea.

The youngster’s face was at the
time brimming over with smiles
at the prospect of the trip. But
the magnitude of his duties made
him serious and important when
the photographer dared to “snap”
his victim. It was, indeed, a gala
day for “Buster.” Previous to the
start he allowed himself to be

CAR ON ONE OF THE “BUSTER’S” TRAINS EXPLODED BY ROBBERS WITH DYNAMITE.
From a Photo, by Mr. D. F. Linneen, Chicago.

photographed while performing
the various familiar acts of the
engine-driver, all of which he can
do as expertly as the grimiest old
“ hand ” on the road. He stood
in posture of pleased command
on the cow-catcher of the locomo¬
tive, as shown in our second illus¬
tration, his little figure contrasting
strangely with the mighty mass
of iron strength behind. Then he
“oiled around,” holding his oiler
at a real mechanical cant, and
running about the boiler as if he
had been doing it for twenty years.
It was amusing to watch the
energy which he put into his work,
and the interest on his boyish
facfe. Most marvellous of all was

From a] “ oiling around.” L Photograph.

THE YOUNGEST ENGINE-DRIVER IN THE WORLD .

345

Union Pacific Railroad and Pacific Express Companies jointly, will
pay $2,000.00 per head, dead or alive, for the six robbers who held
up Union Pacific* mail and express train ten miles west of Rock Creek
Station, Albany County, Wyoming, on the morning of June 2nd. 1899.

The United States Government has also offered a reward of $1,000.00
per head, making in all $3,000.00 for each of these robbers.

Three of the gang described below, are now being pursued in north*
ern Wyoming; the other three are not yet located, but doubtless soon
will be.

Description: One man about 32 years of age; height, five feet, nine
inches: weight 186 pounds: complexion and hair, light; eyes, light blue;
peculiar nose, flattened at bridge and heavy at point; round, full, red
face; bald forehead; walks slightly stooping; when last seen wore No.
8 cow-boy boots.

Two men, look like brothers, complexion, hair and eyes, very dark;
larger one, age about 30; height, five feet, five inches; weight, 146 pounds;
may have slight growth of whiskers; smaller one, age about 28; height,
five feet, seven inches; weight 136 pounds; sometimes wears moustache.

Any information concerning these bandits should be promptly for*
warded to Union Pacific Railroad Company and to the United States
Marshal of Wyoming, at Cheyenne.

UNION PACIFIC RAILROAD COMPANY.
PACIFIC EXPRESS COMPANY.

Omaha, Nebraska, June 10th, 1899.

TELLS ITS OWN STORY.

which is graphically shown in our conclud¬
ing illustrations. The facsimile shown here¬
with tells the whole story of this not
unusual incident in Western railroading.
Six robbers held up the Union Pacific mail
and express train ten miles west of Ross
Creek Station, in Albany Co., Wyoming,
on the morning of June 2nd, 1899. The
car was blown up by dynamite, and the
bandits robbed the safe of, it is said,
from sixty-five thousand to one hundred

VqI. xviii,—44

and twenty thousand dollars, but the size
of the reward offered for the bandits, dead
or alive, leads one to think that the total
amount of money stolen was much larger.
At all events, the robbers at the time of
writing had got clean away, leaving behind
them but a complete wreck of a valuable
car, and a battered safe which lay for some
time empty and conspicuous near the line.
The rifled safe was a great attraction to
the children of the neighbourhood, and a

346

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

could tell every nation on the globe, and
the names of its inhabitants. He can
name every State, river, lake, territory,
on the North American Continent, and
knows many parts of South America.
For the benefit of the parents I wish to
say that this child has received all his
information without shedding a tear. I
have been patient with him, never forced
him, and was always kind. If he gets
tired I stop. The result is, I am the
one that gets tired, answering his ques¬
tions/’

These facts were sent to us by Mr.
Richards in a letter written “while I am
waiting for the ‘ fast mail,’ which will be
here at i a.m., with the little engine-driver
on it.” That day the boy had taken the
trip over the highest mountain of the
Rockies, the start of which was shown in
our first illustration, and he arrived at
Laramie at 1.20 a.m. on June 12th.
“ His grandmother,” says Mr. Richards,
“ has given him some lunch, and is
washing him and putting him to bed.”
No engine-driver of maturer years will
read this touching account of a home
reception and not wish that the Fates
would treat him likewise.

TOP VIEW OF SAFE.

From a Plwto. b)i Mr. I). F. Linneen,
Chicago.

board had to be placed
across the top that the
children might not fall
through. In our last photo¬
graph the young engine-driver
and his sister are shown
on top of the safe. There
is a placid expression on
their countenances, which
show a remarkable fear¬
lessness of the perils of
railroading out West.

The cleverness of this boy
of four is shown by his
ability in other directions
than engine-driving. Before
he was three years old, so
his grandfather writes, “ he
could tell all the names of
the prominent generals and
admirals of the United States
Army and Navy, and the
battles they had fought. At
three and a half years he

“ BUSTER ” AND HIS SISTER ON TOP OF THE RIFLED SAFE,
From a Photo, by Mr. D. F. Linneen , Chicago,

VII.

By E. Nesbit.

HE little white Princess always
woke in her little white bed
when the starlings began to
chatter in the pearl-grey morn¬
ing. As soon as the woods
were awake, she used to run
up the twisting turret-stairs with her little
bare feet, and stand on the top of the tower
in her white bed-gown, and kiss her hands to
the sun and to the woods and to the sleeping
town, and say: “ Good morning, pretty
world ! ”

Then she would run down the cold stone
steps and dress herself in her short skirt and
her cap and apron, and begin the day’s work.
She swept the rooms and made the breakfast,
she washed the dishes and she scoured the
pans, and all this she did because she was a
real Princess. For of all who should have
served her, only one remained faithful—her
old nurse, who had lived with her in the
tower all the Princess’s life. And, now the
nurse was old and feeble, the Princess would
not let her work any more, but did all the
housework herself, while nurse sat still and
did the sewing, because this was a real

Princess with a skin like milk, and hair like
flax and a heart like gold.

Her name was Sabrinetta, and her grand¬
mother was Sabra, who married St. George
after he had killed the dragon, and by real
rights all the country belonged to her: the
woods that stretched away to the mountains,
and the downs that sloped down to the sea,
and the pretty fields of corn and maize and
rye, the olive orchards and the vineyards,
and the little town itself with its towers
and its turrets, its steep roofs and strange
windows, that nestled in the hollow between
the sea where the whirlpool was and the
mountains, white with snow and rosy with
sunrise.

But when her father and mother died, leav¬
ing her cousin to take care of the kingdom
till she grew up, he, being a very evil Prince,
had taken everything away from her, and all
the people had followed him, and now
nothing was left her of all her possessions
except the great dragon-proof tower that
her grandfather, St. George, had built, and
of all who should have been her servants
only the good nurse-

348

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

And this was why Sabrinetta was the first
person in all the land to get a glimpse of the
wonder.

Early, early, early, while all the towns¬
people were fast asleep, she ran up the
turret-steps and looked out over the field,
and at the other side of the field there is a
green-ferny ditch and a rose-thorny hedge,
and then comes the wood. And as Sabrinetta
stood on her tower she saw a shaking and a
twisting of the rose-thorny hedge, and then
something very bright and shining wriggled
out through it into the ferny ditch and back
again. It only came out for a minute, but
she saw it quite plainly, and she said to her¬
self:—

“ Dear me, what a curious, shiny, bright-
looking creature ! If it were bigger, and if
I didn’t know that they have been fabulous
monsters for quite a long time now, I should
almost think it was a dragon.”

The thing, whatever it was, did look
rather like a dragon—but then it was too
small; and it looked rather like a lizard—only
then it was too big. It was about as long as
a hearthrug.

“ I wish it had not been in such a hurry to
get back into the wood,” said Sabrinetta.
“ Of course, it’s quite safe for me, in my
dragon-proof tower; but if it is a dragon, it’s
quite big enough to eat people, and to-day’s
the first of May, and the children go out to
get flowers in the wood.”

When Sabrinetta had done the housework
(she did not leave so much as a speck of
dust anywhere, even in the corneriest
corner of the winding stair) she put on
her milk-white silky gown
with the moon - daisies
worked on it, and went
up to the top of her tower
again.

Across the fields troops
of children were going out
to gather the may, and
the sound of their laughter
and singing came up to
the top of the tower.

“I do hope it wasn’t
a dragon,” said Sabri¬
netta.

The children went by
twos and by threes and
by tens and by twenties,
and the red and blue and
yellow and white of their
frocks were scattered on
the green of the field.

“It’s like a green silk

mantle worked with flowers,” said the Prin¬
cess, smiling.

By twos and by threes, by tens and by
twenties, the children vanished into the wood,
till the mantle of the field was left plain
green once more.

“ All the embroidery is unpicked,” said the
Princess, sighing.

The sun shone, and the sky was blue, and
the fields were quite green, and all the
flowers were very bright indeed, because it
was May Day.

Then quite suddenly a cloud passed over
the sun, and the silence was broken by
shrieks from afar off; and, like a many-
coloured torrent, all the children burst from
the wood, and rushed, a red and blue and
yellow and white wave, across the field,
screaming as they ran. Their voices came
up to the Princess on her tower, and she
heard the words threaded on their screams,
like beads on sharp needles :—

“ The dragon, the dragon, the dragon !
Open the gates ! The dragon is coming!
The fiery dragon ! ”

And they swept across the field and into

It C _

ALL YHE CHILDREN BURST
FI^ORJ THE WOOD.”

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

349

the gate of the town, and the Princess heard
the gate bang, and the children were out of
sight—but on the other side of the field the
rose-thorns crackled and smashed in the
hedge, and something very large and glaring
and horrible trampled the ferns in the ditch
for one moment before it hid itself again in
the covert of the wood.

The Princess went down and told her
nurse, and the nurse at once locked the great
door of the tower and put the key in her
pocket.

“ Let them take care of themselves,” she
said, when the Princess begged to be allowed
to go out and help to take care of the child¬
ren. “ My business is to take care of you,
my precious, and Pm going to do it. Old as
I am, I can turn a key still.”

So Sabrinetta went up again to the top of
her tower, and cried whenever she thought
of the children and the fiery dragon. For
she knew, of course, that the gates of the
town were not dragon-proof, and that the
dragon could just walk in whenever he liked.

The children ran straight to the palace,
where the Prince was cracking his hunting-
whip down at the kennels, and told him what
had happened.

“Good sport,” said the Prince, and he
ordered out his pack of hippopotamuses at
once. It was his custom to hunt big game
with hippopotamuses, and people would not
have minded that so much—but he would
swagger about in the streets of the town
with his pack yelping and gambolling at his
heels, and, when he did that, the greengrocer,
who had his stall in the market-place, always
regretted it ; and the crockery merchant,
who spread his wares on the pavement, was
ruined for life every time the Prince chose to
show off his pack.

The Prince rode out of the town with his
hippopotamuses trotting and frisking behind
him, and people got inside their houses as
quickly as they could when they heard the
voices of his pack and the blowing of his
horn. The pack squeezed through the town
gates and off across country to hunt the
dragon. Few of you who have not seen a
pack of hippopotamuses in full cry will be
able to imagine at all what the hunt was like.
To begin with, hippopotamuses do not bay
like hounds : they grunt like pigs, and their
grunt is very big and fierce. Then, of course,
no one expects hippopotamuses to jump.
They just crash through the hedges and
lumber through the standing corn, doing
serious injury to the crops, and annoying the
r armers very much. All the hippopotamuses

had collars with their name and address on,
but when the farmers called at the palace to
complain of the injury to their standing crops,
the Prince always said it served them right
for leaving their crops standing about in
people’s way, and he never paid anything at
all.

So now, when he and his pack went out,
several people in the town whispered, “ I
wkh the dragon would eat him ”—which was
very wrong of them, no doubt, but then he
was such a very nasty Prince.

They hunted by field, and they hunted by
wold ; they drew the woods blank, and the
scent didn’t lie on the downs at all. The
dragon was shy, and would not show him¬
self.

But just as the Prince was beginning to
think there was no dragon at all, but only a
cock and bull, his favourite old hippopotamus
gave tongue. The Prince blew his horn
and shouted :—

“ Tally ho ! Hark forward ! Tantivy ! ”
and the whole pack . charged down hill
towards the hollow by the wood. For there,
plain to be seen, was the dragon, as big as
a barge, glowing like a furnace, and spitting
fire and showing his shining teeth.

“ The hunt is up ! ” cried the Prince.
And, indeed, it was. For the dragon—
instead of behaving as a quarry should, and
running away—ran straight at the pack, and
the Prince on his elephant had the mortifi¬
cation of seeing his prize pack swallowed up
one by one in the twinkling of an eye, by
the dragon they had come out to hunt. The
dragon swallowed all the hippopotamuses
just as a dog swallows bits of meat. It was
a shocking sight. Of the whole of the pack
that had come out sporting so merrily to the
music of the horn, now not even a puppy-
hippopotamus was left, and the dragon was
looking anxiously round to see if he had
forgotten anything.

The Prince slipped off his elephant on the
other side, and ran into the thickest part of
the wood. He hoped the dragon could not
break through the bushes there, since they
were very strong and close. He went crawl¬
ing on hands and knees in a most un-Prince-
like way, and at last, finding a hollow tree, he
crept into it. The wood was very still—no
crashing of branches and no smell of burning
came to alarm the Prince. He drained the
silver hunting-bottle slung from his shoulder,
and stretched his legs in the hollow tree. Fie
never shed a single tear for his poor tame
hippopotamuses who had eaten from his
hand, and followed him faithfully in all the

35°

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

pleasures of the chase for so many years.
For he was a false Prince, with a skin like
leather and hair like hearth-brushes, and a
heart like a stone. He never shed a tear,
but he just went to sleep. When he awoke
it was dark. He crept out of the tree and
rubbed his eyes. The wood was black about
him, but there was a red glow in a dell close
by, and it was a fire of sticks, and beside it
sat a ragged youth with long, yellow hair ;
all round lay sleeping forms which breathed
heavily.

“ Who are you ? ” said the Prince.

“ Pm Elfinn, the pig-keeper,” said the
ragged youth. “ And who are you ? ”

“Pm Tiresome, the Prince,” said the other.

“ And what are you doing out of your
palace at this time of night ? ” asked the pig-
keeper, severely.

“ I’ve been hunting,” said the Prince.

The pig-keeper laughed. “ Oh, it was you
I saw, then? A good hunt, wasn’t it? My
pigs and I were looking on.”

All the sleeping forms grunted and snored,
and the Prince saw that they were pigs : he
knew it by their manners.

“ If you had known as much
as I do,” Elfinn went on, “you
might have saved your pack.”

“ What do you mean ? ” said
Tiresome.

“Why, the dragon,” said
Elfinn. “ You went out at the
wrong time of day.
should be hunted at
night.”

“ No, thank you,” said
the Prince, with a shud¬
der. “ A daylight hunt
is quite good enough
for me, you silly pig-
keeper.”

“ Oh, well,” said Elfinn,

“ do as you like about
it—the dragon will come
and hunt you to-morrow,
as likely as not. I don’t
care if he does, you silly
Prince.”

“ You’re very rude,”
said Tiresome.

“ Oh, no, only truthful,” said Elfinn.

“ Well, tell me the truth, then. What
is it that if I had known as much as
you do about I shouldn’t have lost my
hippopotamuses ? ”

“ You don’t speak very good English,”
said Elfinn ; “ but, come, what will you
give me if I tell you ? ”

“ If you tell me what ? ” said the tiresome
Prince.

“ What you want to know.”

“ I don’t want to know anything,” said
Prince Tiresome.

“Then you’re more of a silly even than I
thought,” said Elfinn. “ Don’t you want to
know how to settle the dragon before he
settles you ? ”

“ It might be as well,” the Prince admitted.

“Well, I haven’t much patience at any
time,” said Elfinn, “and now I can assure
you that there’s very little left. What will
you give me if I tell you ? ”

“ Half my kingdom,” said the Prince, “and
my cousin’s hand in marriage.”

“ Done,” said the pig-keeper; “ here goes !
The dragon grows small at nights ! He sleeps
under the root of this tree. I use him to
light my fire with.”

And, sure enough, there under the tree
was the dragon on a nest of scorched moss,
and he was about as long as your finger.

“ How can I kill him ? ” asked the Prince.
“ I don’t know that you can kill him,” said

Elfinn ; “ but you can

take him away if
you’ve brought any¬
thing to put him in.
That bottle of yours
would do.”

The dragon

v /

THEY MADE IT CREEP
INTO THE SILVER
HVNTING-BOTTl^,”

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

35 1

been a really truthful boy, and it would have
been just like him to bring home a bottle
with nothing in it, and then to pretend that
there was a dragon inside. So the junior
secretary did not at all mind being left.
They gave him the key, and when everyone
in the town had gone back to bed he let in
some of the junior secretaries from other
Government departments, and they had a
jolly game of hide-and-seek among the sacks
of gold, and played marbles with the dia¬
monds and rubies and pearls in the big ivory
chests.

They enjoyed themselves very much, but
by-and-by the copper treasury began to get
warmer and warmer, and suddenly the junior
secretary cried out, “ Look at the bottle 1 ”
The bottle sealed with Solomon’s seal had
swollen to three times its proper size, and
seemed to be nearly red hot, and the

So between them they managed, with bits
of stick and by singeing their fingers a little,
to poke and shove the dragon till they made
it creep into the silver hunting-bottle, and
then the Prince screwed on the top tight.

“ Now we’ve got him,” said Elfinn, “let’s
take him home and put Solomon’s seal on
the mouth of the bottle, and then he’ll be
safe enough. Come along—we’ll divide up
the kingdom to-morrow, and then 1 shall
have some money to buy fine clothes to go
courting in.”

But when the wicked Prince made pro¬
mises he did not make them to keep.

“ Go on with you ! What do you mean ? ”
he said. “ / found the dragon and I’ve im¬
prisoned him. I never said a word about

drew his sword.

“"All right,” said Elfinn,
shrugging his shoulders.

“I'm better off than you
are, anyhow.”

“ What do you mean ? ”
spluttered the Prince.

“Why, you’ve only got
a kingdom (and a dragon),
but I’ve got clean hands
(and five-and-seventy fine
black pigs).”

So Elfinn sat down again
by his fire, and the Prince
went home and told his
Parliament how clever and
brave he had been, and
though he woke them up
on purpose to tell them,
they were not angry, but
said :—

“You are indeed brave
and clever.” Eor they
knew what happened to
people with whom the
Prince was not pleased.

Then the Prime Minister
solemnly put Solomon’s seal on the mouth
of the bottle, and the bottle was put in the
treasury, which was the strongest building in
the town, and was made of solid copper, with
walls as thick as Waterloo Bridge.

The bottle was set down among the sacks
of gold, and the junior secretary to the junior
clerk of the last Lord of the Treasury was
appointed to sit up all night with it, and see
if anything happened. The junior secretary
had never seen a dragon, and, what was
more, he did not believe the Prince had ever
Seen a dragon either. The Prince had never

bottle bigger and bigger, till all the junior
secretaries agreed that the place was too hot
to hold them, and out they went, tumbling
over each other in their haste, and just as the
last got out and locked the door the bottle
burst ? and out came the dragon, very fiery,

352

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

and swelling more and more every minute,
and he began to eat the sacks of gold, and
crunch up the pearls and diamonds and
rubies, as you do “ hundreds and thousands.”

By breakfast-time he had devoured the
whole of the Prince’s treasures, and when the
Prince came along the street at about eleven,
he met the dragon coming out of the broken
door of the treasury, with molten gold still
dripping from his jaws. Then the Prince
turned and ran for his life, and as he ran
towards the dragon-proof tower the little white
Princess saw him coming, and she ran down
and unlocked the door and let him in, and
slammed the dragon-proof door in the fiery
face of the dragon, who sat down and whined
outside, because he wanted the Prince very
much indeed.

The Princess took Prince Tiresome into
the best room, and laid the cloth, and gave
him cream and eggs and white grapes and
honey and bread, with many other things,
yellow and white and good to
served him just as
kindly as she
would have done
if he had been
anyone else in¬
stead of the bad
Prince who had
taken away, her
kingdom and kept
it for himself —
because she was a
true Princess and v

had a heart of
gold.

When he had
eaten and drunk
he begged the
Princess to show him how to
lock and unlock the door, and
the nurse was asleep, so there
was no one to tell the Princess
not to, and she did.

“You turn the key like this,”
she said, “and the door keeps
shut. But turn it nine times
round the wrong way, and the
door flies open.”

And so it did. And the moment
it opened the Prince pushed the
white Princess out of her tower, just as he had
pushed her out of her kingdom, and shut the
door. For he wanted to have the tower all
for himself. And there she was in the street,
and on the other side of the way the dragon
was sitting whining, but he did not try to eat
her, because—though the old nurse did not

know it—dragons cannot eat white Princesses
with hearts of gold.

The Princess could not walk through the
streets of the town in her milky-silky gown
with the daisies on it, and with no hat and
no gloves, so she turned the other way, and
ran out across the meadows, towards the
wood. She had never been out of her tower
before, and the soft grass under her feet felt
like grass of Paradise.

She ran right into the thickest part of the
wood, because she did not know what her
heart was made of, and she was afraid of the
dragon, and there in a dell she came on
Elfinn and his five-and-seventy fine pigs.
He was playing his flute, and around him the
pigs were dancing cheerfully on their hind legs.

“ Oh, dear,” said the Princess, “ do take
care of me. I am so frightened.”

, ifT/f,

THE PRINCE PUSHED THE WHITE PRINCESS OUT OF HER TOWER.

“I will,” said Elfinn, putting his arms
round her. “ Now you are quite safe. What
were you frightened of ? ”

“ The dragon,” said she.

“ So it’s got out of the silver bottle,” said
Elfinn. “ I hope it’s eaten the Prince.”
“No,” said Sabrinetta; “but why?”

THE SEVEN DRAGONS .

353

So he told her of the mean trick that the
Prince had played him.

“And he promised me half his kingdom
and the hand of his cousin the Princess,”
said Elfinn.

“ Oh, dear, what a shame !” said Sabrinetta,
trying to get out of his arms. “ How dared
he?”

“What’s the matter?” he asked, holding
her tighter* “it was a shame, or at least I
thought so. But now he may keep his
kingdom, half and whole, if 1 may keep
what I have.”

“ What’s that ? ” asked the Princess.

“ Why, you—my pretty, my dear,” said
Elfinn, “and as for the Princess, his cousin
—forgive me, dearest heart, but when I
asked for her I hadn’t seen the real Princess,
the only Princess, my Princess.”

“ Do you mean me ? ” said Sabrinetta.

“Who else?” he asked.

“ Yes, but five minutes ago you hadn’t
seen me ! ”

“Five minutes ago I was a pig-keeper—
now Eve held you in my arms I’m a Prince,
though I should have to keep pigs to the end
of my days.”

“But you haven’t asked me” said the
Princess.

“ You asked me to take care of you,” said
Elfinn, “and I will—all my life long.”

So that was settled, and they began to talk
of really important things, such as the dragon
and the Prince, and all the time Elfinn did
not know that this was the Princess, but he
knew that she had a heart of gold : and he
told her so, many times.

“The mistake,” said Elfinn, “was in not
having a dragon-proof bottle. I see that
now.”

“ Oh, is that all ? ” said the Princess. “ I
can easily get you one of those—because
everything in my tower is dragon-proof. We
ought to do something to settle the dragon
and save the little children.”

So she started off to get the bottle, and she
would not let Elfinn come with her.

“ If what you say is true,” she said—“ if
you are sure that I have a heart of gold, the
dragon won’t hurt me, and somebody must
stay with the pigs.”

Elfinn was quite sure, so he let her go.

She found the door of her tower open.
The dragon had waited patiently for the
Prince, and the moment he opened the door
and came out, though he was only out for an
instant to post a letter to his Prime Minister,
saying where he was, and asking them to
send the fire brigade to deal with the fiery

Vol. xviii.—45

dragon, the dragon ate him. Then the
dragon went back to the wood, because it
was getting near his time to grow small for
the night.

So Sabrinetta went in and kissed her
nurse, and made her a cup of tea and ex¬
plained what was going to happen, and that
she had a heart of gold, so the. dragon
couldn’t eat her; and the nurse saw that, of
course, the Princess was quite safe, and
kissed her and let her go.

She took the dragon-proof bottle, made of
burnished brass, and ran back to the wood,
and to the dell where Elfinn was sitting
among his sleek black pigs, waiting for her.

“ I thought you were never coming back,”
he said; “ you have been away a year, at
least.”

The Princess sat down beside him among
the pigs, and they held each other’s hands
till it was dark, and then the dragon came
crawling over the moss, scorching it as he
came, and getting smaller as he crawled, and
curled up under the root of the tree.

“Now, then,” said Elfinn, “you hold the
bottle”—then he poked and prodded the
dragon with bits of stick till it crawled into
the dragon-proof bottle. But there was no
stopper.

“Never mind,” said Elfinn, “ I’ll put my
finger in for a stopper.”

“ No, let me,” said the Princess ; but, of
course, Elfinn would not let her. He stuffed
his finger into the top of the bottle, and the
Princess cried out:—

“ The sea—the sea—run for the cliffs ! ”
And off they went, with the five-and-seventy
pigs trotting steadily after them in a long,
black procession.

The bottle got hotter and hotter in
Elfinn’s hands, because the dragon inside
was puffing fire and smoke with all his
might. Hotter, and hotter, and hotter, but
Elfinn held on till they came to the cliff-
edge, and there was the dark-blue sea, and
the whirlpool going round and round.

Elfinn lifted the bottle high above his
head and hurled it out between the stars and
the sea, and it fell in the middle of the
whirlpool.

“ We’ve saved the country,” said the
Princess. “ You’ve saved the little children.
Give me your hands.”

“ I can’t,” said Elfinn; “ I shall never be
able to take your dear hands again. My
hands are burnt off.”

And so they were : there were only black
cinders where his hands ought to have been.
The Princess kissed them, and cried over

354

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ ELF INN HURLED IT OUT.

them, and tore pieces of her silky-milky gown
to tie them up with, and the two went back
to the tower and told the nurse all about
everything. And the pigs sat outside and
waited.

“ He is the bravest man in the world,” said
Sabrinetta. “ He has saved the country and
the little children; but, oh, his hands— his
poor, dear, darling hands ! ”

Here the door of the room opened, and
the oldest of the five-and-seventy pigs came
in. It went up to Elfinn and rubbed itself
against him with little, loving grunts.

“ See the dear creature,” said the nurse,
wiping away a tear; “ it knows, it knows ! ”
Sabrinetta stroked the pig, because Elfinn
had no hands for stroking or for anything
else.

“ The only cure for a dragon burn,” said
the old nurse, “is pig’s fat, and well that

faithful creature knows it-”

“I wouldn’t for a kingdom,” cried Elfinn,
stroking the pig as best he could with his
elbow.

“ Is there no other cure ? ”
asked the Princess.

Here another pig put its black
nose in at the door, and then
another and another, till the
room was full of
pigs, a surging
mass of rounded
blackness, pushing
and struggling to
get at Elfinn, and
grunting softly in
the language of
true affection.

“ There is one
other,” said the
nurse ; “ the dear,
affectionate beasts
—they all want to
die for you.”

“ What is the
other cure?” said
Sabrinetta,
anxiously.

“If a man is
burnt by a dragon,”
said the nurse,
“ and a certain
number of people
are willing to die
for him, it is
enough if each
should kiss the burn, and wish it well in the
depths of his loving heart.”

“ The number ! The number ! ” cried
Sabrinetta.

“ Seventy-seven,” said the nurse.

“We have only seventy-five pigs,” said the
Princess, “ and with me that’s seventy-six ! ”

“ It must be seventy-seven—and I really
can't die for him, so nothing can be done,”
said the nurse, sadly. “He must have cork
hands.”

“ I knew about the seventy-seven loving
people,” said Elfinn. “ But I never thought
my dear pigs loved me so much as all this,

and my dear, too-And, of course, that

only makes it more impossible. There’s one
other charm that cures dragon burns, though;
but I’d rather be burnt black all over than
marry anyone but you, my dear, my pretty.”

“ Why, who must you marry to cure your
dragon burns?” asked Sabrinetta.

“A Princess. That’s how St. George
cured his burns.”

“ There now ! think of that! ” said the
nurse. “ And I never heard tell of that cure

old as I am.”

But Sabrinetta threw her arms round

THE SEVEN DRAGONS.

355

Elfinn’s neck, and held him as though she
would never let him go.

“ Then ids all right, my dear, brave,
precious Elfinn,” she cried, “ for I am a
Princess, and you shall be my Prince. Come
along, nurse—don’t wait to put on your
bonnet. We’ll go and be married this very
moment.”

So they went, and the pigs came after,
moving in stately blackness, two by two.
And, the minute he was married to the

all the sea were not enough to cool him.
The whirlpool is too strong for him to be
able to get out of it, so there he spins round
and round for ever and ever, doing some use¬
ful work at last, and warming the water for
poor fisher-folk to shave with.

The Prince and Princess rule the land well
and wisely. The nurse lives with them, and
does nothing but fine sewing, and only that
when she wants to very much. The Prince

Princess, Elfinn’s hands got quite
well. And the people, who were
weary of Prince Tiresome and his
hippopotamuses, hailed Sabrinetta and her
husband as rightful Sovereigns of the
land.

Next morning the Prince and Princess
went out to see if the dragon had been
washed ashore. They could see nothing of
him; but when they looked out towards the
whirlpool they saw a cloud of steam ; and
the fishermen reported that the water for
miles round was hot enough to shave with !
And as the water is hot there to this day, we
may feel pretty sure that the fierceness of
that dragon was such that all the waters of

THEY SAW A CLOUD OF STEAM.

keeps no hippopota¬
muses, and is conse¬
quently very popular.
The five-and-seventy
devoted pigs live in
white marble sties
with brass knockers
door - plate, and are
with Turkish sponges

and “ Pig ” on the
washed twice a day

and soap scented with violets, and no one
objects to their following the Prince when he
walks abroad, for they behave beautifully, and
always keep to the footpath, and obey the
notices about not walking on the grass. The
Princess feeds them every day with her own
hands, and her first edict on coming to the
throne was that the word “ Pork ” should
never be. uttered on pain of death, and
should, besides, be scratched out of all the
dictionaries !

Curiosities*

[We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted .]

A “MODEL” CHURCH.

Our first picture was
kindly sent to us by Mr.
P. Gun dry, Foots Cray,
Kent. The following are
the particulars: About a
hundred and twenty years
ago, Sir John Boyd, living
at Bridgend, Kent, had a
friend to whom he was
greatly attached. This
friend met his death in
Africa, and was buried in
a small church there. Sir
John had an exact model
of the church, as shown in
our photograph, built in
sight of his house at Bridg¬
end, with a model of the
grave built over a well in
front of the building, which
has been used ever since
its erection as a dwelling-
house. This peculiar resi¬
dence is at present occupied
by a blacksmith.

plates, and to such good
purpose did these protective
coverings serve them that
for two years the gang
defied all the efforts of the
police of Victoria to cap¬
ture them. They were at
last surprised, and many
of them shot whilst drink¬
ing at an hotel ; not, how¬
ever, until ^80,000 had
been spent by the Govern¬
ment in their endeavours
to stamp out the gang.
Ned Kelly was tried and
executed in Melbourne
gaol, and his armour,
which shows many marks
of police bullets, is at
present in possession of
the Victorian Government.
The photograph was for¬
warded to us by Mr. T.
W. Kelynack, City Court
Offices, Russell Street,
Melbourne.

A BUSHRANGER’S ARMOUR.

The accompanying illustration is a photograph of
the armour used by Ned Kelly, the notorious
Australian bushranger. Kelly, having been in his
\ more peaceful days a blacksmith, manufactured
armour for himself and comrades from old boiler-

ONLY ONE CANDLE.

This curious photograph was obtained by placing
a candle between two mirrors standing opposite to
each other. It will be noticed that there are no fewer
than ten reflections: the curve taken by these is
the result of the mirrors being placed slightly on a
slant. We are indebted for the photograph to Mr,
D. M. Stone, 3, Oak Grove, Cricklewood,

* Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited,

CURIOSITIES.

357

is about 9in. by 5in
and is the property of
John L. Peter, Esq.,
of Treviles, Cornwall,
one of whose female
ancestors was in the
household of Queen
Anne, by whom family
tradition states the ship
was cut, it having
been presented by the
Queen to the lady in
question. The arms
on the shield deserve
attention. Miss C. K.
Peter, Treviles, Ruan-
high Lanes R.S.O.,
Cornwall, has very
kindly sent this.

IS THIS A RECORD
Fifty thousand cords of wood in one pile !
That is what is portrayed in this picture.
The photograph was taken at Niagara Falls,
and the wood forms a winter’s supply for a
big paper mill. It is estimated that one
cord of wood will make at least i,8oolb. of
paper, so readers of The Strand can
easily figure the amount of paper obtainable
from this tremendous pile of wood. Mr.
Orrin E. Dunlap, of Niagara Falls, N.Y., is
the photographer, and we are indebted to
him for this interesting picture.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

On July 31st, 1898, Private Dan O’Neil was severely

wounded in an engagement with the Spanish in the
Philippine Islands. The bullet, which can be seen peep¬
ing out of the cartridge belt, went through O’Neil’s body,
missing his spine by a bare quarter of an inch, swung
around, and embedded itself in the belt as shown. It is
pleasing to record that O’Neil is now as well as ever.
Mr. Pandia Kalli, Poste Restante, Manila, P.I., has sent
in the photo, which we reproduce.

A STUDY IN BLACK AND WHITE.

Mr. Albert Appleby, of
Witham, Essex, is the proud
owner of an extraordinary
nest. Mr. Appleby had two
brushes in a cupboard— we say
had advisedly, for the brushes
are no more. A mouse of more
than ordinary artistic instinct
took it into her head to make
a nest out of bristles. The
two brushes, one white, the
other black, were, therefore,
denuded of their spines,
the same being embodied in
the curious structure shown
here.

QUEEN ANNE AT PLAY.

This photograph is from
a sheet of paper cut by a
penknife as shown. Except
that one or two small pieces
are gummed on, no other
art has been made use of.
The size of the original

358

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

FOUR TONS AT PLAY.

Here are two excruciatingly funny pictures of what
is supposed to be the largest known elephant. Mr.
A. W. Sargent, photographer, of 57, Albany Road,
Roath Park, Cardiff, took these photos, by special

THIS IS NOT AN EXPLOSION.

An Arbroath subscriber very kindly sends us this
extraordinary photo., which at first sight might well
be taken as that of the awful explosion of the breech-
piece of a gun. He says: “I inclose a snap-shot
taken by myself of a 40-pounder breech-loading gun
being fired at the annual inspection on May 27th, of
the Arbroath Companies of the Forfarshire Volunteer
Artillery, Colonel Lord Playfair being inspecting
officer. The gun is taken in the act of being fired at
a sea-target, and I am led to believe the effect is
unique.” We are certainly of the same opinion.

permission during a rehearsal of the elephant’s
part in Lord George Sanger’s celebrated circus per¬
formance. He says : “ Besides the two positions
shown here, the elephant allows his keeper to stand

on his head.” -

TRUSTED IN TOMMY ATKINS.

A Plymouth correspondent sends us this photo.,
showing the interior of the officers’ tent at one of the
outposts in Crete, with a swallow’s nest built at the
top of the pole. The birds built the nest, laid their
eggs, hatched them, and successfully brought up two
young ones. During the whole of the time the tent
was occupied by two officers. It was a staff-ser¬
geant’s tent, and the photo, was taken after the birds
had flown.

CURIOSITIES.

359

idea to the principals of
our own high schools and
colleges. The institution
itself stands in very fine
open grounds, as may he
judged from the photo¬
graph, which was sent in
by Mrs. A. H. Eshman,
president of the college.

ARTFUL BEGGARS.

Miss Lilian E. Tomlin,
of 59, Liverpool Road,
Chester, in forwarding the
accompanying illustration,
writes : “I send you a
photograph of two bears
lying on their backs in the
bear pit at Berne beg-

TAKEN UNAWARES.

Here we have an interesting photograph of
H.R.IL the Prince of Wales, snap-shotted
whilst at the East Winch Steeplechases.
The Prince, who is sitting in the Royal
break, had left “the madding crowd ” in
order to enjoy a quiet cigar, and was bliss¬
fully ignorant of the fact that a lurking
photographer was at work not very far away.
The picture is the more curious inasmuch as
many people must have been near at the time,
yet the Prince appears in the snap-shot to be
absolutely alone, surrounded only by wagon¬
ettes and iron palings and the odour of his
own fragrant Havana. We are indebted for
this photograph to Mr. Dudley S. Page, of

King’s Lynn. -

LIVING LETTERS.

The initials “S.F.C.” traced out in the
curious manner shown in the accompanying
photo, stand for “Southern Female College”
—a typical Southern school, situated at West
Point, Missouri. These living letters bear
indication of very careful arrangement, even
full-stops being included, and the whole
effect is most striking. Indeed, we might
commend this characteristically American

ging for bread from
visitors, who feed
them from above.”
Our correspondent
adds that these bears
beckon for fopd in a
most amusing manner
with their paws whilst
lying in this position,
cleverly catching the
dainties in their
mouths ; they, how¬
ever, show a decided
preference for bread,
apples, and carrots—
unlike our own speci¬
mens at the Zoological
Gardens, who have a
traditional fondness
for currant buns. The
photograph was taken
from above by tilting
the camera, lens down¬
wards, towards the
floor of the pit.

360

THE S TEA HD MAGAZINE.

AN EXTRAORDINARY
DESIGN.

The beautiful spray of
flowers shown in the
accompanying photo,
is the handiwork, not of
Nature, but of North
American Indians, and is
composed entirely of the
wings of small beetles,
fastened together with
wax. Looked at from
an artistic point of view
the design certainly does
this semi-barbaric people
much credit, entailing as
it must have done very
many hours of patient
labour both in the finding
of the beetles and in
piecing together the tiny
wings. We are indebted
for this interesting photo¬
graph to Miss Florence
A. Meigh, of Ash Hall,
Stoke-on-Trent.

A PECULIAR SHADOW.

Our next picture was sent to us by Mr. W. B.
Wild, of 41, Manchester Avenue, Paterson, New
Jersey, who writes : “I took this picture a short
time ago with an ordinary hand camera from the
forehead of the Bartholdi statue of “ Liberty,”
Bedloe’s Island, New York Harbour. This statue is
220ft. in height, and is the second highest lighthouse
in the world. The distinctness with which small
objects appear on the shore from this great height is
wonderful on so small a picture, and can only be
accounted for by the fact that the sun was shining
very brightly when the shutter was snapped. The
peculiar-shaped shadow which projects over the
water half-way the length of the pier is the reflection
of the statue itself, The torch in the uplifted right

hand of “ Liberty” can be made out quite distinctly.
Twelve people can stand comfortably in this torch,
whilst thirty can be accommodated on the head of the

figure.” -

SWALLOWING A MAIZE MILL.

Fifteen years ago the tree shown in our picture was
a post some six inches in diameter upon which a
maize mill was fixed. Shortly afterwards the owner
erected a small water mill, and the hand mill fell into
disuse. The post, which was green when put into
ground, took root and grew, gradually swallowing
the mill which it supported, and which will doubtless
disappear entirely in the course of time. The photo¬
graph was kindly forwarded to us by Mr. H. Ryle
Shaw, of 69, Loop Street, Maritzburg, Natal.

“ TED BARTON SEIZED HIM BY THE COLLAR.”
(See page 374.)

$

The Strand

Magazine.

Vol. xviii.

OCTOBER, 1899.

No. 106.

7 he Croxley Master.

In Three Parts. Part I.
By A. Conan Doyle.

R. ROBERT MONTGOM¬
ERY was seated at his desk,
his head upon his hands, in a
state of the blackest despon¬
dency. Before him was the
open ledger with the long
columns of Dr. Oldacre’s prescriptions. At
his elbow lay the wooden tray with the labels
in various partitions, the cork box, the lumps
of twisted sealing wax, while in front a rank
of empty bottles waited to be filled. But his
spirits were too low for work. He sat in
silence, with his fine shoulders bowed and
his head upon his hands.

Outside, through the grimy surgery window
over a foreground of blackened brick and
slate, a line of enormous chimneys like
Cyclopean pillars upheld the lowering, dun-
coloured cloud-bank. For six days in the
week they spouted smoke, but to-day the
furnace fires were banked, for it was Sunday.
Sordid and polluting gloom hung over a dis¬
trict blighted and blasted by the greed of
man. There was nothing in the surround¬
ings to cheer a desponding soul, but it was
more than his dismal environment which
weighed upon the medical assistant.

His trouble was deeper and more per¬
sonal. The winter session was approaching.
He should be back again at the University
completing the last year which would give
him his medical degree, but, alas ! he had
not the money with which to pay his class
fees, nor could he imagine how he could
procure it. Sixty pounds were wanted to
make his career, and it might have been
as many thousands for any chance there
seemed to be of his obtaining it.

He was roused from his black meditation
by the entrance of Dr. Oldacre himself, a
large, clean-shaven, respectable man, with a
prim manner and an austere face. He had
prospered exceedingly by the support of
the local Church interest, and the rule of

Vol- xviii. —46

his life was never by word or action to run
a risk of offending the sentiment which had
made him. His standard of respectability
and of dignity was exceedingly high, and
he expected the same from his assistants.
His appearance and words were always
vaguely benevolent. A sudden impulse
came over the despondent student. He
would test the reality of this philanthropy.

“ I beg your pardon, Dr. Oldacre,” said
he, rising from his chair; “ I have a great
favour to ask of you.”

The doctor’s appearance was not encourag¬
ing. His mouth suddenly tightened, and his
eyes fell.

“Yes, Mr. Montgomery ? ”

“You are aware, sir, that I need only one
more session to complete my course.”

“ So you have told me.”

“ It is very important to me, sir.”

“ Naturally.”

“ The fees, Dr. Oldacre, would amount to
about sixty pounds.”

“ I am afraid that my duties call me else¬
where, Mr. Montgomery.”

“ One moment, sir! I had hoped, sir,
that perhaps, if I signed a paper promising
you interest upon your money, you would
advance this sum to me. I will pay you
back, sir, I really will. Or if you like I will
work it off after I am qualified.”

The doctor’s lips had thinned into a narrow
line. His eyes were raised again and
sparkled indignantly.

“ Your request is unreasonable, Mr. Mont¬
gomery. I am surprised that you should
have made it. Consider, sir, how many
thousands of medical students there are in
this country. No doubt there are many
of them who have a difficulty in finding their
fees. Am I to provide for them all ? Or why
should I make an exception in your favour?
I am grieved and disappointed, Mr. Mont¬
gomery, that you should have put me into

364

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

‘i AM GRIEVED AND DISAPPOINTED, MR. MONTGOMERY.

the painful position of having to refuse
you.” He turned upon his heel, and walked
with offended dignity out of the surgery.

The student smiled bitterly, and turned to
his work of making up the morning pre¬
scriptions. It was poor and unworthy work-
work which any weakling might have done
as well, and this was a man of exceptional
nerve and sinew. But, such as it was, it
brought him his board and jQi a week,
enough to help him during the summer
months and let him save a few pounds
towards his winter keep. But those class
fees ! Where were they to come from ? He
could not save them out of his scanty wage.
Dr. Oldacre would not advance them. He
saw no way of earning them. His brains
were fairly good, but brains of that quality
were a drug in the market. He only ex¬
celled in his strength; and where was he to

find a customer for
that? But the ways
of Fate are strange,
and his customer
was at hand.

“Look y’erel”
said a voice at the
door.

Montgomery
looked up, for the
voice was a loud
and rasping one. A
young man stood
at the entrance—a
stocky, bull-necked
young miner, in
tweed Sunday
clothes and an
aggressive necktie.
Fie was a sinister-
looking figure, with
dark, insolent eyes,
and the jaw and
throat of a bulldog.

“ Look y’ere ! ”
said he again.
“ Why hast thou
not sent t’ medi¬
cine oop as thy
master ordered ? ”
Montgomery had
become accustomed
to the brutal frank¬
ness of the Northern
worker. At first it
had enraged him,
but after a time he
had grown callous
to it, and accepted
it as it was meant. But this was something
different. It was insolence—brutal, over¬
bearing insolence, with physical menace
behind it.

“ What name ? ” he asked, coldly.

“ Barton. Happen I may give thee cause
to mind that name, yoong man. Mak’ oop
t’ wife’s medicine this very moment, look ye,
or it will be the worse for thee.”

Montgomery smiled. A pleasant sense of
relief thrilled softly through him. What
blessed safety-valve was this through which
his jangled nerves might find some outlet.
The provocation was so gross, the insult so
unprovoked, that he could have none of
those qualms which take the edge off a
man’s mettle. He finished sealing the bottle
upon which he was occupied, and he
addressed it and placed it carefully in the
rack.

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

3^5

“ Look here ! ” said he, turning round to
the miner, “ your medicine will be made up
in its turn and sent down to you. I don’t
allow folk in the surgery. Wait outside in
the waiting-room, if you wish to wait at all.”

“ Yoong man,” said the miner, “ thou’s
got to mak’t’ wife’s medicine here, and now,
and quick, while I wait and watch thee, or
else happen thou might need some medicine
thysel’ before all is over.”

“ I shouldn’t advise you to fasten a quarrel
upon me.”

Montgomery was speaking in the hard,
staccato voice of a man who is holding him¬
self in with difficulty. “ You’ll save trouble
if you’ll go quietly. If you don’t you’ll be
hurt. Ah, you would ? Take it then ! ”

The blows were almost simultaneous—a
savage swing which whistled pas't Mont¬
gomery’s ear, and a straight drive which took
the workman on the chin. Luck was with
the assistant. That single whizzing upper¬
cut, and the way in which it was delivered,
warned him that he had a formidable man
to deal with. But if he
had underrated his an¬
tagonist, his antagonist had
also underrated him, and
had laid himself open to
a fatal blow.

The miner’s head had
come with a crash against
the corner of the surgery
shelves, and he had
dropped heavily on to the
ground. There he lay with
his bandy legs drawn up
and his hands thrown
abroad, the blood trick¬
ling over the surgery tiles.

“ Had enough ? ” asked
the assistant, breathing
fiercely through his nose.

But no answer came.

The man was insensible.

And then the danger of his
position came upon Mont¬
gomery, and he turned as
white as his antagonist.

A Sunday, the immaculate
Dr. Oldacre with his pious
connection, a savage brawl
with a patient, he would
irretrievably lose his situa¬
tion if the facts came out.

It was not much of a
situation, but he could
not get another without
a reference, and Oldacre

might refuse him one. Without money
for his classes, and without a situation—
what was to become of him ? It was absolute
ruin.

But perhaps he could escape exposure
after all. He seized his insensible adversary,
dragged him out into the centre of the room,
loosened his collar, and squeezed the surgery
sponge over his face. He sat up at last with
a gasp and a scowl.

“ Domn thee, thou’s spoilt my necktie,”
said he, mopping up the water from his breast.

“ I’m sorry I hit you so hard,” said
Montgomery, apologetically.

“ Thou hit me hard. I could stan’ such
fly-flappin’ all day. ’Twas this here press
that cracked my pate for me, and thou art a
looky man to be able to boast as thou hast
outed me. And now I’d be obliged to thee
if thou wilt give me t’ wife’s medicine.”

Montgomery gladly made it up and handed
it to the miner.

“You are weak still,” said he. “Won’t
you stay awhile and rest ? ”

* HAD ENOUGH ? ’ ASKED THE ASSISTANT.”

3 66

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ T’ wife wants her medicine,” said the man,
and lurched out at the door.

The assistant looking after him saw him
rolling with an uncertain step down the
street, until a friend met him and they
walked on arm in arm. The man seemed in his
rough Northern fashion to bear no grudge, and
so Montgomery’s fears left him. There was
no reason why the doctor should know any¬
thing about it. He wiped the blood from
the floor, put the surgery in order, and went
on with his interrupted task, hoping that he
had come scatheless out of a very dangerous
business.

Yet all day he was aware of a sense of
vague uneasiness, which sharpened into
dismay when, late in the afternoon, he was
informed that three gentlemen had called
and were waiting for him in the surgery. A
coroner’s inquest, a descent of detectives,
an invasion of angry relatives—all sorts of
possibilities rose to scare him. With tense
nerves and a rigid face he went to meet his
visitors.

They were a very singular trio. Each
was known to him by sight; but what on
earth the three could
be doing together, and,
above all, what they
could expect from him,
was a most inexplicable
problem.

The first was Sorley
Wilson, the son of
the owner of the Non¬
pareil Coal-pit. He
was a young blood of
twenty, heir to a for¬
tune, a keen sportsman,
and down for the
Easter Vacation from
Magdalene College. He
sat now upon the edge
of the surgery table,
looking in thoughtful
silence at Montgomery,
and twisting the ends
of his small, black,
waxed moustache.

The second was
Purvis, the publican,
owner of the chief beer-
shop, and well known
as the local bookmaker.

He was a coarse, clean¬
shaven man, whose fiery
face made a singular
contrast with his ivory-
white bald head. He

had shrewd, light - blue eyes with foxy
lashes, and he also leaned forward in
silence from his chair, a fat, red hand upon
either knee, and stared critically at the young
assistant.

So did the third visitor, Fawcett, the
horsebreaker, who leaned back, his long,
thin legs, with their box-cloth riding-gaiters,
thrust out in front of him, tapping his pro¬
truding teeth with his riding-whip, with
anxious thought in every line of his rugged,
bony face. Publican, exquisite, and horse-
breaker were all three equally silent, equally
earnest, and equally critical. Montgomery,
seated in the midst of them, looked from
one to the other. “ Well, gentlemen ? ” he
observed, but no answer came. The position
was embarrassing.

“No,” said the horsebreaker, at last. “No.
It’s off. It’s nowt.”

“ Stand oop, lad ; let’s see thee standin’.”
It was the publican who spoke. Montgomery
obeyed. He would learn all about it,
no doubt, if he were patient. He stood
up and turned slowly round, as if in front
of his tailor.

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

367

“ It’s off ! It’s off ! ” cried the horse-
breaker. “ Why, mon, the Master would
break him over his knee.”

“ Oh, that be hanged for a yarn,” said the
young Cantab. “ You can drop out if you
like, Fawcett, but I’ll see this thing through,
if I have to do it alone. I don’t hedge a
penny. I like the cut of him a great deal
better than I liked Ted Barton.”

“ Look at Barton’s shoulders, Mr. Wilson.”

“ Lumpiness isn’t always strength. Give me
nerve and fire and breed. That’s what
wins.”

“ Aye, sir, you have it theer—you have it
theer,” said the fat, red-faced publican, in
a thick, suety voice. “ It’s the same wi’
poops. Get ’em clean bred an’ fine, an’
they’ll yark the thick ’uns—yark ’em out
o’ their skins.”

“ He’s ten good pund on the light side,”
growled the horsebreaker.

“ He’s a welter weight, anyhow.”

“ A hundred and thirty.”

“ A hundred and fifty, if he’s an ounce.”

“Well, the Master doesn’t scale much
more than that.”

“A hundred and seventy-five.”

“ That was when he was hog-fat and living
high. Work the grease out of him, and
I lay there’s no great difference between
them. Have you been weighed lately, Mr.
Montgomery ? ”

It was the first direct question which had
been asked him. He had stood in the midst
of them, like a horse at a fair, and he was
just beginning to wonder whether he was
more angry or amused.

“I am just eleven stone,” said he.

“ I said that he was a welter weight.”

“ But suppose you was trained? ” said the
publican “ Wot then ? ”

“ I am always in training.”

“ In a manner of speakin’, no doubt, he is
always in trainin’,” remarked the horse-
breaker. “ But trainin’ for everyday work
ain’t the same as trainin’ with a trainer, and
I dare bet, with all respec’ to your opinion,
Mr. Wilson, that there’s half a stone of tallow
on him at this minute.”

The young Cantab put his fingers on
the assistant’s upper arm. Then with his
other hand on his wrist he bent the forearm
sharply, and felt the biceps, as round and
hard as a cricket ball, spring up under his
fingers.

“ Feel that! ” said he.

The publican and horsebreaker felt it
with an air of reverence.

“ Good lad ! He’ll do yet,” cried Purvis.

“Gentlemen,” said Montgomery, “I think
that you will acknowledge that I have been
very patient with you. I have listened to all
that you have to say about my personal
appearance, and now I must really beg
that you will have the goodness to tell me
what is the matter.”

They all sat down in their serious, business¬
like way.

“That’s easy done, Mr. Montgomery,”
said the fat-voiced publican. “But before
say in’ anything, we had to wait and see
whether, in a way of speakin’, there was any
need for us to say anything at all. Mr.
Wilson thinks there is. Mr. Fawcett, who
has the same right to his opinion, bein’ also
a backer and one o’ the committee, thinks
the other way.”

“ I thought him too light built, and I
think so now,” said the horsebreaker, still
tapping his prominent teeth with the metal
head of his riding whip. “ But happen he
may pull through, and he’s a fine-made,
buirdly young chap, so if you mean to back

him, Mr. Wilson-”

• “Which I do.”

“ And you, Purvis ? ”

“ I ain’t one to go back, Fawcett.”

“ Well, I’ll stan’ to my share of the
purse.”

“ And well I knew you would,” said
Purvis, “for it would be somethin’ new to
find Isaac Fawcett as a spoil-sport. Well,
then, we make up the hundred for the
stake among us, and the fight stands, always
supposin’ the young man is willin’.”

“Excuse all this rot, Mr. Montgomery,”
said the University man, in a genial voice.
“We’ve begun at the wrong end, I know,
but we’ll soon straighten it out, and I hope
that you will see your way to falling in with
our views. In the first place, you remember
the man whom you knocked out this morn¬
ing ? He is Barton—the famous Ted Barton.”

“ I’m sure, sir, you may well be proud to
have outed him in one round,” said the
publican. “Why, it took Morris, the ten-
stone-six champion, a deal more trouble than
that before he put Barton to sleep. You’ve
done a fine performance, sir, and happen
you’ll do a finer, if you give yourself the
chance.”

“ I never heard of Ted Barton, beyond
seeing the name on a medicine label,” said
the assistant.

“Well, you may take it from me that
he’s a slaughterer,” said the horsebreaker.
“ You’ve taught him a lesson that he needed,
for it was always a word and a blow with

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

368

him, and the word alone was worth five
shillin’ in a public court. He won’t be so
ready now to shake his nief in the face of
everyone he meets. However, that’s neither
here nor there.”

Montgomery looked at them in bewilder¬
ment.

“ For goodness’ sake, gentlemen, tell me
what it is you want me to do,” he cried.

“We want you to fight Silas Craggs, better
known as the Master of Croxley.”

“But why? ”

“Because Ted Barton was to have fought
him next Saturday. He was the champion
of the Wilson coal-pits, and the other was
the Master of the iron folk down at the
Croxley .s,melted. We’d matched our man
for a purse of a hundred against the Master.
But you’ve quee.rpd our man, and he can’t
face such a battle with a two-inch cut at the
back of his heacfi , There’s only one thing to
be done, sir, and that is for you to take his
place. If you can lick Ted Barton you may
lick the Master of Croxley; but if you don’t
we’re done, for there’s no one else who is in
the same street with him in this district. It’s
twenty rounds, two-ounce -gloves, Queens-
berry rules, and a decision on points if you
fight to the finish.”

For a moment the absurdity of the thing
drove every other thought out of Mont¬
gomery’s head. But then there came a
sudden revulsion. A hundred pounds-^-all
he wanted to complete his education was
lying there ready to his hand—if only that
hand were. strong .enough to pick it up. He
had thought bitterly that morning that there
was no market for his strength, but here was
one where his muscle might earn more in an
hour than his brains in a year. But a chill
of doubt came over him.

“ How can I fight for the coal-pits ? ” said
he. “ I am not connected with them.”

“Eh, lad, but thou art,” cried old Purvis.
“ We’ve got it down in writin’, and it’s clear
enough. ‘Anyone connected with the coal¬
pits.’ Dr. Oldacre is the coal-pit club doctor.
Thou art his assistant. What more can they
want ?”

“ Yes, that’s right enough,” said the
Cantab. “ It would be a very sporting thing
of you, Mr. Montgomery, if you would come
to our help when we are in such a hole. Of
course, you might not like to take the hundred
pounds ) but I have no doubt that in the
case of your winning we could arrange that it
should take the form of a watch or piece of
plate, or any other shape which might suggest
itself .to you. You see, you are responsible

for our having lost our champion, so we
really feel that we have a claim upon you.”

“ Give me a moment, gentlemen. It is
very unexpected. I am afraid the doctor
would never consent to my going—in fact, I
am sure that he would not.”

“ But he need never know—not before the
fight at any rate. We are not bound to give
the name of our man. So long as he is
within the weight limits on the day of the
fight, that is all that concerns anyone.”

The adventure and the profit would either
of them have attracted Montgomery. The
two combined were irresistible.

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ I’ll do it ! ”

The three sprang from their seats. The
publican had seized his right hand, the horse-
dealer his left, and the Cantab slapped him
on the back.

“ Good lad! good lad! ” croaked the
publican. “ Eh, mon, but if thou yark him,
thou’ll rise in one day from being just a
common doctor to the best-known mon
’twixt here and Bradford. Thou art a
witherin’ tyke, thou art, and no mistake ; and
if thou beat the Master of Croxley, thou’ll
find all the beer thou want for the rest of thy
life waiting for thee at the Four Sacks.”

“ It is the most sporting thing I ever heard
of in my life,” said young Wilson. “ By
George, sir, if you pull it off, you’ve got the
constituency in your pocket, if you care to
stand. You know the outhouse in my
garden ? ”

“Next the road?”

“ Exactly. I turned it into a gymnasium
for Ted Barton. You’ll find all you want there:
clubs, punching ball, bars, dumb-bells, every¬
thing. Then you’ll want a sparring partner.
Ogilvy has been acting for Barton, but we
don’t think that he is class enough. Barton
bears you no grudge. He’s a good-hearted
fellow, though cross-grained with strangers.
He looked upon you as a stranger this
morning, but he says he knows you now. He
is quite ready to spar with you for practice,
and he will come at any hour you will name.”

“ Thank you, I will let you know the
hour,” said Montgomery ; and so the com¬
mittee departed jubilant upon their way.

The medical assistant sat for a little time
in the surgery turning it over in his mind.
He had been trained originally at the Univer¬
sity by the man who had been middle¬
weight champion in his day. It was true
that his teacher was long past his prime, slow
upon his feet and stiff in his joints, but even
so he was still a tough antagonist; but
Montgomery had found at last that he could

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

369

more than hold his own with him. He had
won the University medal, and his teacher, who
had trained so many students, was emphatic
in his opinion that he had never had one who
was in the same class with him. He had been
exhorted to go in for the Amateur Champion¬
ships, but he had no particular ambition in

chance in a hundred of pulling it off, then
it was worth his while to attempt it.

Dr. Oldacre, new come from church, with
an ostentatious Prayer-book in his kid-gloved
hand, broke in upon his meditation.

“You don’t go to service, I observe, Mr.
Montgomery,” said he, coldly.

that direction. Once he had put on the
gloves with Hammer Tunstall in a booth
at a fair, and had fought three rattling rounds,
in which he had the worst of it, but had
made the prize-fighter stretch himself to
the uttermost. There was his whole record,
and was it enough to encourage him to stand
up to the Master of Croxley ? He had never
heard of the Master before, but then he had
lost touch of the ring during the last few
years of hard work. After all, what did it
matter? If he won, there was the money,
which meant so much to him. If he lost,
it would only mean a thrashing. He could
take punishment without flinching, of that
he was certain. If there were only one

Vol. xviii.—47

“ No, sir ; I have had some business to
detain me.”

“It is very near to my heart that my
household should set a good example.
There are so few educated people in this
district that a great responsibility devolves
upon us. If we do not live up to the
highest, how can we expect these poor
workers to do so? It is a dreadful thing to
reflect that the parish takes a great "deal
more interest in an approaching glove fight
than in their religious duties.”

“ A glove fight, sir,” said Montgomery,
guiltily.

“ I believe that to be the correct term.
One of my patients tells me that it is the

370

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

talk of the district. A local ruffian, a patient
of ours, by the way, is matched against a
pugilist over at Croxley. I cannot under¬
stand why the law does not step in and stop
so degrading an exhibition. It is really a
prize fight.”

“ A glove fight, you said.”

“ I am informed that a two-ounce glove is
an evasion by which they dodge the law, and
make it difficult for the police to interfere.
They contend for a sum of money. It
seems dreadful and almost incredible—does it
not ?—to think that such scenes can be
enacted within a few miles of our peaceful
home. But you will realize, Mr. Montgomery,
that while there are such influences for us to
counteract it is very necessary that we should
live up to our highest.”

The doctor’s sermon would have had more
effect if the assistant had not once or twice
had occasion to test his highest and come
upon it at unexpectedly humble elevations.
It is always so particularly easy to “ com¬
pound for sins we’re most inclined to by
damning those we have no mind to.” In
any case, Montgomery felt that of all the men
concerned in such a fight—promoters, backers,
spectators—it is the actual fighter who holds
the strongest and most honourable position.
His conscience gave him no concern upon
the subject. Endurance and courage are
virtues, not vices, and brutality is, at least,
better than effeminacy.

There was a little tobacco shop at the
corner of the street, where Montgomery got
his bird’s-eye and also his local information,
for the shopman was a garrulous soul who
knew everything about the affairs of the
district. The assistant strolled down there
after tea and asked, in a casual way, whether
the tobacconist had ever heard of the Master
of Croxley.

“ Heard of him ! Heard of him ! ” the little
man could hardly articulate in his astonish¬
ment. “Why, sir, he’s the first mon o’ the
district, an’ his name’s as well known in the
West Riding as the winner o’ t’ Derby. But
Lor’, sir” — here he stopped and rummaged
among a heap of papers. “ They are makin’
a fuss about him on account o’ his fight wi’
Ted Barton, and so the Croxley Herald
has his life an’ record, an’ here it is, an’ thou
ca list read it for thysel’.”

The sheet of the paper which he held up
was a lake of print around an islet of illustra¬
tion. The latter was a coarse wood-cut of a
pugilist’s head and neck set in a cross-barred
jersey. It was a sinister but powerful face,
the face of a debauched hero, clean-shaven.

strongly eyebrowed, keen-eyed, with a huge,
aggressive jaw and an animal dewlap beneath
it. The long, obstinate cheeks ran flush up
to the narrow, sinister eyes. The mighty
neck came down square from the ears and
curved outwards into shoulders which had
lost nothing at the hands of the local artist.
Above was written “ Silas Craggs,” and
beneath, “ The Master of Croxley.”

“ Thou’ll find all about him there, sir,”
said the tobacconist. “ He’s a witherin’
tyke, he is, and we’re proud to have him in
the county. If he hadn’t broke his leg he’d
have been champion of England.”

“ Broke his leg, has he ? ”

“Yes, and it set badly. They ca’ him
owd K behind his bock, for thot is how
his two legs look. But his arms—well, if
they was both stropped to a bench, as the
sayin’ is, I wonder where the champion of
England would be then.”

“ I’ll take this with me,” said Montgomery ;
and putting the paper into his pocket he
returned home.

It was not a cheering record which he
read there. The whole history of the
Croxley Master was given in full, his many
victories, his few defeats.

“Born in 1857,” said the provincial bio¬
grapher, “ Silas Craggs, better known in
sporting circles as The Master of Croxley,
is now in his fortieth year.”

“ Hang it, I’m only twenty-three,” said
Montgomery to himself, and read on more
cheerfully.

“ Having in his youth shown a surprising
aptitude for the game, he fought his way up
among his comrades, until he became the
recognised champion of the district :nd
won the proud title which he still holds.
Ambitious of a more than local fame, he
secured a patron, and fought his first fight
against Jack Barton, of Birmingham, in
May, 1880, at the old Loiterers’ Club.
Craggs, who fought at ten-stone-two at
the time, had the better of fifteen rattling
rounds, and gained an award on points
against the Midlander. Having disposed of
James Dunn, of Rotherhithe, Cameron, of
Glasgow, and a youth named Fernie, he was
thought so highly of by the fancy that he
was matched against Ernest Willox, at that
time middle-weight champion of the North
of England, and defeated him in a hard-
fought battle, knocking him out in the tenth
round after a punishing contest. At this
period it looked as if the very highest
honours of the ring were within the reach
of the young Yorkshireman, but he was laid

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

37i

upon the shelf by a most unfortunate acci¬
dent. The kick of a horse broke his thigh,
and for a year he was compelled to rest
himself. When he returned to his work the
fracture had set badly, and his activity
was much impaired. It was owing to this

was he by the decision, that he withdrew
from the ring. Since then he has hardly
fought at all save to accommodate any local
aspirant who may wish to learn the difference
between a bar-room scramble and a scientific
contest. The latest of these ambitious souls

BENEATH WAS WRITTEN ‘ THE MASTER OF CROXLEY.’”

that he was defeated in seven rounds by
Willox, the man whom he had previously
beaten, and afterwards by James Shaw, of
London, though the latter acknowledged that
he had found the toughest customer of his
career. Undismayed by his reverses, the
Master adapted the style of his fighting to
his physical disabilities and resumed his
career of victory — defeating Norton (the
black), Bobby Wilson, and Levi Cohen, the
latter a heavy-weight. Conceding two stone,
he fought a draw with the famous Billy
McQuire, and afterwards, for a purse of fifty
pounds, he defeated Sam Hare at the Pelican
Club, London. In 1891 a decision was
given against him upon a foul when fighting
a winning fight against Jim Taylor, the
Australian middle-weight, and so mortified

comes from the Wilson coal-pits, which have
undertaken to put up a stake of ^£ioo and
back their local champion. There are various
rumours afloat as to who their representative
is to be, the name of Ted Barton being
freely mentioned, but the betting, which is
seven to one on the Master against any un¬
tried man, is a fair reflection of the feeling of
the community.”

Montgomery read it over twice, and it left
him with a very serious face. No light
matter this which he had undertaken ; no
battle with a rough-and-tumble fighter who
presumed upon a local reputation. The
man’s record showed that he was first-class—
or nearly so. There were a few points in
his favour, and he must make the most of
them. There was age—twenty-three against

372

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

forty. There was an old ring proverb that
“Youth will be served,” but the annals of
the ring offer a great number of exceptions.
A hard veteran, full of cool valour and ring
craft, could give ten or fifteen years and
a beating to most striplings. He could
not rely too much upon his advantage
in age. But then there was the lame¬
ness. That must surely count for a great
deal. And, lastly, there was the chance that
the Master might underrate his opponent,
that he might be remiss in his training, and
refuse to abandon his usual way of life, if
he thought that he had an easy task before
him. In a man of his age and habits this
seemed very possible. Montgomery prayed
that it might be so. Meanwhile, if his
opponent were the best man who ever jumped
the ropes into a ring, his own duty was clear.
He must prepare himself carefully, throw
away no chance, and do the very best
that he could. But he ' knew enough to
appreciate the difference which exists in
boxing, as in every sport, between the
amateur and the professional. The cool¬
ness, the power of hitting, above all the
capability of taking punishment, count
for so much. Those specially developed,
gutta-percha-like abdominal muscles of the
hardened pugilist will take without flinching
a blow which would leave another man
writhing on the ground. Such
things are not to be acquired in
a week, but all that could be done
in a week should be done.

The medical assistant had a
good basis to start from. He was
5ft. nin.—-tall enough for anything
on two legs, as the old ring men
used to say—lithe and spare, with
the activity of a panther, and a
strength which had hardly yet ever
found its limitations. His muscular
development was finely hard, but
his power came rather from that
higher nerve energy which counts
for nothing upon a measuring tape.

He had the well-curved nose and
the widely-opened eye which never
yet were seen upon the face of a
craven, and behind everything he
had the driving force, which came
from the knowledge that his whole
career was at stake upon the
contest. The three backers rubbed
their hands when they saw him at
work punching the ball in the
gymnasium next morning; and
Fawcett, the horsebreaker, who had

written to Leeds to hedge his bets, sent
a wire to cancel the letter, and to lay
another fifty at the market price of seven
to one.

Montgomery’s chief difficulty was to find
time for his training without any interference
from the doctor. His work took him a large
part of the day, but as the visiting was done
on foot and considerable distances had to
be traversed, it was a training in itself.
For the rest, he punched the swinging ball
and worked with the dumb-bells for an hour
every morning and evening, and boxed
twice a day with Ted Barton in the gym¬
nasium, gaining as much profit as could be
got from a rushing two-handed slogger.
Barton was full of admiration for his clever¬
ness and quickness, but doubtful about his
strength. Hard hitting was the feature of
his own style, and he exacted it from
others.

“ Lord, sir, that’s a turble poor poonch for
an eleven-stone man,” he would cry. “Thou
wilt have to hit harder than that afore
t’ Master will know that thou art theer.
Ah, thot’s better, mon, thot’s fine,” he
would add, as his opponent lifted him across
the room on the end of a right counter.
“ Thot’s how I likes to feel ’em. Happen
thou’lt pull through yet.” He chuckled with
joy when Montgomery knocked him into a

“iie boxed twice a day with ted barton , 1

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

373

corner. “ Eh, mon, thou art cornin’ along
grand. Thou hast fair yarked me off my legs.
Do it again, lad, do it again ! ”

The only part of Montgomery’s training
which came within the doctor’s observation
was his diet, and that puzzled him consider¬
ably.

“You will excuse my remarking, Mr.
Montgomery, that you are becoming rather
particular in your tastes. Such fads are not
to be encouraged in one’s youth. Why do
you eat toast with every meal ? ”

“ I find that it suits me better than bread,
sir.”

“ It entails unnecessary work upon the
cook. I observe also that you have turned
against potatoes.”

“ Yes, sir, I think that I am better without
them.”

“ And you no longer drink your beer? ”

“ No, sir.”

“ These causeless whims and fancies are
very much to be deprecated, Mr. Mont¬
gomery. Consider how many there are to
whom these very potatoes and this very beer
would be most acceptable.”

“ No doubt, sir. But at present I prefer
to do without them.”

They were sitting alone at lunch, and the
assistant thought that it would be a good
opportunity of asking leave for the day of the
fight.

“ 1 should be glad if you could let me
have leave for Saturday, Doctor Oldacre.”

“ It is very inconvenient upon so busy a
day.”

“I should do a double day’s work on
Friday so as to leave everything in order. I
should hope to be back in the evening.”

“ I am afraid I cannot spare you, Mr.
Montgomery.”

This was a facer. If he could not get
leave he would go without it.

“You will remember, Dr. Oldacre, that
when I came to you it was understood that
I should have a clear day every month. I
have never claimed one. But now there are
reasons why I wish to have a holiday upon
Saturday.”

Doctor Oldacre gave in with a very bad
grace.

“ Of course, if you insist upon your
formal rights, there is no more to be said,
Mr. Montgomery, though I feel that it shows
a certain indifference to my comfort and the
welfare of the practice. Do you still
insist ? ”

“ Yes, sir.”

“ Very good. Have your way.”

The doctor was boiling over with anger, but
Montgomery was a valuable assistant—steady,
capable, and hard-working—and he could not
afford to lose him. Even if he had been
prompted to advance those class fees, for
which his assistant had appealed, it would
have been against his interests to do so,
for he did not wish him to qualify, and he
desired him to remain in his subordinate
position, in which he worked so hard for so
small a wage. There was something in the
cool insistence of the young man, a quiet
resolution in his voice as he claimed his
Saturday, which aroused his curiosity.

“ I have no desire to interfere unduly with
your affairs, Mr. Montgomery, but were you
thinking of having a day in Leeds upon
Saturday ?”

“ No, sir.”

“ In the country ? ”

“ Yes, sir.”

“You are very wise. You will find a quiet
day among the wild flowers a very valuable
restorative. Had you thought of any par¬
ticular direction ? ”

“ I am going over Croxley way.”

“ Well, there is no prettier country when
once you are past the iron works. What
could be more delightful than to lie upon the
Fells, basking in the sunshine, with perhaps
some instructive and elevating book as your
companion? I should recommend a visit to
the ruins of St. Bridget’s Church, a very
interesting relic of the early Norman era.
By the way, there is one objection which I
see to your going to Croxley on Saturday.
It is upon that date, as I am informed, that
that ruffianly glove fight takes place. You may
find yourself molested by the blackguards
whom it will attract.”

“I will take my chance of that, sir,” said
the assistant.

On the Friday night, which was the last
before the fight, Montgomery’s three backers
assembled in the gymnasium and inspected
their man as he went through some light
exercises to keep his muscles supple. He
was certainly in splendid condition, his skin
shining with health, and his eyes with energy
and confidence. The three walked round
him and exulted.

“He’s simply ripping,” said the under¬
graduate. “ By gad, you’ve come out of it
splendidly. You’re as hard as a pebble, and
fit to fight for your life.”

“ Happen he’s a trifle on the fine side,”
said the publican. “ Runs a bit light at the
loins, to my way of thinkin’.”

“ What weight to-day ? ”

374

THE STRAIND MA GAZ1JVE.

“ Ten-stone-eleven,” the assistant answered.

“ That’s only three pund off in a week’s
trainin’,” said the horsebreaker. “ He said
right when he said that he was in condition.
Well, it’s fine stuff all there is of it, but I’m
none so sure as there is enough.” He kept
poking his finger into Montgomery, as if he
were one of his horses. “ I hear that the
Master will scale a hundred-and-sixty odd
at the ring-side.”

“ But there’s some of that which he’d like
well to pull off and leave behind wi’ his
shirt,” said Purvis. “ I hear they’ve had a
rare job to get him to drop his beer, and if it
had not been for that great red-headed wench
of his they’d never ha’ done it. She fair
scratted the face off a potman that had
brought him a gallon from t’ Chequers.
They say the hussy is his sparrin’ partner, as
well as his sweetheart, and that his poor wife
is just breakin’ her heart over it. Hullo,
young ’un, what do you want ? ”

The door of the gymnasium had opened,
and a lad about sixteen, grimy and black
with soot and iron, stepped into the yellow
glare of the oil lamp. Ted Barton seized
him by the collar.

“ See here, thou yoong whelp, this is
private, and we want noan o’ thy spyin’.”

“ But I maun speak to Mr. Wilson.”

The young Cantab stepped forward.

“Well, my lad, what is it?”

“ It’s aboot t’ fight, Mr. Wilson, sir. I
wanted to tell your mon somethin’ aboot
t’ Maister.”

“ We’ve no time to listen to gossip, my
boy. We know all about the Master.”

“ But thou doant, sir. Nobody knows
but me and mother, and we thought as we’d
like thy mon to know, sir, for we want him
to fair bray him.”

(To be

“ Oh, you want the Master fair brayed, do
you? So do we. Well, what have you to
say ? ”

“ Is this your mon, sir? ”

“ Well, suppose it is ? ”

“ Then it’s him I want to tell aboot it.
T’ Maister is blind o’ the left eye.”

“ Nonsense.”

u It’s true, sir. Not stone blind, but
rarely fogged. He keeps it secret, but mother
knows and so do I. If thou slip him on the
left side he can’t cop thee. Thou’ll find it
right as I tell thee. And mark him when he
sinks his right. ’Tis his best blow, his right
upper-cut. T’ Maister’s finisher, they ca’ it at
t’ works. It’s a turble blow, when it do come
home.”

“Thank you, my boy. This is informa¬
tion worth having about his sight,” said
Wilson. “ How came you to know so much ?
Who are you ? ”

“ I’m his son, sir.”

Wilson whistled.

“ And who sent you to us ? ”

“ My mother. 1 maun get back to her
again.”

“ Take this half-crown.”

“ No, sir, I don’t seek money in cornin’
here. I do it-”

“ For love ? ” suggested the publican.

“ For hate,” said the boy, and darted off
into the darkness.

“ Seems to me t’ red - headed wench
may do him more harm than good
after all,” remarked the publican. “And
now, Mr. Montgomery, sir, you’ve done
enough for this evenin’, an’ a nine hours’
sleep is the best trainin’ before a battle.
Happen this time to-morrow night you’ll
be safe back again with your £100 in your
pocket.”

continued.)

A Peep into “ Punchy

By J. Holt Schooling.

[ The Proprietors of “ Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Air. Punch’s famous pages.\

Part X.—1890 to 1894.

“The Servants.” — Lady Patroness (Registry Office oj Charitable
Society). “And why are you leaving your present Place?”

Small Applicant. “Please, ’M, the Lady said she can do with a less
experienced Servant! " i. — by Charles keene, 1890.

HERE are some very notable pictures to
be seen in our present Peep into Punch ;
for example, the last picture by Charles
Keene, the first by Phil May, and the
cartoon which is usually considered to be
the masterpiece of Sir John Tenniel.

“ Annals of a Quiet Parish.” —The Vicar's Wife (to Country Trades¬
man). “ Now, Hoskins, after so many years of our Liberal Patronage, it
was really too bad of you to send us such a Globe—cracked from Top to
Bottom-! ”

Vicar (calling front the Study-door at end of passage). “ My dear, did
you recollect to send for Hoskins about the Globe you had the little Accident
with last week?” 2. —by Charles keene, 1890.

Pictures i, 2, and 3 are all by Charles Keene,
No. 3 being the last drawing by this great artist that
was published in Punch. The date of this drawing is

August 16, 1890, and Charles Keene
died on the 4th of January, 1891, in
his sixty-eighth year, having worked
for Punch for nearly forty years—see
Part II. of this article, which shows
Charles Keene’s first Punch- picture.
On November 26, 1890, Keene
wrote to a friendInfirmi¬
ties increase upon me, but my
appetite is so good and I sleep
well, so that, like Charles 2nd, I
shall have to apologize for being
such an unconscionable long time

a-dying.”

With the one exception of Sir
John Tenniel, whose first drawing
for Punch was published November
30, 1850, no Punch-wiviX has ever
been associated with the paper for
so long a while as Charles Keene,

’AERY ON THE BOULEVARDS.

3.—THE LAST PICTURE IN “ PUNCH ” BY CHARLES
KEENE J AUGUST l6, l8gO.

376

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

and no black -
and-white artist
in this country
has ever attained
such a consum¬
mate mastery
of his art as
Charles Keene
attained—

All with that broad
free force, whose
fascination
All felt, and artists
most, that dex¬
terous sleight
Which gave our land
the unchallenged
consummation
Of graphic mastery
in Black - and -
White -

wrote Punch in
the obituary
notice of January
17, 1891 ; and
Mr. Punch’s
opinion of the
greatest artist
who has ever
worked for him
is amply corro¬
borated by the
united opinion of
artists and critics
in this country
and elsewhere,
although the
general public
has not as yet
ranked the work
of Charles Keene
so high as it ranks
the work of other

THE

PILOT

DROPPING

-SIR JOHN TENNIEL’S WORLD-FAMOUS CARTOON ;

MARCH 29, 1890.

artists inferior to
Keene—possibly
for the reason
that Charles
Keene deliber¬
ately ignored in
his pictures the
popular qualities
of “ prettiness ”
and elegance,
which have, of
course, no neces¬
sary connection
with art. Charles
Keene sought to
be true in his
expression of life
and character,
rather than
attractive, and in
this endeavour
the great artist
has a brilliant
successor in Mr.
Phil May, whose
first Pune h-
picture we shall
see farther on.

Sir John Ten-
niel’s masterpiece
(of late years) is
shown in No. 4.
It was published
March 29, 1890,
just after the
present Emperor
of Germany had
decided to run
Germany with¬
out Bismarck as
the political pilot
of the country.
The confident young Emperor looks half-
wistfully over the side of the ship at the

PUBLISHED

What our Artist has to Put up With. —“It’s very odd
—but I can’t get rid of my Pictures. The House is full of
them ! ”

“ Can’t you get your Grocer to give ’em away with a Pound
of Tea, or something? ” 5.— by du maurier, 1890.

A “ Scene” in the Highlands. — Ill-used Husband {under
the Bed). “Aye! ye may Crack me, and ye may Thrash ^me,
but ye canna break my Manly Sperrit. I’ll na come oot! ! ”
6.—£Y E. T, REED, 1890.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

377

brave old pilot who goes down to the boat,
which is waiting to take him ashore, and
the old pilot has to steady himself for just
a moment with his left hand against the

“ RETIRE 1 -WHAT DO YOU THINK P"

The G.O.M. of Politics at age 82, drawn by the G.O.M.
of Art at age 71.

8.— BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL, FEBRUARY 7, 1891.

ship’s side. The original sketch was finished
by Sir John Tenniel as a commission from
Lord Rosebery, who then gave it to Bis¬
marck. Both the Prince and the Emperor
were pleased with this stately picture, and
“ in acknowledging the drawing,” says Mr.
Spielmann in his “ History of Punch,” “ the

Veil, xviii.—48.

The Secrets of Literary Composition. — The Fair
Authoress of “ Passionate Pauline," gazing fondly at her
own reflection , writes as follows: —“ I look into the glass,
Reader. What do I see ? I see a pair of laughing, espiegle,
forget-me-not blue eyes, saucy and defiant; a mu tine little rose¬
bud of a mouth, with its ever-mocking moue; a tiny shell-like
ear, trying to play hide-and-seek in a tangled maze of rebellious
russet gold ; while, from underneath the satin folds of a rose-the
dressing-gown, a dainty foot peeps coyly forth in its exquisitely-
pointed gold morocco slipper,” etc., etc. (Vide “ Passionate
Pauline ,” by Parblcu.) 9.—by du maurier, 1891.

ex-Chancellor declared, ‘ It is indeed a fine
one ! ’”

No. 5 is by du Maurier, and the very
funny No. 6 is by Mr. E. T. Reed, that
clever artist now so popular, whose first
drawing was published in Punch on June 8,
1889. No. 7 is by Mr. G. H. Jalland.

Ibsen in Brixton. — Mrs. Harris. “Yes, William, I've
thought a deal about it, and I find I’m nothing but your Doll
and Dickey-Bird, and so I’m going ! ”

10. — BY KVERARD HOPKINS,. 1891.

378

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Clerical /Esthetics.— Fair Parishioner. “ And do you like the Pulpit,
Mr. Auriol ? ”

The New Curate. “ I do not. Er—it hides too much of the Figure, and I
like every Shake of the Surplice to tell ! ”

II.—BY DU MAURIER, 1891.

The Tenniel-cartoon in No. 8 was published in
February, 1891. Mr. Gladstone was eighty-two, and
rumours of his retirement were in the air. The last
of Mr. Punch’s verses which face this cartoon is :—

I regret, so much to tease them !

My last exit would much ease them.

But Retire !—and just to please them !

What do you think ?

[ Winks and walks round. ]

URBI ET ORBI.”

Mil. rUNCIt RETURNS niS BEST THANKS TO ALL AND SINGULAR,
the Public and the Press, for the enthusiastic reception

WITH WHICH THE TOAST OK HIS JUBILEE, EVERYWHERE AND BY
EVERYBODY, HAS BEEN RECEIVED. To EVERYONE HEALTH AND

Happiness, Peace and Prosperity.

13. —BY LINLEY SAM BOURNE *, JULY 25, 1891.
[The first Number of “ Punch ” ivas issued on
July 17 , 1841.1

The pictorial satire in No. 9 is by du
Maurier. In No. 10 there is a most amusing
skit by Everard Hopkins on the Ibsenite

reason and rot of 1891, the fantastic and
morbid work of the Norwegian dramatist
being then thrust upon the London public,

“ Turning the Tables.” —[“ The success of a Russian Loan
is not dearly purchased by a little effusion, which, after all,
commits Russia to nothing. French sentiment is always worth
cultivating in that way, because, unlike the British variety, it
has a distinct influence upon investments.”— Daily Paper.]

12. —BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL ; SEPTEMBER 26, 1891.

A JUBILEE GREETING!

Hi. Pr*c» mlf a.J n.ryboJy). "HEARTY CON OB ATUL ATI0N8, SIR '—KNOWN YOU FI TTY TEARS.
_ AND LIKE YOU BETTER THAN EVER"" _

Mr. Punch’s Greeting to the Prince of Wales on the Prince’s
fiftieth birthday.

14. — BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL J NOVEMBER 14, 1891.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

379

A Poser.— Fair Client. “ I'm always photo¬
graphed from the same Side, but I forget which ! ”
Scotch Photographer (reflectively). “Well, it’ll
no be this Side, I’m thinkin’.. Maybe it’s t’ither ! ”
15.— BY E. T. REED, 1890.

with the comical result shown in
this drawing.

Glancing at No. n, we see in
No. 12 a good Tenniel-cartoon
that hits off very neatly the relative
positions of France and Russia at
the time of the French loan to
Russia in 1891 — the cunning
Bear and his too-effusive Leader
have changed places.

Perfectly Plain. — Youn? Wife. “ Oh, I’m so happy ! Plow is it you've

never Married, Miss Prymme?”

Miss Prymme. “ My dear, I never have accepted—and never would accept
—any Offer of Marriage ! ” [And then her Questioner began softly playing
the old Air, “ Nobody axed you.”]

17.— BY BERNARD PARTRIDGE, 1892.

“THE COMING OF ARTHUR.”

E0i.ui or Pot. •• H'M ! A LITTLE YOUNG FOR THE PART,-DON’T TOO THINK ? -

Saui or Durr. "WELL, YES! D'E HAD TO WAIT FOR IT A OOOD MANY YEARS' - BUT I TniSK
HI 'Ll DO' 1 " _____

Mr. Arthur Balfour criticised by the “shades” of Lords
Palmerston and Beaconsfield.

16.— BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL *, FEBRUARY 20, 1892.

Studies in Animal Life. The Goormong. (Epicuri de
Grege Porcus. British Isles.) Mr. Huggins. “ What a
’eavenly Dinner it was ! ”

Mr. Buggins. “B’lieveyer! Mykes yer wish yer was born
’Oiler!” 18.— BY DU MAURIER, 1892.

Mr. Linley Sambourne gives us in No. 13
a very fine drawing of Mr. Punch on the
attainment of his Jubilee. This was pub¬
lished July 25, 1891, and the first number
of Punch was issued July 17, 1841. By the
way, Mr. Sambourne has worked for Punch
since April, 1867—more than thirty years—
and his unique work, strong, fine, and true,
is still one of the leading features of Punch.

The Tenniel in No. 14 portrays Mr. Punch
greeting the Prince of Wales on his Jubilee
—for both these famous and most popular
personages were born in the year 1841, and
so they both attained their Jubilee in 1891.

Another funny picture by Mr. E. T. Reed,
No. 15, brings us to “ The Coming of
Arthur” in No. 16, by Tenniel, published
February 20, 1892, in which month Mr.
Arthur Balfour first became Leader of the
House of Commons. The ghosts of two
former Conservative Leaders, Palmerston
and Disraeli, look at the new “ young ”
leader of their Party, who was then in his

380

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE CYCLIST CENTAUR OF THE FUTURE.

_ Tbi Diuuk or a (Px kcmatic) Tvao. _

20 .—BY E. T. REED, 1891 .

County Council, which in 1892, with a large
Progressive majority, threatened the ancient
rights and powers of London City. Here
is Punchs final chorus to the song :—

THE POLITICAL JOHNNY GILPIN.

(TUB FINISH.)

80 LUB AW ARROW 8WI1T HR FLEW I " AND SO HE Dro-ATO WON TOO.

RACE SOUTHWARD THROUOH THE TnRONO, FOR IIE OOT FIRST TO TOWH i

WHO SHOUTED LOUD. ' HE YET WILL WIN I AND. STIFF AND SORE. AT THE HOUSE DOOR.

JOHN 01LPIN ’8 OOINO BTRONO I ' * * ’I BARR WINNER. HE OOT {tfJWN.

21 . — BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL | JULY 23 , 1892 .

Oh, hush ! hush ! hush !

Here comes the Bogie Man !

Turtle, be cautious ; Griffin, hide !

You’re under his black ban.

Oh, whist ! whist ! whist !

We’ll save ye, if we can ,

My pretty popsey-wopscy-wops,

From yon bad Bogie Man !

Nos. 20 and 22 are by Mr. E. T. Reed,
and the Tenniel in No. 21—a very fine

- HUHH 1 jrcsn i htjsh I " THM hide TOUR HEADS, MT DAELDKW ;

lTg»« COMES THE BOGIE MAX I HE ’LL CATCH TOP IF HE CAB 1 *

The “ Gog and Magog” of London City threatened by the
London County Council.

19 .—BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL ; MARCH 19 , 1892 .

forty-fourth year, and their remark, u But I
think he’ll do ! ! ” has been fully justified by
events. We have almost forgotten that this
quietly strong statesman was once nicknamed
in the House, “ Miss Balfour.”

Mr. Bernard Partridge drew No. 17, and
No. 18 is by du Marnier—two talented artists
whose love of beauty has so often delighted
the readers of Punch.

In No. 19 Sir John Tenniel depicts the
genii of London City—Gog and Magog—
singing the popular ditty, “ Hush ! Hush 1
Hush ! Here Comes the Bogie
Man ! ” as at the back of them
hovers the menacing London

THE BOGLE MAN.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

38i

THE ROAD TO RUIN.

23. —BY SIR JOHN TENN 1 EL ; NOVEMBER 5, 1892.

cartoon—represents exhausted Mr. Gladstone
(as John Gilpin) just dismounted from his

24.— BY LIN LEY SAM BOURNE ; DECEMBER IO, 1892.

exhausted horse, Liberal Party. The date of
this is July 23, 1892, and at the General
Election of that year the Liberals just
managed to get into power, but could only
remain in power by aid of the Irish Nationalist
vote—hence the words “ Home Rule ” on
the cloak which the weary old horseman
carries on his arm.

Then was resumed that terrible “ Home
Rule Dance,” so cleverly drawn by Mr. Harry
Furniss in No. 25, in which the unfortunate
politician was dragged this way and that by
the conflicting interests and necessities of
his uncomfortable position.

25. —BY HARRY FURNISS J FEBRUARY l8, 1893.

Cartoon No. 23, by Tenniel, refers to the
increase in European armaments. France
and Germany each heavily burdened with
armies of four million men are riding doggedly
“The Road to Ruin,’ 5 as the two horsemen
glare at each other, while the overladen
horses falter in their stride.

The very graphic picture in No. 24 is by
Linley Sambourne : Mr. Cecil Rhodes strides
across Africa from Cape Town to Cairo,
connecting the two places with his telegraph
wire.

In Tenniel’s cartoon, No. 26, the old
warrior is warily advancing along the top of

382

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A PILGRIM'S PHOGltESS.

26.— BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL \ APRIL IS, 1B93.

“.... as if here a national Argosy, laden
with Opulence, Rank, Intelligence, and

Equivocal.—“ A — got anything on to-night, Lady Godiva.?”
—“ Not much, I’m glad to say ! ”

28. —BY DU MAURIER, 1893.

the dangerous
wall “ Home
Rule,” with dis¬
aster awaiting
him on either
side, and with
not even a star
to guide his
doubting eye as
he anxiously
gazes towards
the unseen end
of his dangerous
pilgrimage.

One of Mr.
Sambou rne’s
best cartoons is
that in No. 27 —
France descend¬
ing into the
maelstrom of
Corruption.
What splendid
work Mr. Sam-
bourne does!
Punch wrote
when this splen¬
did drawing was
published in
January, 1893 :

THE DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM.

27. —THE DECADENCE OF FRANCE.* BY LINLEY SAM BOURNE J
JANUARY 28, 1893.

Honour, had
gone, dismally
and desperately,

down to -

what ? .... ^
Well, well —
there is no need
to dwell upon
one of the many
corruptions of
the Third Re¬
public of France,
which, in Janu¬
ary, 1893, when
this picture was
drawn, had not
added to her
muck-heap the
c r o w n i n g cor¬
ruption of the
Dreyfus horror.

Passing No. 28,
we have in Nos.
29 and 30 two
noble and rather
pathetic car¬
toons by Sir
John Tenniel
which relate to
the close of Mr.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

383

_ THE “ FORLORN HOPE. n _

29.— BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL ; SEPTEMBER 30, 1893.

Gladstone’s political life In No. 29, pub¬
lished September 30, 1893, the now desperate

UNARMING.

UNARM!—THE I.OXO DAY'S TASK IS DONE"
_ Antony Jtnl Cltafalra, Act IV . ■‘•vent IT

30.— BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL *, MARCH IO, 1894.

but still valiant old fighter is climbing the
impossible cliff on the crest of which stands
the House of Lords. Mr. Gladstone’s Home
Rule Bill had been rejected by the Lords,

Military Education.— Genera/. “ Mr. de Bridoon, what
is the general use of Cavalry in modern warfare?”

Mr. de Bridoon. “ Well, I suppose to give Tone to what
would otherwise be a mere Vulgar Brawl ! ”

31. —BY REGINALD CLEAVER, 1892.

and in revenge the old man leads his followers
to attack them. Look at Tenniel’s drawing
of the desperate face.

A less painful picture is No. 30, published
March 10, 1894, “Unarming.” On March

32. —THE FIRST “ PUNCH’’-PICTURE BY MR. PHIL MAY J
OCTOBER 14, 1893.

3rd the Queen had accepted Mr. Gladstone’s
resignation, and had summoned Lord Rose¬
bery to form a Ministry. The worn old
champion takes off his armour for the last
time, and, in his eighty-fifth year, hangs

3§4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

upon the wall his double-handed sword of
Leadership.

Mr. Reginald Cleaver has a very humorous
drawing in No. 31, and in No. 32 we see

the first picture by Mr. Phil May that was
published in Punch. Not only is Mr. Phil
May a natural humorist of the first water,
but he has an astounding excellence of
draughtsmanship and a truth of observation

“A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.”

r»TB» Xmcjfc "LOOK HERE, JOHN, THERE’S A JOLLY BIGHT O’ THEM FURRI5’ CRAFT ABOUT.TAKE A T1F
• FROM YOUR OLD FR1KSD —BUILD ALL YOU KNOW—AND DASH THE EXI’EHSE!’’ _

35. —BY SIK JOHN TENNIEL; DECEMBER 23, 1893.

which enable him to realize his humorous
conceptions in a most masterly way. He

Nervous Youth (to Fair Debutante). “ Er— I must congratu¬
late you on your Appearance. Miss Godolphin ! ”

]• air Debutante (flattered). “Oh, thanks, Mr. Young 1 ”
Nerz’ous Youth (hastily). “ Of course—er—I only mean your
First Appearance, you know ! ”

36. —BY BERNARD PARTRIDGE, 1894.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

385

37.— BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL ) JUNE 30, 1894.

“ a man [of genius]
worthy successor to
Keene himself.

In No. 33 Tenniel refers to
the late Czar of Russia in the
is really very funny, for when.

is, moreover, as careful and
thorough a workman as even
Charles Keene was, and the quite
remarkable “ economy of means ”
that is so characteristic of Mr.
Phil May’s work (/.*., the fewness
of the strokes by which his effects
are shown) is another sign of the
genius of this fine artist, who, as

Yol. xvili.—49.

AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION.

'Arry (shouting across the street to his 'Tat "). “ Hi I
_Tuih ia 'be I ”

40.— BY PHIL MAY, 1894.

in the street,” is a
the great Charles

the visit to Paris of
autumn of 1893. It
after a good dinner,
President Carnot
is effusively say¬
ing good-bye, the
Czar edges in the
request—“ By th*
way — could you
’blige me—triflin’
loan ? ” A condi-
tion of things
sufficiently near
the truth to
make the humour
of this cartoon
all the more
funny.

In No. 34 Mr.
E. T. Reed has
cleverly adapted a
popular song to
the Glacial
Period; and in
No. 35 Sir John
Tenniel drives
home a lesson
that England

3 86

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A VERY VULGAR BOY.

Ajucir' yxb pardon, Miss, but mioht that 'brk uttlr Doo’s Tail

_ HA’ lIBKN CUT OFF OB DRPV' IN > "

41.— BY VV. J. HODGSON, 1894.

must never forget, when he makes
Father Neptune say to John Bull,
“ Look here, John, there’s a jolly
sight o’ them furrin’ craft about;
take a tip from your old friend—
build all you know—and dash the

the effects of light and shade produced by the
Japanese lantern.

Just as Mr. Phil May is no unworthy successor
of Charles Keene in the portrayal of the People’s
life, so we may say that Mr. Bernard Partridge is in
all respects worthy to take up the mantle of George
du Maurier in the portrayal of the life of Society.

No. 37 relates to the opening of the Tower Bridge
in June, 1894; No. 38 is by Mr. EVerard Hopkins,
and Nos. 39 and 40 are two fine examples of Mr.
Phil May’s genius; he has drawn these people of the

A Bloodthirsty Baritone. —Miss Maud. “ Won’t you sing some¬
thing, Mr. Green ? ”

The Curate. “ I haven’t brought my Music. But if you know the
Accompaniment, and would play it, I think I could sing ‘ The Brigand s
Revenge’!” 43.--by du maurier, 1894.

expense!”

Although the great¬
est care and the best
work is put into the
reproduction of these
pictures, I doubt
whether the beautiful
little drawing in No.
36 by Mr. Bernard
Partridge does justice
to the original—for
hundreds of thou¬
sands of copies of
this magazine have to
be printed. Notice
how wonderfully Mr.
Partridge has drawn
the silk dress of this
pretty girl, and how
cleverly he has given

A TOUCHING APPEAL.

Jonm, " BoO-HOP I HE 1II UTEE Mh WELLY MCCII! NO TEACEV MAX COME ST01TY IU«!_

42.— BY SIR JOHN TENNIEL \ NOVEMBER 17, 1894.

slums to the life—
from the life. The
artist has caught these
men and women in
the very act of their
speech and move¬
ment, and shows them
here as living people
— not as dummies
with words tacked on
to them.

Mr. W. J. Hodgson
drew No. 41 ; and
No. 42 is an amusing-
cartoon by Tenniel on
the victory of little
Japan over big China
in 1894. George du
Maurier drew No. 43.

( To he continued.)

A Master of Craft.

By W. W. Jacobs.

XI.

APTAIN BARBER walked
to his house in thoughtful
mood, and sighed as he
thought of the uncertainty of
life and the futility of earthly
wishes. The blinds at his
windows were all decently drawn, while the
Union Jack drooped at half-mast in the
front garden. He paused at the gate with a
strong distaste for encountering the subdued
gloom and the wealth of womanly love
which awaited him indoors, and, bethinking
himself of the masterless state of his craft,
walked slowly back and entered the Thorn
Inn.

“No news, I suppose, Captain Barber?”
said the landlady, regarding him with great
sympathy.

The captain shook his head, and, exchang¬
ing greetings with a couple of neighbours,
ordered something to drink.

“ It’s wonderful how you bear up, I’m
sure,” said the landlady ; “ when my poor
dear died I cried every day for five weeks.
I came down to skin and bone almost.”

“Well, if I was you-said the old

man, irritably, and regarding the lady’s
ample proportions with an unfavourable eye.

“ What ? ” inquired the other, pausing with
her fingers on the whisky-tap.

“ If I was you,” repeated Captain Barber,
slowly, in order to give time for full measure,
“ I should go an’ cry for five months all day
and all night.”

I he landlady put the glass in front of him
sharply, and after giving him his change with¬
out looking at him, thoughtfully wiped down
the counter.

“ Mrs. Church quite well ? ” she inquired,
with studied artlessness.

“ Quite well,” replied the captain, scenting
danger.

The landlady, smiling amiably, subsided
into a comfortable Windsor chair, and shook
her head at him so severely that, against his
better sense, he felt compelled to demand an
explanation.

“There, there,” replied the landlady, “get
along with you, do ! Innocence ! ”

“ It’s no good, Cap’n Barber,” said one of
the customers with the best intentions in the
world.

“ It struck me all of a heap,” said the
landlady.

“ So it did me,” said the other man.

“ My missus knew it all along,” said the
first man; “she said she knew it by the way
they looked at one another.”

“ Might I ask who you’re talking of ? ”
demanded the incensed Barber, who had
given up the effort to appear unconscious as
being beyond his powers,

“A young engaged couple,” said the land¬
lady.

The captain hesitated. “What have you
been shaking your head at me and telling me
it’s no good for, then ? ” he demanded.

“At your pretending not to have heard of
it,” said the landlady.

“ I have not ’eard of it,” said Captain
Barber, fiercely, as he took up his glass and
walked towards the parlour. “ I’ve got
something better to do than talk about my
neighbours’ affairs.”

“Yes, of course you have,” said the land¬
lady. “ We know that.”

The indignant Barber closed the door
behind him with a bang, and, excited with
the controversy, returned with a short and
suspicious nod the greeting of a small man of
shrunken and forlorn aspect who was sitting
at the other side of the room.

“ Mornin’, Cap’n Nibletts,” he growled.

“ Morn in’, sir,” said Nibletts; “how’s
things ? ”

Captain Barber shook his head. “ Bad as
bad can be,” he replied, slowly; “there’s no
hope at all. I’m looking for a new master
for my vessel.”

Nibletts looked up at him eagerly, and
then looked away again. His last command
had hoisted the green flag at the mouth of
the river in a position which claimed atten¬
tion, respect, and profanity from every craft
which passed, its master having been only
saved from the traditional death of the
devoted shipmaster by the unpardonable
conduct of the mate, who tore him from
his craft by the scruff of his neck and the
seat of his trousers.

“ What about Harris ? ” he suggested.

“ I don’t like Harris’s ways,” said Barber,
slowly.

“ Well, what about Fletcher ? ” said
Nibletts.

“ Fletcher’s ways are worse than wot
Harris’s ways are,” commented Captain
Barber.

“ I can understand you being careful,”

Copyright, 1899, by W. W. Jacobs, in the United States of America.

388

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

said Captain Nibletts; “she’s the prettiest
little craft that ever sailed out of Seabridge.
You can’t be too careful.”

“ If things ’ad been different,” said the
gratified owner, rolling his whisky round
his mouth and
swallowing it
gently, “ J’d have
liked you to
have ’ad her.”

for you,
inquired,

replied

‘ FLETCHERS WAYS ARE WORSE THAN WOT HARRIS S WAYS ARE,

“ Thankee,” said Nibletts, quietly.

There was a pause, during which both men
eyed the noble specimens of fish which are
preserved for tavern parlours. Captain Barber
took another sip of whisky.

“ I’m going to use my own judgment,
Nibletts,”"he said, slowly. “ I’ve always rose
superior to the opinions of other people.
There’s nobody you know would give you a
ship. /’/// going to give you the Foam ! ”

Captain Nibletts, rising from his seat,
crossed over, and, taking his hand, thanked
him in broken accents for this overpowering
expression of confidence in him. Then he
walked back, and, taking his whisky from the
table, threw it on the floor.

“ I’ve had enough of that,” he said, briefly.
“When am I to take her over, Cap’n
Barber ? ”

“So soon as ev^r you please,” said his
benefactor. “ Old Ben’ll stay on as mate;
Fraser’s gone.”

Captain Nibletts thanked him again, and,
clapping on his hard hat, passed hastily into
the bar, his small visage twisted into a smile
to which it had long been a stranger. With

the customers in the bar he exchanged
remarks of so frivolous a nature in passing
that the landlady nearly dropped the glass
she was wiping, and then, crimson with
indignation, as . the door swung behind him,
realized that the melancholy and usually
respectful Nibletts had thought fit to publicly
address her as “ Gertie.”

In the same high spirits the
new master swung hastily down
the road to his new command.
Work had already commenced,
and the energetic Ben, having
been pushed over once by a set
of goods in the slings owing to
the frantic attempts of the men
at the hand-crane to keep pace
with his demands, was shouting
instructions from a safe distance.
He looked round as Nibletts
stepped aboard, and, with a wary
eye on the crane, bustled
towards him.

“ Wot can we do
Cap’n Nibletts ? ” he
with a patronizing air.

“ I’m to be master,”
the other, quietly.

“ You ? ” said Ben, with
offensive astonishment, as he saw the death
of his own ambitious hopes in that quarter.
“You to be master?”

Nibletts nodded and coloured. “ Cap’n
Barber just gave me the berth,” he remarked.

Ben sighed and shook his head. “ He’ll
never be the same man ag’in,” he affirmed,
positively; “ ’e went away from ’ere dazed,
quite dazed. ’Ow was ’e when you saw ’im ? ”

“ He was all right,” was the reply.

Ben shook his head as one who knew
better. “ I ’ope he won’t get no more
shocks,” he observed, gravely. “ It’ll be nice
for you to get to sea ag’in, cap’n.”

Captain Nibletts raised his weather-beaten
countenance and sniffed the air with relish.

“ You’ll be able to see the Diadem as we
go by,” continued the sorely-aggravated Ben.
“ There’s just her masts showing at ’igh water.”

A faint laugh rose from somebody in the
hold, and Nibletts, his face a dull red, stole
quietly below and took possession of his new
quarters. In the course of the day he trans¬
ferred his belongings to the schooner, and,
as though half-fearful that his new command
might yet slip through his fingers, slept on
board.

On the way back to London a sum in
simple proportion, set by Joe, helped to
exercise the minds of the crew in the rare

A MASTER OF CRAFT

3 8 9

intervals which the new mate allowed them
for relaxation : “ If Ben was bad on the fust
v’y’ge, and much wuss on the. second, wot
5 ud he be like on the tenth ? ” All agreed
that the answer would require a lot of
working. They tarred the rigging, stropped
the blocks, and in monkey - like attitudes
scraped the masts. Even the cook received
a little instruction in his art, and estranged
the affections of all hands by a “ three-
decker/ 5 made under Ben’s personal super¬
vision.

The secret society discussed the matter for
some time in vain. The difficulty was not so
much in inventing modes of retaliation as
in finding some bold spirit to carry them
out. In vain did the president allot tasks to
his admiring followers, preceded by excellent
reasons why he should not perform them
himself. The only one who showed any
spirit at all was Tim* and he, being ordered
to spill a little tar carelessly from aloft, paid
so much attention to the adverb that
Joe half killed him when he came down
again.

Then Mr. William Green, having learnt
that the mate was unable to read, did
wonders with a piece of chalk and the
frying-pan, which
he hung baro-
me t er-fash ion
outside the galley
when the skipper
was below, the
laughter of the
delighted crew
bearing witness to
the success of his
efforts — laughter
which became
almost uncontrol¬
lable as the mate,
with as stately an
air as he could
assume, strode to¬
wards the galley
and brought up in
front of the frying-
pan.

“ Wot’s all that,
cook ? 55 he de¬
manded, pointing
to the writing.

“Wot, sir? 55
asked the inno¬
cent.

“ On the frying-
pan, 55 replied Ben,
scowling.

“ That’s chalk-marks,” explained the cook,
“ to clean it with.”

“ It looks to me like writing,” snapped the
mate.

“ Lor, no, sir,” said the cook, with a superior
smile.

“ I say it does,” said Ben, stamping.

“ Well, o’ course you know best, sir,” said
the cook, humbly. “ I ain’t nothing of a
scholard myself. If it’s writing, wot does it
say, please ? 55

“ I don’t say it is writing,” growled the old
man. “ I say it looks like it.”

“ I can assure you you’re mistook, sir,” said
the cook, blandly; “ you see, I clean the
sorsepans the same way. I only ’eard of it
lately. Look ’ere. 55

He placed the articles in question upside
down in a row on the deck, and Tim, reading
the legends inscribed thereon, and glancing
from them to the mate, was hastily led below
in an overwrought condition by the flattered
Mr. Green.

“ Cook,” said the mate, ferociously.

“ Sir,” said the other.

“ I won’t ’ave the
sorsepans cleaned
that way.”

“ No, sir,” said
the cook, respect¬
fully, “it does
make ’em larf,
don’t it, sir, though
I can’t see wot
they’re larfing at
any more than wot
you can.”

The mate walked
off fuming, and to
his other duties
added that of in¬
spector of pots and
pans, a condition
of things highly
offensive to the
cook, inasmuch as
certain culinary
arrangements of
his, only remotely
connected with
cleanliness, came
in for much un¬
skilled comment.
The overworked
crew went ashore at the earliest

possible moment after their arrival
in London, in search of recuper¬
ative draughts. Ben watched

them a trifle wistfully as they

“ i won’t ’ave the sorsepans cleaned

THAT WAY.”

390

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

moved off, and when Nibletts soon after
followed their example without inviting him
to join him in a social glass of superior
quality, smiled mournfully as he thought of
the disadvantages of rank.

He sat for some time smoking in silence,
monarch of all he surveyed, and then, gazing
abstractedly at the silent craft around him,
fell into a pleasant dream, in which he saw
himself in his rightful position as master of
the Foam , and Nibletts, cashiered for drunken¬
ness, coming to him for employment before
the mast. His meditations were disturbed
by a small piece of coal breaking on the
deck, at which he looked lazily, until, finding
it followed by two other pieces, he reluctantly
came to the conclusion that they were intended
for him. A fourth piece, better aimed, put
the matter beyond all reasonable doubt,
and, looking up sharply, he caught the
watchman in the act of launching the fifth.

u Hullo, old ’un,” said George, cheer¬
fully, “ I thought you was asleep.”

“You thought wrong, then,” said the
mate, sourly ; “ don’t you do that ag’in.”

“ Why, did I ’urt you ? ” said the other,
surprised at his tone.

“ Next time you want to chuck coal at
anybody,” continued Ben, with dignity,
“ pick out one o’ the ’ands ; mates don’t like
’aving coal chucked at ’em by watchmen.”

“ Look who we are,” gasped the petrified
George. “ Look who we are,” he repeated,
helplessly. “ Look who we are.”

“ Keep your place, watchman,” said the
mate, severely ; “ keep your place, and I’ll
keep mine.”

The watchman regarded him for some
time in genuine astonishment, and then,
taking his old seat on the post, thrust his
hands in his pockets, and gave utterance to
this shocking heresy, “ Mates ain’t nothing.”

“ You mind your business, watchman,”
said the nettled Ben, “ and I’ll mind mine.”

“ You don’t know it,” retorted the other,
breathing heavily; “be—sides, you don’t
look like a mate. I wouldn’t chuck coal at
a real mate.”

He said no more, but sat gazing idly up
and down the river with a face from which
all expression had been banished, except
when at intervals his gaze rested upon the
mate, when it lit up with an expression of
wonder and joy which made the muscles
ache with the exercise.

He was interrupted in this amusement by
the sound of Tootsteps and feminine voices
behind him : the indefatigable Tippings were
paying another of their informal visits, and,

calmly ignoring his presence, came to the
edge of the jetty and discussed ways and
means of boarding the schooner.

“ Mr. Fraser’s gone,” said the watchman,
politely and loudly; “ there’s a new skipper
now, and that tall, fine, ’andsome, smart,
good-looking young feller down there is the
new mate.”

The new mate, looking up fiercely, acknow¬
ledged the introduction with an inhospitable
stare, a look which gave way to one of
anxiety as Mrs. Tipping, stepping into the
rigging, suddenly lost her nerve, and, gripping
it tightly, shook it in much the same fashion
as a stout bluebottle shakes the web of a
spider.

“ Hold tight, mar,” cried her daughter,
excitedly.

“ I am,” cried Mrs. Tipping. “ Help ! ”

The watchman stepped into the rigging
beside her, and patted her soothingly on the
back ; the mate coming to the side took her
foot and assisted her to reach the deck.
Miss Tipping followed, and the elder lady,
after recovering from the shock caused by
her late peril, fell to discussing the eternal
subject of Mr. Robinson with the new mate.

“No, I never see ’im,” said Ben, thought¬
fully ; “ I never heard of him till you come
asking arter ’im.”

“ You must make up your mind he’s gone,”
said Mrs. Tipping, turning to her daughter,
“ that’s what I keep telling you. I never
was so tired of anything in my life as tramp¬
ing down here night after night. It ain’t
respectable.”

“You needn’t come,” said the other, duti¬
fully. “ He was last heard of on this ship,
and where else am I to look for him ? You
said you’d like to find him yourself.”

“ I should,” said Mrs. 'hipping, grimly ; “ I
should. Me an’ him are to have a little talk,
if ever we do meet.”

“If he ever comes aboard this ship,” said
the mate, firmly, “ I’ll tackle him for you.”

“ Find out where he lives,” said Mrs. Tip¬
ping, eagerly.

“ And let us know,” added her daughter,
giving him a card; “ that’s our address, and
any time you’re up our way we shall be very
pleased to see you, Mr.-”

“ Brown,” said the mate, charmed with
their manners. “ Mr. Brown.”

“ Ben,” cried a voice from the wharf.

The new mate gazed austerely at the small
office-boy above.

“ Letter for the mate,” said the youth, who
was unversed in recent history ; “ catch ! ”

He pitched it to the deck and walked off

A MASTER OF CRAF 2 "

39i

whistling. There was only one mate in Ben’s
world, and he picked the letter up and put it
in his pocket.

“ Don’t mind us, if you want to read it,”
said Mrs. Tipping, kindly.

“ Only business, I expect,” said Ben,
grandly.

He took it from his pocket, and, tearing
the envelope, threw it aside and made a
feint of reading the contents.

“Not bad news, I hope?” said Mrs. Tip¬
ping, noticing his wrinkled brow.

“ I can’t read without my glasses,” said
the mate, with a measure of truth in the
statement. He looked at Mrs. Tipping, and
saw a chance of avoiding humiliation.

“ P’r’aps you’d just look at it and see if it’s
important,” he suggested.

Mrs. Tipping took the letter from him,

“ MRS. TIPPING TOOK THE LETTER.”

and, after remarking on the strangeness of
the handwriting, read aloud :—

“Dear Jack,— If you want to see Mr.
Norton come to 10, John Street, Walworth,
and be careful nobody sees you.”

“Jack,” said the mate, stooping for the
envelope. “ Why, it must be meant for Mr.
—for Jack Fraser.”

“Careful nobody sees you,” murmured
Miss Tipping, excitedly, as she took the

envelope from the mate; “ why, the address is
printed by hand.”

Mother and daughter looked at each
other. It was evident that their thoughts
were similar, and that one could have known
them without the expenditure of the pro¬
verbial penny.

“ I’ll give it to him when I see him,”
remarked Ben, thrusting the letter in his
pocket. “ It don’t seem to be important.
He ain’t in London at present, I don’t
think.”

“ I shouldn’t think it was important at all,”
said Mrs. Tipping, soothingly.

“Not at all,” echoed her daughter, whose
cheek was burning with excitement. “ Good¬
night, Mr. Brown.”

Ben bade them good-night, and in his
capacity of host w r alked up the wharf with
them and saw them depart.

“ Nice little thing, ain’t she ? ” said the
watchman, who was standing there, after
Mrs. Tipping had bidden the mate good¬
bye ; “be careful wot you’re a-doin’
of, Ben. Don’t go an’ spile yourself
by a early marriage, just as you’re
a-beginning to get on in life. Be¬
sides, a mate might do better than
that, and she’d only marry you for
your persition.”

XII.

In happy ignorance of the changes
caused by his sudden and tragic end,
Captain Flower sat at the open
window of his shabby Walworth
lodging, smoking an after-breakfast
pipe, and gazing idly into the dismal,
littered yard beneath. Time—owing
to his injured foot, which, neatly
bandaged at a local dispensary,
rested upon a second chair — hung
rather heavily upon his hands as he
sat thinking of ways and means of
spending the next six months profit¬
ably and pleasantly. He had looked
at the oleographs on the walls until
he was tired, and even the marvels
of the wax fruit under a cracked
glass shade began to pall upon him.

“ I’ll go and stay in the country a bit,” he
muttered ; “ I shall choke here.”

He took a slice of bread from the tray,
and, breaking it into small pieces, began to
give breakfast to three hens which passed a
precarious existence in the yard below.

“ They get quite to know you now,” said
the small but shrewd daughter of the house,
who had come in to clear the breakfast things
away. “ How’d yer like your egg ? ”

39 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Very good/’ said Flower.

“ It was new-laid,” said the small girl.

She came up to the window and critically
inspected the birds. “She laid it,” she said,
indicating one of the three.

“She’s not much to look at,” said Flower,
regarding the weirdest-looking of the three
with some interest.

“ She’s a wonderful layer,” said Miss
Chiffers, “and as sharp as you make ’em.
When she’s in the dust-bin the others ’ave to
stay outside. They can go
in when she’s ’ad all she
wants.”

“ I don’t think I’ll have
any more eggs,” said Flower,
casually. “ I’m eating too
much. Bacon’ll do by itself.”

“ Please yourself,” said
Miss Chiffers,
turning from
the window.

“ How’s your
foot?”

“Better,”
said Flower.

“ It’s swelled
more than it

was yesterday,” she said, with
ill-concealed satisfaction.

“ It feels better,” said the
captain.

“ That’s ’cos it’s goin’
dead,” said the damsel,

“then it’ll go black all up
your leg, and then you’ll ’ave
to ’ave it orf.”

Flower grinned comfort¬
ably.

“You may larf,” said the
small girl, severely, “ but you
won’t larf when you lose it, an’ all becos
you won’t poultice it with tea-leaves.”

She collected the things together on a tea-
tray of enormous size, and holding it tightly
pressed to her small waist, watched with
anxious eyes as the heavy articles slowly
tobogganed to the other end. A knife fell
outside the door, and the loaf, after a
moment’s hesitation which nearly upset the
tray, jumped over the edge and bounded
downstairs.

Flower knocked the ashes out of his pipe,
and slowly refilling it, began to peruse the
morning paper, looking in vain, as he had
looked each morning, for an account of his
death.

His reading was interrupted by a loud
knock at the street-door, and he threw down

the paper to be ready to receive the faithful
Fraser. He heard the door open, and then
the violent rushing upstairs of Miss Chiffers
to announce his visitor.

“Somebody to see you, Mr. Norton^’ she
panted, bursting into the room.

“Well, show him up,” said Flower.

“All of'’em?” demanded Miss Chiffers.

“ Is there more than one ? ” inquired
Flower, in a startled voice.

“ Three,” said Miss Chiffers, nodding;

“two gentlemen and a lady.”

“ Did they say what their
names were?” inquired the
other, turning very pale.

Miss Chiffers shook her
head and then stooped to
pick up a hairpin. “ One of
’em’s called Dick,” she said,
replacing the pin.

“ Tell them I’m not at
home,” said Flower, hastily,

“ but that I shall be back at
twelve o’clock. See ? ”

He produced a shilling,
and the small girl, with an
appreciative nod, left the
room, and closed the door
behind her'. Flower, suffering
severely from nervous excite¬
ment, heard a discussion in
the passage below, and then
sounds of a great multitude
coming upstairs and opening
various doors on its way, in
spite of the indignant opposi¬
tion afforded by the daughter
of the house.

“ What’s in here ? ” in¬
quired a well-known voice,
as a hand was placed
on his door-handle.

“ Nothing,” said Miss Chiffers ; “ ’ere, you
go away, that’s my bedroom. Go away,
d’you ’ear ? ”

There was the sound of a diminutive
scuffle outside, then the door opened and a
smartly-dressed young man, regardless of the
fair form of Miss Chiffers, which was coiled
round his leg, entered the room.

“ Why, Dick,” said the skipper, rising.
“ Dick ! Thank goodness it’s you.”

“ I’ve no doubt you’re delighted,” said Mr.
Tipping, coldly. “ What are you doing with
that knife ? ”

“ I thought it was somebody else,” said
Flower, putting it down. “ I thought it was
another attempt on my life.”

Mr. Tipping coughed behind his hand and

A MASTER OF CRAFT

393

murmured something inaudibly as his sister
entered the room, followed by the third
member of the party.

“ Oh, Fred ! ” she said, wildly, “ I wonder
you can look me in the face. Where have
you been all this time? Where have you
been ? ”

“ Give the man time to think,” said her
brother, exchanging a glance with the other
man.

“ I’ve been everywhere,” said Flower,
facing them defiantly. “ I’ve been hunted
all over the country.”

“ But where did you go when you left me
that day ? ” inquired Miss Tipping.

“ It’s a long story,” said Flower, slowly.
“ But you got the letter I wrote you ?”

Miss Tipping shook her head.

“You didn’t get it?” said Flower, in sur¬
prise. “ I can’t think what you must have
thought of me.”

“ I’ll tell you what I thought of you, if
you’d like to know,” interrupted Mr. Tipping,
eagerly.

“ I wrote to you to explain,” said Flower,
glibly; “ I went abroad suddenly, called
away at a moment’s notice.”

“ Special trains and all that sort o’ thing,
I s’pose,” said Mr. Tipping, with interest.

“ Dick,” said Miss Tipping, fiercely.

“ Well,” said Dick, gruffly.

“ Hold your tongue.”

“ I’ve not had any real sleep since,” said
Flower, pathetically, “ what with the danger
and thinking of you.”

“ Why didn’t you write again ? ” inquired
Miss Tipping.

“ I asked you to write to a certain address
in that letter I sent you,” said Flower, “and
when I came back to England and found
there was no letter, I concluded that you
couldn’t forgive me.”

Miss Tipping looked at him reproachfully,
but Mr. Tipping raising his eyes gasped for air.

“ But who are these enemies ? ” asked Miss
Tipping, tenderly drawing closer to Flower.

“ A man in the Government service-,”

began the captain.

He broke off disdainfully until such time
as Mr. Tipping should have conquered a
somewhat refractory cough.

“ In the secret service,” continued Flower,
firmly, “ has got enemies all round him.”

“You’ll have to get something else to do
when we are married, Fred,” said Miss Tip¬
ping, tearfully.

“You’ve forgiven me, then?” inquired
Flower, hoping that he had concealed a
nervous start.

Yol. xviii .—50

“ I’d forgive you anything, Fred,” said Miss
Tipping, tenderly; “you’ll have to give up
this job at once.”

Captain Flower shook his head and smiled
mournfully, thereby intimating that his ser¬
vices were of too valuable a nature for any
Government to lightly dispense with.

“ May I come round and see you to¬
morrow ? ” he inquired, putting his arm about
the lady’s waist.

“ Come round to-morrow ? ” repeated Miss
Tipping, in surprise ; “ why, you don’t think
I’m going to leave you here surrounded by
dangers ? You’re coming home with us
now.”

“No, to-morrow,” said the unhappy
mariner, in a winning voice.

“You don’t go out of my sight again,”
said Miss Tipping, firmly. “ Dick, you and
Fred shake hands.”

The two gentlemen complied. Both were
somewhat proud of their grip, and a by¬
stander might have mistaken their amiable
efforts to crush each other’s fingers for the
outward and visible signs of true affection.

“ You’d better settle up here now, Fred,”
said Miss Tipping.

Flower, putting the best face he could
upon it, assented with a tender smile, and,
following them downstairs, held a long argu¬
ment with Mrs. Chiffers as to the amount
due, that lady having ideas upon the subject
which did more credit to her imagination
than her arithmetic.

The bill was settled at last, and the little
party standing on the steps waited for the
return of Miss Chiffers, who had been dis¬
patched for a four-wheeler.

“Oh, what about your luggage, Fred?”
inquired Miss Tipping, suddenly.

“ Haven’t got any,” said Flower, quickly.
“ I managed to get away with what I stand
up in, and glad to do that.”

Miss Tipping squeezed his arm and leaned
heavily upon his shoulder.

“I was very lucky to get off as I did,”
continued the veracious mariner. “ I wasn’t
touched except for a rap over my foot with
the butt-end of a revolver. I was just over
the wall in time.”

“Poor fellow,” said Miss Tipping, softly,
as she shivered and looked up into his face.
“ What are you grinning at, Dick ? ”

“ I s’pose a fellow may grin if he likes,”
said Mr. Tipping, suddenly becoming serious.

“This is the first bit of happiness I’ve had
since I saw you last,” murmured Flower.

Miss Tipping squeezed his arm again.

“ It seems almost too good to be true,” he

394

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ THE BILL WAS SETTLED AT LAST.”

continued. “ I’m almost afraid I shall wake
up and find it all a dream.”

“ Oh, you’re wideawake enough,” said Mr.
Tipping.

“ Wideawake ain’t the word for it,” said
the other gentleman, shaking his head.

“ Uncle,” said Miss Tipping, sharply.

“Yes, my dear,” said the other, uneasily.

“ Keep your remarks for those that like
them,” said his dutiful niece, “ or else get
out and walk.”

Mr. Porson, being thus heckled, subsided
into defiant mutterings, intended for Dick
Tipping’s ear alone, and the remainder of the
drive to Chelsea passed almost in silence.
Arrived at the Blue Posts, Flower got out
with well-simulated alacrity, and going into the
bar, shook hands heartily with Mrs. Tipping-
before she quite knew what he was doing.

“ You’ve got him, then,” she said, turning
to her daughter, “ and now I hope you’re
satisfied. Don’t stand in the bar, I can’t
say what I want to say here —come in the
parlour and shut the door.”

They followed the masterful lady obe¬
diently into the room indicated.

“And now, Mr. Robinson,” she said, with
her hands on her hips, “ now for your ex¬
planation.”

“ I have explained to Matilda,” said Flower,
waving his hand.

“That’s quite right, mar,” said Miss
Tipping, nodding briskly.

“He’s had a dreadful time, poor
feller,” said Dick Tipping,
unctuously. “ He’s been hunted
all over England by—who was
it, Mister Robinson ? ”

“ The parties Pm working
against,” said Flower, repressing
his choler by a strong effort.

“ The parties he’s working
against,” repeated Mr. Tipping.

“ Somebody ought to talk to
them parties,” said Mr. Porson,
speaking with much deliberation,
“ that is, if they can find ’em.”

“They want looking after,
that’s what they want,” said Dick
Tipping, with a leer.

“ It’s all very well for you to
make fun of it,” said Mrs. Tip¬
ping, raising her voice. “ I like
plain, straightforward dealing folk
myself. I don’t understand no¬
thing about your secret services
and Governments and all that
sort of thing. Mr. Robinson,
have you come back prepared
to marry my daughter ? Because, if you
ain’t, we want to know why not.”

“ Of course I have,” said Flow r er, hotly.
“ Jt’s the dearest wish of my life. I should
have come before, only I thought when she
didn’t answer my letter that she had given me
up.”

“Where ’ave you been and what’s it all
about ? ” demanded Mrs. Tipping.

“ At present,” said Flower, with an appear¬
ance of great firmness, “ I can’t tell you. I
shall tell Matilda the day after we’re married
-if she’ll still trust me and marry me—and
you shall all know as soon as we think it’s
safe.”

“You needn’t say another word, mar,”
said Miss Tipping, warningly.

“ I’m sure,” said the elder lady, bridling.
“ Perhaps your uncle would like to try and
reason with you.”

Mr. Porson smiled in a sickly fashion, and
cleared his throat.

“You see, my dear-,” he began.

“Your tie’s all shifted to one side,” said
his niece, sternly, “and the stud’s out of your
button-hole. 1 wish you’d be a little tidier

A MASTER OF CRAFT

395

when you come here, uncle; it looks bad for
the house.”

“ I came away in a hurry to oblige you,”
said Mr. Porson. “ I don’t
think this is*a time to talk
about button-holes.”

“I | thought

‘ * your tie’s all shifted to one side,’ said his niece.”

to say something,”
retorted Miss Tip¬
ping, scathingly,

“and you might as
well talk about that
as anything else.”

“ It ain’t right,”
said Mrs. Tipping,
breaking in, “ that you should marry a man
you don’t know anything about; that’s what
I mean. That’s only reasonable, Tthink.”

“ It’s quite fair,” said Flower, trying hard
to speak reluctantly. “ Of course, if Matilda
wishes, I’m quite prepared to go away now.
I don't wish her to tie herself up to a man
who at present, at any rate, has to go about
wrapped in a' mystery.”

“All the same,” said Mrs. Tipping, with a
gleam in her eyes, “ I’m not going to have
anybody playing fast and loose with my
daughter. She’s got your ring on her finger.
You’re engaged to be married to her, and
you mustn’t break it off by running away or
anything of that kind. If she likes to break
it off, that’s a different matter.”

“I’m not going to break it off,” said Miss
ripping, fiercely; “I’ve made all the arrange¬
ments in my own mind. We shall get
married as soon as we can, and I shall put
Dick in here as manager, and take a nice
little inn down in the country somewhere.”

“ Mark my words,” said Mrs. Tipping,
solemnly, “ you’ll lose him again.”

“If I lose him again,” said Miss Tipping,
dramatically, “ if'he’s spirited
away by- these -people or
anything happens to him,
Dick won’t be manager
here. Uncle Porson will
have as much drink and
as many cigars as he pays
for, and Charlie will find
another berth.”

“Nobody shall hurt a
hair of his head,”
said Mr. Tipping,
with inimitable
pathos.

“ He must be pro¬
tected against his-
self,” said Mr.
Porson, spitefully;
“ that’s the ’ardest
part. He’s a man
what if ’e thinks
it’s his dooty ’ll go
away just as ’e did
before.”

“ Well, if he gets
away from Charlie,” said
Mr. Tipping, “ he’ll
be cute. There’s one
thing, Mr. Robinson :
if you try to get away
from those who love
you and are looking

after you, there’ll be a fight first, then there’!
be a police-court fuss, and then we shall find
out what the Government mean by it.”

Captain Flower sat down in an easy
posture as though he intended a long stay,
and in a voice broken with emotion mur¬
mured something about home, and rest, and
freedom from danger.

“ That’s just it,” said Mrs. Tipping, “ here
you are and here you’ll stay. After you’re
married it’ll be Matilda’s affair; and now let’s
have some tea.”

“First of all, mar, kiss Fred,” said Miss
l ipping, who had been eyeing her parent
closely.

Mrs. Tipping hesitated, but the gallant
captain, putting a good face on it, sprang up
and, passing his arm about her substantial
waist, saluted her, after which, as a sort of
set-off, he kissed Miss Tipping.

“I can only say,” he said, truthfully, “that
this kindness hurts me. The day I’m married
I’ll tell you all.”

(To be continued.)

“ Biggest on Record."

By George Dollar.

II.

From a Photo, by] the biggest book on RECORD. LCr. I V. Fox, Sioux Falls, S.D.

in the throng
It happened
When the largest
book in the world
—the one shown
in the illustration
with which we
open this article
—was exhibited
in that city, just
after the Chicago
Exposition of
1893 had been
closed, there were
plenty of people
anxious to try their
powers. It was a
“visitors’register,”
prepared by the
South Dakota
section of the
World’s Colum¬
bian Exposition,
and contained so
far as was possible
all the names of
all the visitors to
all parts of that
section which the

BOOK that weighs 1751b. is
not intended for use in a cir¬
culating library. It is, rather,
intended for exhibition, and is
never handled by the body
public unless some Sampson
is anxious to try his strength,
this way in Sioux Falls.

THE BIGGEST

From a Photo, by S.

active Dakotans were able to gather together.
It really looked as if one 1751b. book would
contain the complete set of names, but it
was found necessary to have two, and these,
bound in luxurious form by Messrs. Brown
and Saenger, of Sioux Falls, attracted great
attention. In our illustration we may note
a copy of Webster’s dictionary standing

beside these giant
books. Some
idea of their size
may be gained
from the fact
that the cover of
Webster’s is over
1 ft. in height,
and nearly 5m. in
width.

The biggest
hat on record was
never intended
for human wear.
Both Nature and
Fashion would
rebel at such a
thought. It was
made by Messrs.
Hucklesby and
Co., of Luton,
for some smart
people in New¬
castle, Australia,
who wished it
for advertising
purposes. It

STRAW HAT.
Qlendening, Luton. *

“ BIGGEST ON RECORD.

397

From a] the biggest gravestone.

was made of so-called “Jumbo plait” an
inch wide. Across the brim it measured
6ft. 6in., and in its construction no fewer
than 180yds. of plait were used. “The
work of ironing, or blocking,” so we are
informed by Mr. L. Glendening, of 45, Lea
Road, Luton, “could only be accomplished
by three men. It has a crown about 12m.
high.” When this unique specimen of the
hatter’s art was ready for shipment some
months ago, a special case 7ft. square and
2ft. deep had to be made. Probably at the
present time the people of Newcastle are
enjoying this novelty in headgear, and there
is little doubt that the expenses of its
manufacture will be quickly recovered in
advertising, even if Australia, through no
fault of its own, never produces a man big
enough to wear it.

The “richest man in the United States ”—
such being the title usually given by the news¬
papers to Mr. John D. Rockefeller—recently
decided to erect a simple and effective monu¬
ment in one of the Cleveland cemeteries. It is
so simple that there is not a mark of any kind
upon its surface to destroy its chaste outline,
and it is so effective by virtue of its weight
and height that it will undoubtedly become
one of the great attractions of the city. Made
of the largest block of granite ever quarried
in America, costing over fifty thousand dollars,
at Barre, Vermont, where it was shipped to
Cleveland, and ten thousand dollars extra for
transportation and erection in Lake View
Cemetery, it is undoubtedly a remarkable
piece of work. The bottom base, so called,
is 14ft. square and 3ft. high, and the total

height of the
monolith 65ft.
ioin. The length
and weight were
so great that cars
of extraordinary
strength were
specially built fcr
the transportation
of the huge block
of stone to Cleve¬
land, and it was
predicted by many
that bridges and
road-beds would
be strained and
perhaps crushed
by it. The monu¬
ment, however,
arrived sa My at
[Photograph. \i s journey’s end.

Several attempts
were made, it is said, to blow out a section
large enough for the shaft, and several hundred
tons of material were destroyed before the
final block was secured. The accompanying
photograph shows the monument after it was
trimmed and polished for transport.

We now jump gracefully from monuments
to water-melons, and are indebted to Mr.

THE BIGGEST WATER-MELON.

From a Photo, by J. E. Orr, Iiocky Ford , Col.

39§

THE S TRAJVE MAGAZINE.

D. W. Barkley, editor of The Rocky
Ford (Col.) E 7 iterprise for the
accompanying photograph of a mam¬
moth water-melon, shipped in 1898
to London. Colorado is famous for
its melons and cantaloupes, and the
melons grown at Rocky Lord are
known throughout the United States
for size and superior excellence.
Whatever may have been their know¬
ledge before, it did not take the
London fruit porters long to find
out about this little place when its
monster melon arrived. The 35olb.
which it was estimated to contain

SB&lf Hf&ir-' : w wm

[E. S. Chase, Eureka , Cal.

Vo»i a Photo, by]

THE BIGGEST MUSHROOM.
From a Photo, by Dr. F. R. Steirly,
Minneapolis, Minn.

accompanying m ush-
room, however, may
be judged from the
size of the small glass
of pansies which may
be seen beside it. Mr.
Harry P. Rawson, of
2,120 Girard Avenue,
Minneapolis, Minn.,
informs us that it was
found on the shore
bordering a small lake
in Minneapolis. The
photograph was taken
by Dr. F. R. Steirly.

As for the next pic¬
ture, we do not for a
minute pretend to say
that these apples are
each in themselves the
biggest on record. But

didn’t scare the
porters a bit, and
the way they
tried to lug it
lovingly around
was a sight to be
seen.

In talking of
mushrooms, it is
hardly fair to give
weight as a guar¬
antee of bigness.
Mushrooms are
such flimsy things
that they might
be as big as an
umbrella without
weighing much.
The size of the

Prom a Photo, by]

THE BIGGEST VINEYARD.

ITaber, San Francisco.

*• BIGGEST ON RECORD

399

THE BIGGEST CHIMNEY.

From a Photograph.

to collect
occupies more
two acres of
The big vineyard
embraces about six
square miles
territory, laid
with great regu¬
larity into lots of
uniform size and
streets of regular
width. One might,
indeed, call it a city
of grapes, as each
block contains
about 1,400 vines,
or 680 vines to the
acre. The grapes
on this wonderful
vineyard ripen in
July, and the pick¬
ing begins about
the i st of August.

the thirty-five
apples, weighing,
as they did, 6olb.,
are undoubtedly
the biggest lot of
big apples ever col¬
lected. They are
one of the products
of the Eel River
district of Hum¬
boldt County, Cali¬
fornia, where apples
seem almost as
big as toy balloons.

While we are on
California, it might
be well to mention
the biggest vine¬
yard in the world,
illustrated at
bottom of previous
page. It belonged
to the late Senator
Leland Stanford,
and lies in the;heart
of the Sacramento
Valley, about 200
miles north of San
Francisco. The
wine and brandy
production of this
farm of 59,000
acres is so great
that Uncle Sam
has put a bonded
warehouse upon it
this warehouse

Gangs of men and boys, numbering over
1,000 at the height of the season, are
employed in collecting the juicy crop, which
they put in boxes holding 501b. each. Over
12,000 of these boxes are constantly ready
for use, and as the labourers go from vine
to vine, they put the bad grapes in one box
and the good ones in another. The enormous
size of the place ought to make one shudder
at the thought of all the work necessary to
reap the harvest.

We now show the largest smoke-stack or
chimney in the world. Here are a few facts
about it. It is connected with the new
.steam-power plant of the Metropolitan Street
Railway Companies in New York City. It
is 353ft. high. It contains 3,400,000 bricks.
Its measurements are : Outside diameter,
80ft. above the ground, 38ft. ioin. ; weight,
8,540 tons. On the top of the chimney
rests a massive cast-iron cap made in forty
segments, and large enough to house an
entire family, or, if necessary, to be com¬
fortably divided into four rooms. In our
illustration below we may see a party of
happy workmen, numbering perhaps twenty-
five or thirty. These were photographed on
top of the chimney, 340ft. above ground.

As engineers and other interested people
from all parts of the United States have
visited this new power house, a few addi¬
tional facts regarding the chimney may be
noted. Two distinct concentric shells form
the chimney, the inner one being separated
from the outer to allow the former to expand
and lengthen under the action of hot gases.
The structure is stiffened by ribs 24m. wide

From a]

WORKMEN ON TOP OF THE BIGGEST CHIMNEY.

[Photograph.

400

THE STEAND MAGAZINE .

From a]

THE BIGGEST ELEPHANT.

at the base. It is said that the massive
stack is in constant motion, and has, in fact,
been constructed so that it has more or
less elasticity, which, in a strong wind, gives
the structure a perceptible and tremulous
motion.

That remorseless enemy of mankind
which reporters call a
“devouring confla¬
gration 55 ate up some
years ago the last
remnant of the biggest
elephant on record.

It was so big that
people coming into
New York Harbour
could see it from
afar. It loomed up
on Coney Island just
as it looms up in our
illustration — majestic
and commanding,
albeit a little un¬
gainly and unsymmet-
rical. The elephant’s
creator has slashed

holes for windOWS Froma]

in its mighty sides, and hordes of
people danced, ate, and made merry
in its spacious interior. They have
an elephant something like it in one
of the famous pleasure resorts of
Paris, but nothing so big as the old
wooden elephant that associated
itself for so many years with the
delectable early history of “ Coney.”
Its height was immense, as our
illustration shows. They never saw
fit to build another elephant after
the aforesaid fire, so it could not
have been a great commercial
success. It deserves, however, in
this article, to go on record as the
biggest elephant of its kind.

So also the frog below, which
tipped the balance at 92^lb. Out
in California there are many
wonders of Nature, and this is not
the first that has come to us from
Tong Valley. The frog may be
seen by anyone who visits the
home of Mr. J. P. Edwards, of that
town, where it is chained in a pond
[Photouraph. in front of Mr. Edwards’s , country
home. Naturalists have heard of
it, and have looked up their zoologies for
a verification of this freak, arriving finally,
as everybody does, at the conclusion that
this 92J4lb. batrachian is a piece of stone.
They were not deceived. It is a stone.
But, for all that, the man who made it did
a good piece of work.

THE BIGGEST FROG.

[ Photograph,

The Snowflake of the Service.

By Frank R. Stockton.

OUR very respectable persons
sat around a table in a large
and artistically furnished
restaurant in one of our great
cities. Three of them had
been long acquainted with
each other, and the fourth was a naval
gentleman, apparently a stranger to the hotel
and everybody in it. Ten minutes before
our story opens he had been wandering
about the room looking for a vacant place,
and had been invited by the three friends to
take a seat at their table. They were now
all partaking of unpretending potations, and
the naval gentleman had already begun to be
acquainted with the others.

“ Yes, sir,” said he, in answer to a question
from Mr. Duckworth, “ I have sailed the sea
to a considerable extent.”

its dross. Someiimes Mr. Duckworth made
great mistakes in his mental processes and
found himself to be entirely wrong, but, as
he frequently averred, he would much
rather deceive himself than let anyone else
do it.

“ You may have sailed to a considerable
extent,” said Mr. Duckworth, “but, consider¬
ing your age, it is impossible that you have
sailed to a great extent.”

Mr. Risier, who sat at the naval gentle¬
man’s right hand, was fat, and upon his face
there was generally a smile of satisfaction
and content seldom noticed on the counten¬
ance of the lean. He utterly ignored Mr.
Duckworth’s imputation that the naval gentle¬
man was too young to know much about the
sea.

“ I am just in the mood,” said he, “ to

“ I HAVE SAILED THE SEA TO A CONSIDERABLE EXTENT.”

Mr. Duckworth was a medium-sized man,
dressed in smooth black. He had not
travelled much, but he had read a good deal.
He had a scrutinizing mind, with which he
endeavoured, whenever occasion arose, to
separate the golden particles of speech from

Vol. xviii.—51.

hear a story about ships and sailors. Don’t
you know one, sir, that you could tell us ? ”

“ Oh, yes,” said the naval gentleman,
putting down his glass. “ I have had ex¬
periences, and I don’t mind telling you one
of them.”

402

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

At these words the fourth member of the
party, who was a tall man, and sat opposite
the naval gentleman, became intensely in¬
terested. He pushed his glass aside and
leaned forward, his elbows upon the table.
For a few moments the naval gentleman
gazed reflectively at his empty glass, and
Mr. Risler beckoned to a waiter.

“It was about three years ago,” said the
naval gentleman, “ that I was third officer
on the United States gunboat Rapidan.”

Mr. Duckworth slightly knitted his brows.
“ I thought I knew the names of all the
vessels in our navy,” said he, “ and I don’t
remember that one of them is named the
Rapidan.”

“ Oh, confound your memory ! ” said Mr.
Risler. “ It doesn’t make any difference
whether the vessel was named the Rapidan
or the Slow Susan. It’s the story we want.”

“We were in latitude 32deg., longitude
about 4odeg., when an incident occurred
which I am going to relate. The Rapidan
had long been noted as one of the neatest
and best appointed, so far as her external
appearance went, of all the gunboats in our
service, and now that we were returning from
a three years’ cruise that vessel looked as if
it had just been taken out of a bandbox.
Every bit of brass shone like gold; the
painted wood and iron work was as white as
snow; the decks looked as if they belonged
to ball-rooms ; and all the hardwood trim¬
mings were polished as if they had been
metal. The officers were attired in their
white duck, and the men and non-commis¬
sioned officers looked as if they were all
trying on new clothes.

“ There were reasons for the extra im¬
maculate appearance of the Rapidan. We
had had a long period of good weather ; we
were bound for home, and, of course, wanted
to look as well as we could ; and, besides, as
we had ladies on board, every one of us,
from the captain down, wished to make our
vessel as elegant as possible.”

“ I did not know that ladies were allowed
on board United States men-of-war when
they were in commission,” interrupted Mr.
Duckworth.

“ You are right, sir, very right,” said the
naval gentleman. “ As a rule they are not,
but this was an exceptional case. We were
about three days out from the Azores when
we overtook a steamer which had cleared a
week before we sailed, and which was also
bound for the United States. This vessel
was in distress. Her engines had broken
down, and she was slowly making her way

back to the Azores under sail. We lay to
and boarded her, and found that the captain
was quite sure that he could make his way
back under canvas, and we thought it was
likely enough he could do so, provided bad
weather did not set in. There were a few
passengers on board, but most of them did
not seem to be much troubled about the state
of affairs, and were quite willing to go back,
especially when they remembered that the
owners would be obliged to board and lodge
them until they were landed in the United
States.

“ But two passengers had no such ideas.
These were a lady and her daughter, a young
woman of twenty or thereabout: and they
assured our first officer, who interviewed
them, that what they wanted above all else
in the world was to be taken off that
damaged steamer. The elder lady had not
slept a wink since the accident occurred, and
they were both in a sadly disturbed, nervous
condition. If the captain of the Rapidan
would take them on board his vessel and
carry them home they would be the most
grateful of mortals, and if any objection
should be made by the Navy Department
after they arrived, Mrs. Russell declared
that she was connected by marriage with a
senator from the south-west, and she was sure
that he had influence enough to make every¬
thing all right.

“Our captain did not hesitate very long.
It would be a shame, even if there should be
no storm and no danger, to leave two such
delicate and evidently highly-cultured ladies
to perish of nervous prostration on board a
damaged vessel.

“The ladies were, of course, deeply
thankful, and every officer on board our
vessel was filled with pleasurable anticipa¬
tions, for the report had rapidly spread that
both ladies were exceedingly well-favoured.

“ I shall never forget the delight of Mrs.
Russell and her daughter when they stood
upon the deck of the Rapidan and looked
about them. They declared that it seemed
to them as if they had entered another world.
They had thought the steamer they had left
was good enough : but the brightness, the
sweetness, the smoothness, and the immacu¬
late white purity of this war-vessel was some¬
thing they had never dreamed of in connection
with anything which floated on the sea.

“ Their admiration was so great and their
expression of it so hearty and continual, that
the heart of every man who heard them was
filled with pride. Here was a reward for the
thought and labour which all of us had ex-

THE SNOWFLAKE OF THE SERVICE .

403

pended upon the work of making our beloved
vessel the snowflake of the service.

“Some very pleasant days followed the
arrival of the ladies on board the Rapidan;
the skies grew brighter, the seas smoother,

that of every ten hours which Miss Russell
spent in the society of the officers of the
Rapidan , six hours and a half were spent
with me.

“ After breakfast one morning a sail was

THEY STOOD UPON THE DECK OF THE ‘ RAPIDAN.’ ”

and the fresh breezes from the north-west
were cooler and more invigorating.

“ Miss Emma Russell became as attractive
to most of the young officers as our spotless
vessel was to her. I use the word spotless,”
said the naval gentleman, “ feeling fully
authorized to do so, for on the evening of the
arrival of the ladies orders had been given
that no smoking of any kind was to be done
on deck, for no matter how careful one might
be, it was impossible to know where ashes
might be blown ; and that if anyone wished
to sharpen a lead-pencil he must go below
and stand over the hatchway of the engine-
room. But as I was more nearly her age
than any of the others, and as I think there
was a certain something in each of us which
gave rise to a sympathy which, if not per¬
ceptible to anyone else, was quite plain to
me, I was a good deal in her company, and
lost no opportunity of letting her know the
pleasure which this companionship gave me.

“ Most of the younger officers seemed to
differ with me in regard to my idea of the
harmony of my nature with that of the
young lady’s, and they did what they could
to deprive me of my opportunity. But
taking it all in all, I think I may fairlv sav

reported on our weather bow, just appearing
above the horizon-line, and almost directly
in our course. At this news a mild excite¬
ment spread through the vessel, and all
available glasses were brought into use, and
I am happy to say that mine was accepted
by Miss Russell. The excitement rapidly
increased, however, when it was found that
the distant vessel did not seem to be bound
upon any course, for she appeared to be
stationary.

“ Nearer and nearer we drew to the vessel,
and it was not long before many practised
eyes on board the Rapidan discovered that
the craft we were approaching was nothing
more than a derelict, abandoned vessel.
There were no signals of distress and no
signs that people were on board.

“ Now, our captain had received orders, on
setting out upon his cruise to eastern waters,
to destroy all derelicts which he might dis¬
cover in the Atlantic Ocean, both upon
his passage eastward and upon his return.
Therefore, when he announced that, as soon
as he should discover that this was really an
abandoned vessel floating about at the mercy
of the wind and of the waves, he would
proceed to destroy it according to his orders.

404

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

there was great delight on board the Rapidan.
This would be an incident of the greatest
interest, a sort of a battle at sea in which
there could be no danger to life or limb,
and in which the destruction of property
would be an act of humanity.

“ The ladies were greatly excited, and at
first they did not know whether to be
charmed or frightened. Miss Emma thought
it was a pity to destroy a great, big, valuable
ship, but as it was really such a dangerous
obstacle to navigation, she would love above
all things to see us sink it. Mrs. Russell at
first said that when the work of destruction
should actually begin she should go down
into her state-room, for the whole thing
seemed to her like some sort of an execution.
But the more we talked about the matter
with her, the more plainly she began to see
that the proposed destruction was really a
charitable act, and then she took as much
interest in what was about to happen as did
her daughter.

“YVe approached within a reasonable dis¬
tance of the derelict, which was a wooden
vessel, a four-masted schooner of American

be an admirable piece of practice for our 5in.
guns, but our captain was not of that mind.
In the first place, he had sunk a good many
derelicts in the course of his naval career by
means of his ship’s guns, and a repetition of
this performance would possess for him no
particular novelty or interest; and, besides,
it sometimes required a good deal of time
and a great many shots to sink even a
wooden vessel, and he was afraid that the
tremendous reports of our guns, with the jar
and the smoke and all the unpleasant accom¬
paniments of our artillery practice, would be
extremely annoying to the ladies. Therefore,
he thought that it would be a great deal
better to ram the abandoned hulk, to break
a great hole in her side, and then to retire to
a suitable distance and watch her slowly sink.
The captain had never rammed and sunk a
vessel, and he was greatly pleased at this
most favourable opportunity for a piece of
naval practice in which he was so much
interested.

“When the rest of the officers heard the
captain’s opinions there were no dissenting
voices, and the idea of gun practice was

“the derelict was a kour-masted schooner.”

build. We steamed entirely around her, so
that our glasses swept her deck. There was
nobody on board, and it was plain enough to
those who understood the appearance of
things that it had been a long time since
anybody had been on board of her.

“ A consultation was held in regard to the
method of the demolition of this derelict.
At first most of the officers thought it would

entirely given up. The Rapidan had a fine
steel prow, and she ought to be able to make
a good ram; anyway, it would be a lively
piece of fun which none of us had expected.

“As to the ladies, when the matter was
fully explained to them they expressed them¬
selves eminently satisfied with the proposed
proceedings. Mrs. Russell was sure that the
firing of great cannon would certainly give

THE SNOWFLAKE OF THE SERVICE.

405

her a dreadful headache, and Miss Russell
was in favour of doing whatever would be the
greatest fun. I assured her that ramming
would be no end better fun than lying off at
a distance and firing our guns.

“The Rcipidan was now prepared for
action—very different action, indeed, from
anything she had ever known before. She
was not built for a ram, and would probably
never have been used in that way in actual
battle; but, in this case, the party of the other
part being no more than an utterly defence¬
less wooden vessel, it was thought by all on
board that our swift and powerful cruiser
might do some very pretty work.

“ Mrs. Russell anxiously inquired of the
captain if he thought there would be much
of a shock, to which he replied that he did
not believe that the collision would be felt
very much by anybody on our vessel,
although it would probably shake up the
derelict a good deal. We should strike end
on, making a clean cut into the side of the
other vessel. That would really be all that
we would be obliged to do, unless we chose
to wait at a little distance and see the great
hulk sink.

“ ‘ I don’t know whether I should like that
or not,’ said Mrs. Russell. ‘Of course, I
need not look if I don’t want to.’

“The preparations for the ramming of the
derelict consisted mainly in making every¬
thing fast. As the captain had said, the
shock was not expected to be great, but still
it would not do to leave our crockery and

glass where the pieces might be shaken
together and broken, and, of course, the
bric-a-brac must be cared for. The glass
doors of the book-cases were closed and
locked, and the lids were fastened down over
all travelling inkstands.

“ As we were all anxious for the approaching
sport, and were filled with the greatest desire
to behold the destruction of a four-masted
schooner, as ever was a Roman audience to
see a Christian die in the arena, the Rapidan
was soon ready for her onset.

“ We were about a mile from the derelict,
and everybody who could possibly do so
stood on deck. None of the officers were
on the bridge, because if the- shock should
be more severe than was expected, this
elevated position might be a little unsafe.
Nearly all of us who were on the decks,
where we could enjoy a full view of what was
about to happen, were very sorry indeed for
the engineers, firemen, and stokers, whose
duties made it necessary for them to remain
below, where they could see nothing. But
this, of course, could not be avoided; we
could not make a successful ram unless our
engines and furnaces were kept at the highest
pitch of working order.

“ I stood by Miss Russell on the quarter¬
deck. Her mother was near by, with the
captain and second officer assuring her that
she need not be the least nervous, and if
she did not care to see the derelict sink, one
of them would conduct her below before any
actual submergence should begin.

‘ THERE WAS A SHOCK, FOLLOWED BY A CRASH,’

406

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Now the word was given to go ahead at
full speed. Our bow was pointed at about
the middle of the schooner, which was very
sensibly supposed to be the weakest spot in
such a long, long vessel. On, on, we went,
the derelict growing larger to our eyes in a
most supernatural fashion.

. “ Miss Russell drew a little nearer to me.
Her eyes were steadfastly fixed upon the
great black vessel ahead of us, and involun¬
tarily she seized my hand. Thrilled with
the sudden sense of the manly power of pro¬
tection, I pressed it closely.

“ ‘If this were a real battle, 5 said I, ‘and
that great hulk were crowded with fierce
pirates, I would guard with my life this dear
girl who has thus shown her trust in me. 5

“The towering hulk stood just ahead of
us, and in an instant we had struck her,
and in that instant my eyes were fixed on
my dear Emma.

“ There was a shock, followed by a crash,
and a grinding, and then all the world dis-

really disappeared, for I still held Emma by
the hand. I tried to speak to her, but could
not : I had no power of speech. Perhaps
she was speaking to me, but certainly I could
not hear her. She made a startled move
away from me, but I held her fast by the
hand. I could feel that she was trembling
like a frightened bird.

“ I was filled with a sickening horror and
despair. . Nothing seemed to be the matter
with me. I felt no pain ; my senses appeared
to be in perfect order ; I could move my
arms and legs; and, moreover, I must be
standing by Emma very much as I had been
standing when I last looked upon her face.
I endeavoured again to speak, but my- lips
were glued together. I tried to open my
eyes, and succeeded so far that I obtained a
little glimpse of light, then all was dark again.
I thrust my left hand into my side pocket—
for some strange reason it was difficult even
to do this—and I drew out my handkerchief.
With this I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed

“the face was as brown as the hat and the dress.”

appeared from my view. A little noise 1
heard about me, but not much. The ship,
officers, men, the masts, deck, ladies, every¬
thing had disappeared from my sight, and
yet I could not say that everything had

my eyes, until at last I was enabled to open
them and look out upon the world.

“ What was the sight I saw ?

“ Before me, her hand in mine, was the
figure of a girl—a statue-like figure—with

THE SNOWFLAKE OE THE SERVICE.

4 °v

features, form, and drapery as well displayed
as if it had been the most faithful copy from
Nature; but it was of one deep, uniform brown
colour. . There was no blue in the eyes,
no red on the lips, and the face was as brown
as the hat and the dress.

“ This figure made a sudden movement.

I know it was trying to speak or scream. It
made a step forward, and in doing so slipped
and fell upon its knees on the smooth brown
deck. I raised it to its feet and lifted it into
a brown deck-chair which stood near by.

“ Then I looked about me. Behind the
place where Miss Russell had stood was the
figure of Mrs. Russell, flat upon the deck
where she had fallen. She was perfectly
motionless, and presented the appearance of
an immense chocolate ecZaire. Near her
stood two brown figures, probably the captain
and second officer. And then as I turned and
looked about me, I found that everything
upon the Rapidan was of the same sombre
brown.

“ On deck, the men, recovered from their
first surprise, were beginning to move about,
rubbing their eyes and mouths, swearing,
slipping, falling in every direction. The
upper works of the vessel presented an
appearance not only of discoloration, but of
wreck. The brown smoke-stacks lay over¬
turned upon the upper works ; the bridge was
a brown wreck, and so far as I could recognise
the portions of the vessel above decks, they
were shattered and broken.

“ As I gazed around upon this wide, wild
expanse of brown desolation, the engineers,
firemen, and stokers came running up from
below. They had opened the steam-valves,
and came running up to see what was the
matter.

“This company of astonished men, as
they hurried on deck to see what had
happened, appeared to my eyes like a body
of immaculate angels compared to the brown,
hustling, swearing, slipping, stumbling crowds
on deck. They seemed like messengers of
sweetness and light. I saw two of them
talking rapidly together. It was the second
engineer and a steward. I made my way
toward them, slipping down twice.

“ ‘ What is the matter ? ’ I gasped. 4 What
has happened ? ’

“ 1 Happened ? , said the second engineer.
4 That rotten old hulk we cut in half was
laden entirely with treacle ! 5

“ From some of the stewards and a few
other men who had been afraid to remain on
deck, not knowing what might happen, and
who had, therefore, kept themselves in partial

shelter, I learned exactly what had happened.
When the Rapidan , under full head of steam,
struck the derelict, she went entirely through
that unfortunate vessel. But at the moment
of impact there shot up something like an
enormous brown waterspout, which then
descended upon both vessels in a veritable
cataract of treacle. In a word, every ex¬
posed portion of each vessel was instantly
treacle-plated.

“ I made my way back to Miss Russell,
who was now on her feet and endeavouring
to walk. She had partially rubbed the
treacle from her eyes and mouth. The
moment she saw me she screamed and
cried, 4 Go away ! Go away ! ’ She did not
recognise me, and probably thought I was
the demon who had done it all.

“ Most of the people • on deck were
beginning to see: some with one eye and
some with both. . Nearly all of them could
shout and. splutter with their mouths. Mrs.
Russell had revived and was sitting up, with
the captain rubbing her eyes with one of his
shirt-sleeves. He had taken off what had
been his white duck jacket.

“Above all, around all, and everywhere
.was the most dreadful smell of rum. This,
of course, was due to the all-pervading
treacle. But, as nearly everybody on board
was more familiar with the smell of rum than
with that of treacle, the circumambient odour
was referred to the former liquid.

“ I cannot describe the wild and exciting
performances of the next few hours. The
transformation of the beautiful snowflake of
the service into a treacle-besmeared horror
was so complete, that for a time we seemed
not to know what to do.

“ There were symptoms of a general rush to
get below in order to exchange our treacle¬
dripping garments, but the thought of the
mess which this procedure would make all
over the vessel caused the captain to issue
an order—which was transmitted by the fire¬
men and stokers, for the reason that they
were possessed of the power of plain speech
—to the effect that no man should go below,
but that the ladies should be carried to their
state-rooms.

“ Two stokers, who would have been
dirty under any other circumstances, carried
Mrs. Russell to the head of the after com¬
panion-way, where she was received by two
others, who had not yet been contaminated
by contact with the decks.

“ Her daughter was treated in the same
way, and she neither screamed nor struggled,
so perfectly satisfied was she with the superior

408

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

cleanliness of the young firemen who bore
her in their arms.

“Then an order was given to start the
pumps — I don’t remember whether they
manned them or whether the donkey engine
was in order. Then began such a playing of
streams from big-nozzled hose as never was
seen on the sea before. The captain wanted
no man to spread the contamination of
treacle into the interior recesses of his

odour of rum mixed with wash-water, and
the other could not endure the smell of
paint.”

“ And what became of the derelict ? ” asked
Mr. Duckworth.

“ Few of us gave a thought to her,” replied
the naval gentleman. “ But one of the
engineers said that he had seen her two parts
sink about a quarter of an hour after the
collision.”

SHE NEITHER SCREAMED NOR STRUGGLED.”

vessel; and until they had been washed as
clean as they could be made the crew were
not allowed to go below. And then the
hatches and companion-ways were closed and
the hose were turned on everything. We
squirted and grumbled and growled and
smelled rum until night came down upon us.

“ For more than a week after that memor¬
able day the crew washed and scoured and
holy-stoned and polished and painted. During
the whole of that time the two ladies kept
their rooms. The one could not abide the

Now the little man, who had been in¬
tensely interested, rose from his chair and
leaned forward, his hands upon the table.
Me had not yet spoken a word, but his
interest had grown to such an intensity that
it had become necessary to relieve it by
speech.

“ Do you know,” said he, “ that, consider¬
ing the smell and everything else, I should
say that that affair you have been telling
about was a first-class rum punch !”

Mr. Risler immediately ordered four.

In Nature s Workshop.

By Grant Allen.

VII.—THE DAY OF THE CANKER-WORM.

T was Attila’s boast, they say—

I never met him personally—
that where his horse’s foot had
once trodden, grass never grew
again. Chief of the countless
hordes of Huns and other
barbarians scattered among the northern
mosses of Europe and Asia, he swept, the
Scourge of God, across the civilized but
decrepit Roman empire, and left behind him
one broad path of destruction in ruined
towns and desolated homesteads. Centuries
later, another Mongol, Timur, came forth
from the same savage heart of Asia, and
built his pyramid of skulls among the lonely
steppes to testify to the countless thousands
of human lives he had recklessly sacrificed.
But these historical plagues of conquering
kings, though terrible indeed in their kind,
are as nothing in devastating power when
compared with the destructive insect armies
which from time to time burst over and
obliterate whole wide areas of culture. The
hosts of locusts which eat their way across
the face of a continent might make Attila’s
boast with greater truth than the ferocious
Hun himself could make it : the desolation
which follows one of these terrible floods of
living things is appalling to behold. And
then, does not the very pettiness of the
enemy render him harder to engage ?
Artillery is useless against myriads upon
myriads of tiny foes; even railway trains
have been stopped in their course in America
by hordes of insects. The smaller and more
numerous the adversary, the less the chance
of engaging him with honour: you kill a
million; and straightway ten millions take
their place. France has lost more by the
phylloxera which devours her vines than by
the indemnity she paid to Germany for the
war of 1870: and the worst of it is, the
Uhlan has gone, but the phylloxera still
remains encamped and intrenched in all her
vineyards. That tiny fly is an enemy with
which treaties and capitulations are impos¬
sible : no cession of fortresses will satisfy its
greed ; no promises of money down or of
territory ceded will induce it to forego its
conquered provinces.

I propose in this paper to trace the life-
history of one or two among these famous
armies of conquering insects, the Assyrian
hosts or Napoleonic hordes of their kind,
creatures which are produced in vast quan-

Vol. xviii.—52.

tities at once, and which suddenly appear in
devastating numbers over whole areas of
country. And I do not think we can do
better for a beginning than by taking the case
of that too familiar American pest, the so-
called seventeen-year locust. American, I
say, because in this, as in most other matters,
America still “whips creation.” When the
United States go in for anything, they go in
for it as a rule on the huge scale : their vast
areas of forest and prairie and wheatfield
allow the development of gregarious life in a
way unknown to our little peninsular and
mountain-severed Europe. Here we have
meadow and pasture and copse and heath
dividing the soil with corn or turnips : in
America, wheat occupies whole square miles
in a line, and so affords an easy prey to
every aggressive insect. Hence it happens
that such pests in the States assume the pro¬
portions of veritable armies, and that skilled
entomologists have to be employed by
government like policemen or soldiers in
order, if possible, to check the assaults of
the foe by opposing to each its own appro¬
priate natural and hereditary antagonist.

You will hardly be surprised to hear at the
outset that the seventeen-year locust is not a
locust at all. “Things are not what they
seem,” the poet tells us ; and most plants
and animals are so strangely misnamed by
popular natural history, that the fact of a
creature being called by one name almost
suffices to make one conclude it must deserve
another. Locusts in Africa are very destruc¬
tive beasts : a cicada in America is equally
destructive : that casual resemblance of habit
and practical result was enough to make the
American farmer call his own local pest by
the name of locust. But if you look at the
portrait of the female cicada, as shown in No.
15, you will see at a glance that she does not
present the slightest resemblance to the true
locusts, but that, on the contrary, she is
almost identical with the quaint little chirpers
which keep up such a ceaseless and emulous
concert in the fields and woods of Southern
Europe in piping summer-time. Wherever
vines grow, there you will find the South
European cicada busily performing. Its con¬
tinuous song is faintly pleasing to most
people, especially if heard at a little distance :
but it becomes disagreable at last, from its
constancy and monotony, and if heard very
near it is harsh and grating.

4 io

THE STRAND MAGAZINE,

A word or two at the outset about cicadas
in general, viewed as a family, may help to
put you more at home with the group as a
whole : after which, we may proceed to in¬
quire into the domestic concerns of the seven¬
teen-year cicada herself in particular. Cicadas
in the lump are large and stout-bodied in¬
sects, of the beaked class : they are very
musical in their tastes, and have wings which
are arranged slantwise, like the roof of a
house. Their food is strictly vegetarian.
Like all their kind, they are specially adapted
for living by suction, draining the juices of
the plants on which they fasten. For this
purpose they are provided with an elaborate
and highly-developed beak, intended for
piercing the tissues of the food-plant. The
females have also a stout and horny egg-
layer or ovipositor, extremely complex in its
mechanism, as I shall show hereafter; and
this egg-layer is equally designed for making
incisions in the tissues of plants, and laying
the eggs where the young grubs, in their
earliest stage, will be safest from attack and
surest of rich and nutritious provender.
Cicadas have always two large and very
prominent eyes, set sideways at the edge of
the head : but in addition to this pair, many
kinds have also three secondary eyelets or
ocelli, which are placed between the main
eyes in the centre of the forehead : and these
smaller eyes are frequently most brilliant in
hue, with a gleam like a jewel’s. Otherwise,
the cicadas are not remarkably handsome or
decorated insects; they reserve the whole of
their aesthetic taste for the musical faculty.

.As a rule, indeed, you will find that birds
and insects specialize their allurements in one
or other of these two directions—song or
colour ; the two are seldom found together.
Very brilliantly plumaged birds, like the
peacock, the birds of para¬
dise, the humming-birds, and
the parrots, do not often
possess beautiful voices: and,
per contra , very sweet-voiced
birds, like the lark, the night¬
ingale, the thrush, and the
linnet, are not usually re¬
markable for the hues of
their feathers. It seems
almost as though nature
economized in the matter of
display: where she attracts
by song, she does not think it necessary to
attract by colour; where plumage suffices to
charm the eyes of delighted mates, she does
not trouble to add music also. So pretty a
girl, she says, can do without accomplish¬

ments : so accomplished a girl has no need
for beauty. Now, the cicadas are, almost
without exception, musical. But their song is
produced exclusively by the male insects, who
are provided for the purpose with a curious
resonant, drum-like instrument. It consists
of a cavity with a stretched membrane, whose
vibration, controlled by muscles, sets up the
familiar chirping or stridulating noise so well
known to all who have lived in Italy. In warm
sunshine these insect vocalists keep up a
continuous concert of sweet sounds, intended
no doubt to attract the females. Resonators
in the body increase the volume of the note,
and make it carry further; we had one cicada
in our house in Jamaica which sang so loud
that we always knew it as the prima donna.
We were wrong in the gender, I admit: we
ought rather to have said the first tenor; for
the females have no song : a fact much com¬
mented upon by the malicious Greek poet—
doubtless a married man, tied to a loquacious
Athenian lady :—

Happy the cicadas’ lives

Since they all have voiceless wives.

You can thus tell a male cicada from a female
at once, because the large horny plate which
covers the stridulating apparatus in the nobler
sex is wanting or at least rudimentary in the
ladies of the species.

But I am too long delaying the introduction
of our particular subject, the seventeen-year
cicada, who is really the hero of this present
drama. The name is an odd one, but it is
strictly true. The cicadas of this kind appear
in each district once only in every seventeen
years—“And that is once too many,” said an
aggrieved Kentucky farmer. The fact is, all
cicadas remain for a long time underground
in the grub condition before emerging in the
upper air as perfect insects; and this par¬
ticular sort takes no less than
seventeen years to mature,
though there is in certain
States a thirteen-year variety
or local species. No. i of
my illustrations shows you
a specimen with the wings
on one side removed, so as
to exhibit the chief offending
organs—the mouth or beak
(a) and the saw-like egg-layer
(l>). In the breeding season,
the males appear for a short
time only, sing, pair, and then die at once,
it being probable, indeed, that they cannot
or do not eat in the adult or perfect condi¬
tion. But the females make up for this little
defect in their partners’ economy by eating

THE SEVENTEEN-YEAK CICADA.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

411

voraciously, and laying some
four or five hundred eggs
apiece in the buds or twigs of
trees : after which they, too,
proceed to die, having also
fulfilled their place in nature.

For the winged state in insects
is usually little more than a
device for mating and egg-
laying : it may be aptly com¬
pared to the flowering stage
in plants, since the flower
exists only for the sake of
being fertilized, and fades as
soon as the seeds begin to
set; its sole use is to attract
the impregnating insects, as
the sole use of the butterfly
is to mate and lay eggs for future generations.

But the ovi-
positor or egg-
layer, seen at b
in No. 1, is a
most remarkable
organ, whose
minute structure
you can further
observe in No. 2,
where I have had

Ill

»,»! T{

| II

j ill

1

1

i mi |

r/ J ]! 1 1

11

I

§
v\ !'

1 %

2.—THE SAW FOR MAKING
EGG-NESTS.

3.—SECTION OF THE SAW, SHOWING
HOW THE PARTS FIT TOGETHER
LIKE A PUZZLE.

for you. In a , this won¬
derful cutting instrument
is seen from above, and
in b , from beneath, the
dotted lines being in¬
tended to indicate the up-
and-down motion of the
saw-like blades or cutters.
These cutters are fitted
together by grooves into
the fixed holder or axis
almost like a puzzle, so as
to move up and down
truly : and the cross-
section in No. 3 enables
you to appreciate the ex¬
quisite way in which the
parts fit into one another,
with that extraordinary
accuracy only to be found
in the works of nature.
No. 4, again, shows you
how the mechanism acts
as a whole. It exhibits a
series of views of the twig
of a tree operated upon by
the seventeen-year cicada.
At a , you have a recent

it much enlarged

puncture drilled by the ovi¬
positor. At b , the surface of
the twig has been deftly re¬
moved, so as to show the
arrangement of the eggs in
the egg-basket thus cunningly
excavated. At r, you have a
side-view of the eggs lying in
their basket; and at d , you
have the cavity exposed after
the eggs are removed, so as
to let you see the sculpture
left by the ovipositor. I think
you will agree that a neater
or more perfect nest could
hardly be devised than this
thus carved out of a living
twig by the minute instruments
at the disposal of a petty two-inch-long insect.

The • eggs soon hatch out in their snug
little nest in the twig : but the larvae do not
continue to live there permanently. In a
very short time they drop to the ground,
burrow their way into the soil by means of
their strong-toothed thighs, and fasten on to
the roots of trees and plants, where they earn
their livelihood by perpetual suction. Cater¬
pillars and other above-ground larvae, exposed
to stress of weather and with the perpetual
terror of winter before their eyes, usually live
and feed for one summer
only : they turn into pupae
during the course of that
summer, or at best assume
the chrysalis form in late
autumn, hibernating as
well as they can in the
dormant condition, and
coming out as perfect
insects with the succeed¬
ing springtide. But the
cicada tribe pass their
larval period for the most
part underground, where
they are tolerably pro¬
tected from the incle¬
mency of the weather, for
frost never strikes deep ;
therefore, they need be in
no hurry to grow old
r apace : they can take
their own time for arriving
at maturity. And they do
take it: they eat their
way slowly and laboriously
through life: one variety
of the periodical cicada
matures in seventeen
years, the other in thirteen.

CHESTNUT.

412

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Meanwhile, the larva lives by suction on
roots and underground stems or tubers,
doing much unobtrusive damage to vege¬
tation in a quiet way, and eating what he
can get with constant vigilance. Of course,
he is often eaten in turn, in accordance with
the usual law of nature : for myriads of the
larvae are devoured by birds, by frogs, and
even by pigs, which grub them up with their
snouts from the soil where they have buried
themselves ; but myriads more survive, and
turn out in the end as fully-winged cicadas,
to the no small disgust of the American
agricultural interest.

No. 5 is a portrait of the larva, “aged
eighteen months,” if I may plagiarize the
familiar phrase so often used in another
department of this Magazine with reference
to the photographs of more illustrious

5.—THE LARVA OF THE CICADA, AGED EIGHTEEN
MONTHS.

celebrities. You will see at once that our
undeveloped cicada is already a creature
capable of doing a fair amount of serious
damage to trees or crops; and when you
consider that he has still fifteen
years to grow, you can under¬
stand that he inspires a just
fear in the bosom of the farmer
who has most to deal with him.

Admirably adapted both for
sucking and nipping, as this
picture shows, he can do as
much harm as any insect of
his size known to science,
with the solitary exception,
perhaps, of that famous
winged fiend, the true
African locust.

At the end of his long

6.—THE GALLERIES FOR THE PUPiE.

and tedious minority, the cicada larva begins
at last to think of assuming the toga virilis of
his race, and prepares to put on the robe of
the pupa. But his pupa stage is not like that
of the butterfly, an inert and mummy-like
chrysalis existence: in common with the
great group of beaked insects to which
he belongs, the cicada only undergoes
what is technically known as an “ imperfect
metamorphosis.” The pupa in these cases
does not become dormant: it is merely a
sort of active hobbledehoy, which walks and
behaves like the larva or the perfect insect:
it represents an intermediate form between
the grub and the winged cicada—an inter¬
mediate form quite as capable of taking care
of itself as the perfect animal. For seventeen
years vast hordes of larvae live unseen under¬
ground • in the same district: at the end
of that time, all with one accord begin to
change into pupae, and construct for them¬
selves strange galleries of emergence, so
that the soil in certain places seems honey¬
combed with their tunnels. Two of these
galleries are seen in No. 6, one in front
view, and the other laid open as a section.
Here e is the door or orifice of the gallery,.

and ^ is a pupa waiting to
undergo transformation ;
while d is a brother insect
just ready to metamorphose.
Whole acres together are
often covered and pierced
with these strange tubes or
shells, as thick as blades of
grass in an English meadow.

No. 7 shows the next
stage in the process of
emergence. Here, the active pupa has
walked up from the ground, and is just
preparing to enter upon a new phase of life
as a free winged insect, frequenting the open

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

4 i 3

After a while, it pauses, as in No. 8, and
feels the hardened shell on its back grad¬
ually breaking. The winged cicada, which
has formed itself within the pupa’s skin, now
begins to worm its way out with hereditary
caution. In No. 9 you see it freeing itself
from its mummy-case, a pale and ghost-like
creature, as yet very timid and uncertain of
the future. In No. 10,
with one long pull, it
has got its legs and
wings free, but its
tail still remains en¬
closed in the cast-off
shell or pupal skin.

The wings, you will
observe, are at this
stage very small, and
quite inconspicuous:
we shall see hereafter
how they plim them¬
selves out in the open
air to the adult dimensions.

In No. 11, the emergence is
almost complete, and the per¬
fect insect only hangs by its
tail to the cast-off skin of its
own pupa. The wings are here

II.—HOLDING ON BY HER TAIL.

Dunlop tyre, and are now hardened and
ready for action. In this stage, the cicada
assumes a beautiful
glossy and satiny ap¬
pearance, though it
still looks a trifle
pallid and ghost-like.
The illustrations show
you in each case only
a single cicada : the
American farmer has
good ground for
knowing that, like
other misfortunes,
they never come
singly. When the
moment for emerg¬
ence arrives, the ground in an
infested district seems simply to
teem with masses of cicadas:
mother earth brings them forth :
they pour out in their millions,

IO.—WINGS AND LEGS
ALL OUT!

9. —BODY FREE !

sunlight. It moves cautiously
and slowly, a little dazzled
and stunned, like a man
brought up for many years
in a mine, and then suddenly
turned loose in the crowded
and garish streets of some
great city. No wonder the
creatures feel like so many
insect Kaspar Hausers, and
move gingerly about on the
branches which support
them. The pupa crawls out
upon a twig, and
finds its skin has
strangely hardened.

8.—AND

seen sideways, and have grown a little
larger, but they are still rather thick or
fleshy in texture, softly plastic, and wholly
unfit for the act of flying.

The three next illustrations show the
process of passing into the
flying stage. In No. 12, the
newly - emerged cicada has
cast itself quite free from
the clogging garment of its
pupal condition, and is
balancing itself on a leaf pre¬
paratory to inflating and
drying its wings. In No. 13,
it has poised itself firmly,
and is beginning to swell.
In No. 14, the wings have
been fully inflated, like a

THE CICADA
OUT OF IT.

414

THE S TEA HD MAGAZINE.

and devour everything on
which they can lay their
beaks with ruthless destruc¬
tiveness. In a few days
trees and shrubs are laid
bare, crops are destroyed,
and the year’s labour is
rendered vain by the vic¬
torious insects. The damage
done by them as larvae during
their seventeen years of subter¬
ranean existence is as nothing to
the damage done by the perfect
insects during their short spell of
adult activity. In Pennsylvania
they have been known to bend

and break down the limbs of trees by their
weight : the forests ring with the shrill sound
of their music.

For now comes the pairing season. Early
in June, on every branch around, the male
cicadas sit and beat their tiny drums as a
summons to their lady-loves, in emulation
with one another, like nightingales or sky¬
larks. Sometimes you may hear two particu¬
larly loud ones singing or drumming in rivalry :
as soon as one leaves off for a second, the
other begins, like Virgil’s swains, in alternate
verses. Attracted by the sound, the cluster¬
ing females alight near the most favoured
male, and soon select the partner that suits
them. In the woods at cicada-time you may
see hundreds and thousands of such little
domestic dramas enacted on every side, the
boughs being alive with
many myriads of eager per¬
formers, each surrounded by
its own little admiring group
of female listeners. All
around, the branches of the
neighbouring trees are
covered with a drapery of
rent and forsaken pupa-cases.

The next stage in the
drama of cicada life consists
in the deposition of the eggs.
No. 15 shows us a female
cicada, apparently lost in
profound thought, and
seated lengthwise on a twig
of chestnut. But she is not

13. —PLIMMING
HER WINGS.

composing an epic: in
reality, she has pierced the
tissues of the shoot with her

12.—CICADA JUST EMERGED, WITH
EMPTY PUPA-CASE.

auger-like egg-layer, and is now engaged
in laying her eggs safe out of harm’s way

14.—WINGS FUI.LY EXPANDED.

15.—LAYING EGGS.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

415

among the pigeon-holes
of one of those neat little
nests already illustrated.

It is for the sake of pro¬
ducing these eggs in suffi¬
cient numbers that the
perfect insects — at least
the females—have eaten
so ravenously ever since
they emerged from the
pupal form : for they lay
about a round five hun¬
dred apiece, and they
have to devour material
enough for this immense
production in a week or
so of rapid and greedy
accumulation. You can’t
make eggs out of nothing, of course : and
the more you have to lay, the more you
must eat in order to lay them.

So far, we have dealt mainly with eating
and drinking, marrying and giving in
marriage, with a slight accompaniment of
vocal and instrumental music. But the
cicada’s life is not always “ all beer and
skittles.” No. 16 represents an untoward accb
dent, to which our hero is commonly liable.
A parasitic insect, by name Megastizus,
smaller than the cicada, but stronger and
heavier, seizes it bodily in his legs and carries
it off to store his own nursery, exactly as evil
spirits carry off wicked souls in old Italian

pictures. Megastizus is a
burrower, and No. 17
shows in .a lurid light one
of his underground tun¬
nels, with his own ugly
larva engaged in devour¬
ing the dead cicada.
These burrows themselves
are singular examples of
insect architecture, Ali
Baba caves of tiny rob¬
bers : they are represented
in ground plan in No. 18,
a , a being in each case
the door or entrance, and
b , b the little round
chambers stored with
cicadas in which the eggs
are laid and the larvae developed. The late
Professor C. V. Riley, the official entomologist
of the United States, made a special study
of the seven¬
teen -year
cicada and
this its natural
enemy: and it
is from mater¬
ials kindly sup¬
plied by him
to Mr. Enock
that our artist

16.—CARRIED OFF BY AN ENEMY.

has

18. —THE robber’s CAVES ! SECTIONS
OF THE ENEMY’S BURROWS.

17.—THE ENEMY S LARVA FEEDING ON
DEAD CICADA.

made the
interesting
sketches which
accompany
this article.

I havechosen
the seventeen-
year cicada as
the first ex¬
ample of these destructive hordes of gre¬
garious insects, partly because of the
curious regularity of its re-appearance in
the infested districts, and partly because
of its interesting musical tastes : but there
are many other species equally destructive
elsewhere, not the least formidable of which
is the famous or infamous migratory locust
of Oriental countries. The true locust is a
large grasshopper-like creature, provided both
with wings and with powerful jumping thighs:
it is voracious in its appetite, and will devour

416

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

almost anything, including at a pinch even
its own species. The females are provided
with strong and sharp egg-laying implements,
and you can often watch them boring a hole
with these weapons in the desert soil, and
depositing their numerous eggs in the nest
thus excavated. I have seen them so by
hundreds on the Algerian hillsides. From
the first, the young locusts resemble their
parents in everything except in the presence
of wings; they are most sociable in their
habits, and hop about in great swarms over
the arid country at the edge of the desert. By-
and-by, leaving the larval form behind, they
need their strong but delicate papery
wings ; and then begins a terrible and devas¬
tating migration. They have eaten all there
is to eat in their native belt, and must needs
go elsewhere. Driven from home by hunger,
like the hordes of the north who attacked
and overthrew the Roman Empire, the young
locusts march forward in vast swarms, which
sometimes extend over hundreds of miles of
country together. If they succeed in finding
a cultivated tract, they clear it in a few days
of every living green thing: if they fail, they
are almost equally to be dreaded in the end,
for then they die by millions of starvation,
and their rotting bodies, covering acres of land
at once, fester in the sun and set up at last
a pestilential malaria, which finally spreads
as influenza or fever to Europe and America.
From all which it may readily be seen that
the prophet Joel was not exaggerating when
he described the locusts as eating that which
the palmerworm had left—“the land is as
the garden of Eden before them, and behind
them a desolate wilderness.”

But perhaps the method recently adopted
by the British authorities for killing locusts
in Cyprus affords the best commentary upon
the numbers and destructiveness of these
invading hordes. An ingenious land-owner
in the island, Mr. Richard Mattei, had
noticed that when locusts are “ upon the
march,” about ten days after their hatching,
they allow no obstacle in their course to
stop them, but climb or crawl (like young
eels up weirs) over every barrier that comes
in their way. But he had also noticed that
they could not get a foothold on a perfectly
smooth surface ; and he hit accordingly on
a clever plan for checking their triumphant
advance altogether. He induced the govern¬
ment to bar their progress across country by
erecting screens of canvas, set up on stakes,
and topped by a broad band of that un¬
pleasantly smooth and varnished fabric
known to housewives as “American cloth.”

The American cloth was more than the locusts
could stand : they preferred death to so vile
an invention. And this is how they meet
their end with becoming fortitude. At the
foot of the screens, deep pits are dug and
lined with zinc. The locusts advance to the
screens, which are laid right across their line
of march, but being unable to climb over
the polished cloth they fall into the pits.
Thousands upon thousands thus tumble in
masses on top of one another, and crush one
another to death : the smooth zinc at the
side effectually prevents them from climbing
out again. In one year, the locusts were
thus trapped in no less than 26,000 pits:
the number of the killed was roughly estimated
at a number which runs into twelve figures,
say some 200,000,000,000, or two hundred
thousand millions. The cost of killing this
gigantic host amounted only to 2s. a million,
which is certainly not excessive. If we could
conduct our Soudan campaigns on the same
terms, I fear there would not be a native left
alive in Africa at the end of a twelvemonth.
The resources of civilization would have
civilized Baggaras and Matebeles into non¬
entity—which is sooner or later the usual
course of our Imperial mission.

Another curious insect of the army-forming
kind is that quaint little beast, the processional
caterpillar of Southern Europe, an insect on
which I have made continual observations
for many seasons on the Riviera. The best-
known species is the processional caterpillar
of the pine tree; it lives in nests like those
of wasps, surrounded with a sort of cob¬
webby silk cover. These nests may be seen
by thousands on the trees in the Esterel in
early spring: they are cut down and burned
in vast quantities by the foresters, but no
amount of burning ever seems to diminish
their numbers. When they sally forth to
feed or to bury themselves before assuming
the chrysalis form, they march straight across
country in a long line: or, if obstacles inter¬
vene, they curve round the base of trees or
the edges of rocks in graceful undulations.
Every procession has a recognised leader who
heads the band : the rest follow after him in
long Indian file, one after another, each hold¬
ing on fast to the tail of the man in front of
him. This at least is the only way in which I
myself have ever seen them march: I find pic¬
tures in books of the caterpillars marching two
or three abreast, or even in wedge-shaped
triangular order : but after years of watching,
I have never myself known them to go in any
other way than single file, in a long sinuous
line, one by one after the acknowledged leader.

IN NATURE'S WORKSHOP.

4 i 7

If you break the line, the whole body at
first seems paralyzed for a moment : then
slowly they begin to recover confidence and
to meet the situation. The last man left at
the end of the fore part of the train seems to
pull or bite the tail of the man just in front
of him, who in turn communicates with the
next in front, and so on all along the line,
till the news has been telegraphed right ahead
to the leader. Then the leader halts, and
all the rest halt behind him. Meanwhile, a
similar telegraphic message has been sent
post haste to the rear by the front caterpillar
of the second half, or interrupted portion :
he seems to halt, marking time, and so to
prevent the man just behind him from mov¬
ing ; this last by a backward shove similarly
communicates the news of a breach to the
insect at his tail; and so on till both halves
of the . divided procession have come to a
dead stand, awaiting developments. If you
have only removed one
caterpillar from the line
to a little distance, he
soon crawls back again
into his place in the pro¬
cession : in which case
the end insects on either
side of him telegraph
forward and back the
return of the lost mem¬
ber, and in a few minutes
the cortege moves on
again. But if you have
hopelessly removed three
or four caterpillars to a
considerable distance, so
that they cannot find
their way back, the line
waits for twenty minutes
or so, to give them a fair
chance, and then, pro¬
bably concluding that
they have been eaten
by birds or lizards, gives
them up as lost, closes
in again slowly, and re¬
sumes its march in a
saddened and dispirited fashion.

I have experimented in many ways with
these lines of caterpillars, and have always
found that if only one insect was removed,
the procession soon joined together again,
either with him or without him. But if
several were removed at various points, so as
entirely to disorganize the whole line, the
insects seemed to get puzzled and at last lost
heart, curling round upon one another in a
helpless muddle, and trying each to effect a

Vol. xviii.— 53.

junction with a leader. None but the original
leader, however, seems qualified to lead : a
heaven-born king or elected president, I know
not which, he is absolutely necessary to the
safety of the line : remove him, and not an
insect will stir a leg: no other of the line
dare take the place of the duly constituted
hierophant. Deprived of their chief, the
caterpillars seem to be thrown into an agony
of terror; each tries to shuffle off upon his
equally unwilling neighbour the responsi¬
bility of going first. As a rule, this
chaos ends by making them all roll up into a
tangled ball and refuse to move either forward
or backward : there they stop till they die, or
are trodden under foot or eaten by birds, too
timid to proceed without their proper general.
I suspect that the ordinary pictures of lines
three or four deep must be derived from such
broken and disorganized processions; for I
have never known a healthy and perfect line
proceed in any other way
than by single file order.

The last of these des-
tructive insects with
which I shall deal here
is the dreaded army-
worm, a terrible plague
of American wheat-fields.
The whole life - history
of this dangerous wild
beast is summed up for
us in brief in No. 19,
drawn also from materials
supplied by Professor
Riley, who worked harder
at the investigation of
these insect pests than
any other entomologist
in Europe or America.
No. 1 in this illustration
shows the harmless and
innocent - looking eggs,
quietly deposited by the
mother moth on a'blade
of wheat as it grows.
No. 2 gives us the larva
just hatched, and pro¬
ceeding to make a meal on the farmer’s
young crop. Nos. 3, 4, 5, and 6 show it
growing progressively fatter in the pro¬
cess, much to the detriment of the corn;
while at 7 it is represented as turning into a
pupa, and at 8, 9, and 10 is seen as the
perfect insect. This American army-worm
commits terrible ravages in the western
wheatfields, and sometimes attacks whole
districts at once like an invading battalion.

A totally different but still more interesting

19. —LIFE-HISTORY OF THE ARMY-WORM.

4iB

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

insect is known by the same name of army-
worm in Southern Europe. It is the grub
of a midge, and is not separately noticeable ;
but its numbers make it conspicuous, and its
curious habits have always attracted the atten¬
tion both of naturalists and of farmers. The
European army-worm, however, is not in any
way a menace to agriculture : it is merely
noteworthy from the strangeness and weird¬
ness of its processional habits. The adult
midge is a small black fly, no bigger than a
mosquito : it lays its numerous eggs among
fallen and rotting leaves, which form the
favourite food of its myriad lame. The
eggs hatch out into little naked maggots,
about a quarter of an inch long : the body is
sticky and almost transparent, but the wee
black head gives the tiny beasts a rather
knowing expression, like insects of the world,
quite at home in society. When the time
arrives for the grubs to turn into chrysalides,
thousands of families of them collect
together among the fallen leaves so as
to form a veritable army, which sets
forth on a march across country in a
serried phalanx, many feet in length, and
crawling some sixty or seventy abreast in
very irregular order. The line flows like a
cataract over whatever comes in its way, the
individual whitish grubs not being particular
whether they crawl over one another or not:
and as they wind in and out, around trunks
of trees and gnarled roots or stems, they
resemble nothing so much as a huge grey
snake trailing slowly through the brush¬
wood. The line seethes with life : it
is a living stream, composed of trans¬
lucent and viscid insects, so fluid and
plastic in its mode of progression that
you have to look close before you can
convince yourself that it is really made
up of individual maggots.

At last the army reaches a suitable place
for undergoing its metamorphosis. Then
instinct teaches it what to do. It halts by
common consent, and the various grubs roll
themselves up into a huge round ball, which

seems for a time to be perfectly motionless.
If you watch it long, however, you will soon
begin to perceive that it is growing by
degrees mysteriously smaller and smaller.
Can the grubs be eating one another up, like
the Kilkenny cats ? It looks as though the
mass were disappearing slowly into thin air :
only when the ball has begun to reach its
last few layers do you get an inkling of the
explanation of the mystery. The larvae have
chosen a nice soft spot in the deep black
mould of the wood where they can easily bury
themselves to undergo transformation. Those
at the bottom of the ball first burrow into
the ground, and are followed one by one by
the others in succession. There they all
assume the form of small mummy-like pupae :
and after passing through their transforma¬
tion underground, emerge at last as a vast
and tangled swarm of small black midges,
dancing in the sunlight with rhythmical
motion. But though the European army-
worm is really quite harmless, being a
member of the rather innocuous or useful
group of fungus - eating midges, the occa¬
sional appearance of the armies across a
grassy path has always been a cause of super¬
stitious terror to the peasants of the wild
and tangled forest-lands which the creature
frequents. Strange stories are told and
believed about these innocent little grubs:
their advent is a sign of impending war : they
are the harbingers of invasion : they herald
misfortune like comets and earthquakes :
they even appear as portents of God’s wrath
before the occurrence of plague, famine, and
pestilence. In New Orleans and other
American towns exposed to yellow-fever, it
is believed that a closely similar midge, the
so-called “ yellow-fever fly,” accompanies the
epidemics of that dreaded disease. But it is
not improbable that the microbe of yellow-
fever may really be spread by means of
midges, so that in this respect the current
belief of the New World rests perhaps upon
a firmer basis than the antique superstition
of the European woodlands.

iwfih

Bv Basil Marnan.

I.

HEN Patrick Holan and his
wife Peggy took out a big
clearing location in Gippsland,
Victoria, they imagined for
some years that they were
indisputably masters of them¬
selves and their property. With the arrival
of Linda, however, this innocent belief began
to be subjected to wavering doubts, and by
the time that queenly mite had passed the
fourth anniversary of her birthday, Patrick
and Peggy came to the absolute conviction
that they were the victims of a tyranny, and
that the real sceptre was wielded by the baby
hands of Linda.

She was a fair-haired child, with long,
harvest-gold locks that floated round her
shoulders, and nestled about the delicately-
veined pearly temples, and strayed lovingly
over the smooth, clear brow, as if to
tease the curling, silken, velvety fringe
that shielded her eyes. Angel eyes they
were — wide, blue, fearless, with the instant
flash of trust, the divine gaze of inno¬
cence and laughter. The child was the
joy of Patrick’s life, the sanctification of
his improvident marriage. Lie had been a
first class man at Trinity, Dublin, and had
had great expectations of doing well at the
English Bar, his father being a judge, and
wealthy moreover. But when he had married

penniless Peggy Moriarty, the daughter of a
small tenant farmer, with nothing but her
winsome, lovely face, her lilting brogue, and
her tender Irish heart to recommend her,
Judge Holan had been furious.

“You have disgraced your family, sir!”
he had said, almost lapsing in his excitement
into brogue. “ And the only decent thing
you can do is to bury yourself. I’ll pay you
five thousand pounds into the City Bank at
Melbourne, and when you get there you can
go to the deuce.”

So Patrick went—not to the deuce, but to
Melbourne, though save for the presence of
Peggy he thought at first it was very much
an equation in terms.

With that native energy which everywhere
distinguishes the Hibernian outside the
tyrannous tradition of his own isle, he had
struck straight for the heart of Gippsland.
It was cheaper and, he rightly thought, wiser
to buy a big clearing location, and stock by
degrees, than to start on mortgage and large
flocks. The hard work braced him, and at
the end of four years he lorded it over two
hundred head of cattle, half as many sheep,
innumerable pigs, and some five hundred
acres of pasture, widening every day. Geelong
was then but a village, the Victoria Lakes
on his right were thick with swan and fowl,
while his nearest neighbour lay four days,
trek through the blue haze of stately gums

420

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

and wattle. Though his homestead was not
an imposing structure, he was very fond of
it. A commodious log mansion it was, in
fact, flanked by a dairy that was the pride of
Peggy’s heart.

One bright afternoon in June Linda, sitting
on the veranda that ran round the dairy, was
busily occupied in watching the antics (as
they seemed to her) of two men who came
riding apparently towards the house. Pre¬
sently, with an amused gurgle, she called to
her mother to share the sport.

“ Muddie, muddie ! ” she cried, “ do come
here and look at these funny men playing
hide-and-seek in the trees.”

Peggy Holan put her face through the
door, with a bright smile.

“ Is daddie back already ? ” she asked.

“How silly you are, muddie,” was the
crushing retort. “As if my fardie would
play like that ’cept with me.”

Mrs. Holan slipped out on to the veranda,
and shading her eyes with hands bathed in
fresh cream looked anxiously down the road.
She was a little woman, with eyes of the true
Irish grey, and a face almost ridiculously like
her daughter’s, at once wistful, droll, and
wilful. As she looked an expression of fear
crept into her eyes, and for a moment she
trembled. A mile away down the road two
men were approaching on
horseback. But in place of
riding up on the track, they
were skirting in and out of
the trees as if bent on elud¬
ing observation. Only the
previous night her husband
had been telling her that
he had heard that Jake
Plardy’s gang had been seen
in the neighbourhood, and
had expatiated largely on
the terror that grim bush¬
ranger had been in the
vicinity of Ballarat, till pur¬
suit of him had become so
hot that he had found a
change of quarters impera¬
tive. The thought of all this
flashed into Peggy Holan’s
mind simultaneously with
the recollection that her
husband had in the house
some ^300 in cash, which
he had provided for the
purchase of cattle the fol¬
lowing week.

It was impossible to
recognise the strangers

at the distance, but that they were strangers
she knew at a glance. One learns quickly in
the bush to distinguish friends by the mere
set of a man in the saddle. And the manner
of those approaching was not reassuring.
She was not so much conscious of fear for
herself as of anxiety for the money. Under
the spell of this emotion she seized Linda’s
hand and fled into the house. The money
lay in neat little rouleaux in a drawer, ready
to be transferred to Patrick’s marketing belt.
Gathering it up into her apron she crossed
over again to the dairy, and let it drop, packet
by packet, into a large can of milk. She had
bidden Linda wait for her the while in the
house, and now rejoining her she unhooked
a revolver from the wall and took up her
stand with the child on the veranda. Her
heart beat high as the two strangers, leaving
the bush, galloped headlong for the house.
Their identity needed no explanation. The
pistols covering her as they dismounted were
eloquent enough, and the hand with which
she tried to point her own revolver was
shaking in a way just as expressive.

“ Don’t you go ’urtin’ yerself, marm, with
that there plaything,” remarked one of the
bandits, facetiously.

He stretched out his hand for it, and
Peggy, now half dead with fright, felt un-

‘ DON T YOU GO URTIN YERSELF, MARM."

LINDA.

commonly relieved as his fingers took it
from her.

“We thought,” went on the man, with a
wink to his comrade, “ as you’d be lonely like
with the old man away. So we’ve paid you
a visit. You’ve no call to be frightened, if you
do as you’re told. An’ for a start, jest let’s
see the place where the guv’nor stows his
cash.”

Peggy turned as if about to fly. But the
man, with an oath, was too quick for her. He
seized her arm and swung her round.
Then an unexpected diversion came. Linda,
who had been gazing on the scene with
wide blue eyes growing each moment more
mutinous, suddenly flung herself on the
bully, fighting at his leg with clenched fists
and active teeth. After the first moment’s
yell of pained surprise, for Linda had a very
pretty set of teeth, it would have gone hard
with the child save for the sudden interfer¬
ence of the second bandit.

“No, you don’t, darn you,” he said,
snatching the child from the furious clutch
of his comrade. “ We ain’t ’ere to butcher
babies or knock silly women out. Come
inside and search. It won’t take long to
clear out this shanty.”

Their first efforts proving fruitless, they
turned their attention for a moment to the
kitchen, where a goodly store of food and
bottles tempted them to a diversion.

Meanwhile Peggy sat like one dazed on
the veranda, murmuring again and again to
herself, “ If only Pat would come ! ” " When
at last the ruffians had finished their meal,
and sat whispering together and looking ever
and again towards her, Linda suddenly thrust
her hand into her mother’s and whispered:—

“ Don’t be fitened, muddie ! I’ll take care
of you.”

As the two men advanced the child’s
cheeks flushed hotly, and she whispered
again, “ I’ll go and tell fardie ! ”

A light of hope flashed into Mrs. Holan’s
eyes, only to die down next minute.

“You could never find him,” she
whispered.

“ Oh, yes, I can,” the child answered,
sturdily. “ Tick (the dog) finds him, so I’ll
smell him out like Tick—see ? ”

Then, before her mother could say a word,
she had glided off the veranda, skirted the
house, and in a moment was lost to view in
the bush.

II.

When Linda found herself under shelter of
the trees she ran along as fast as her little
legs would carry her in the direction she had

421

that morning seen her father take. She knew
that he was felling trees with three assistants
somewhere quite a long way off, and had not
the slightest doubt that if she went straight
on as he had done till she was out of sight
of the house she would find him easily. Yet
when at last she ventured to look round, and
found that she could no longer see the house,
a sudden awe came on her. The woods
were so big and so still; the trees all seemed
to be watching her ; the leaves to be whisper¬
ing about her. The little brows puckered
for a moment in perplexity, and the baby
lips, till then so tightly, rebelliously clenched,
took a downward curve that told of a great
desire to cry. The disappointment was very
real and so very bitter. Here she was quite
out of sight, and so, just on the place where
her father had disappeared that morning;
yet he was nowhere to be seen. She went
on for a few paces falteringly. Gradually
her steps grew slower and slower, her lips
drooped more and more, and she came to a
halt. Then a bright look flashed into her
eyes, and her flute-like treble rang through
the bush : “ Fardie ! Fardie ! ” and again,

“ Fardie ! ”

But as the lingering echoes died away,
and the silence seemed to brood more
heavily, a sudden access of terror seized her,
and she sank on to the ground. The great
gum trees towered above her, making the
sky like little pools of water. Between the
mighty trunks she could see nothing save
the shimmer of a blue haze, that crept up
and up and seemed to be full of eyes. She
felt that she wanted her mother dreadfully,
but with the thought came the memory that
her mother was wanting her father just that
way too. She crept on to her knees, and,
solemnly clasping her hands, looked up into
a tiny pool of blue sky.

“ Dear guardy angel,” she said, in all
trust, “if you’re not werry sleepy or werry
busy, just now, do please show me the way
my fardie’s gone.”

At that instant, and, to her child-mind, as
if in direct answer to her prayer, a great
blue butterfly with golden stripes on its wings
fluttered out from the shade and went zig¬
zagging through the shadow and sunlight in
front of her. With a delighted scream the
child jumped to her feet and fled in hot pur¬
suit after it. Not fora second did she doubt
that it was the “guardy angel” itself. Had
not her father told her only last night that
just such a butterfly had whispered to him
while he was at work all that his little girl
had been doing? And here, she thought,

422

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

was that same dear butterfly going to tell
her father now. Once or twice, indeed, she
thought it did not seem to know its way very
well, for sometimes it almost turned back.
Yet she followed it in perfect trust, getting
deeper and deeper into the bush, farther and
farther from all signs of a track. For an
hour or more she toiled bravely on, till
suddenly her errant guide soared lazily aloft
into the branches of a giant wattle and
settled himself comfortably for a snooze.

At the s a m e
moment the sound
of voices reached
her ears, and with
a shrill cry of joy
and gratitude she
dashed down a
little slope, turned
a bank of shrubs,
and was standing
breathless in the
middle of four or
five men.

Her advent
seemed to startle
them, for they one
and all sprang to
their feet, grasping
at guns and re¬
volvers. Linda
eyed them in
solemn scrutiny.

“Where’s fardie?”
she asked, briskly,
advancing a step.

“ Blow me, if it
ain’t Holan’s kid,”
muttered one of the
men. “ I seed her
yesterday when I
was taking the lay
of the land.”

“Go out and
scout, J e m,”
ordered the man addressed,
she’s alone or followed.”

Then turning to the child, he regarded her
curiously.

“ Have you lost your father, little ’un,” he
asked, not unkindly.

Linda gravely nodded, treating him to that
searching child-gaze the while which even
the best of men may find disconcerting.

“ If the boys don’t haul it ofi all right,” said
one of the men, “ I guess she’ll do for a
ransom, eh, cap’ ? A slice of luck, I call it. ’

The man addressed as “captain” was silent,
broodingly watching the child through half-

closed lids. He was a tall, broad-shouldered
man, with an expression rather sullen than
savage, and with a great golden beard that
hid half his face. But his eyes were not the
eyes of a wicked man. At least, so Linda
thought, for she suddenly walked up to him
and put out her hand, beaming on him with
a smile utterly unsuspicious.

The captain’s grim features relaxed into a
sheepish grin as his great, hairy hand closed
over the tiny, rosy fingers. Next minute the
girl had climbed
on to his knee and
.. was pouring out her
ffl tale. The bandits
gathered round,
spell-bound. It
seemed to them the
“rummiest’ thing
they had ever
dreamt of, to hear
this lost mite telling
their captain that
her mother was
held up by two of
his o w n m e n.
And the glances
they cast at each
other were strangely
furtive and ashamed
when Linda, jump¬
ing down, seized
her new friend’s
hand and cried:

“ And you must
come at once, at
once, to help my
muddie! ”

“Don’t you
worry, little ’un,”
said the captain, as
he lifted her again
on to his knee.
“ Your dad’s home
by now, and your
mamm’s quite safe. I saw ’em pass not far
from here a while back. I guess that
4 guardy angel ’ must ha’ told him after all.
You bide here awhile till I get my horse
round, and I’ll see as you get back to your
mammie.”

The child with one glance into his face
settled comfortably into his arms. In two
minutes her head drooped, the sturdy, tired
limbs relaxed, the heavy eyes peacefully
closed, and she was sleeping on the breast of
lake Hardy. One by one his comrades stole
out tip-toe from the glen, leaving the bush¬
ranger alone with the sleeping child.

“ WITH A DELIGHTED SCREAM THE CHILD JUMPED TO
HER FEET AND FLED IN HOT PURSUIT.

and see if

LINDA .

423

“ THE CHILD SETTLED COMFORTABLY INTO HIS ARMS."

III.

Meanwhile, within half an hour of Linda’s
departure, Patrick Holan with three armed
men had dashed up to his homestead. He
had struck the spoor of the gang that morn¬
ing and, alarmed for the safety of his house¬
hold, had returned immediately. The two
bandits had no time either to escape or
resist. Covered by four barrels, they deemed
discretion the road to safety, and threw up
their hands. When they were safely trussed,
Mrs. Holan, between laughter and tears,
asked for Linda, never dreaming that her
husband’s so timely arrival had been due to
any cause but the child’s encounter with him.

When Patrick learnt that his darling had
gone off alone into the bush to find him his
face blanched, and he gave his wife a look of
reproach that reduced her to terrified sobs.

“ Sure, darling ! ” she said, chokingly, “ it
wasn’t my fault at all, at all. She just slipped
off before I could stop her, and then I didn’t
dare, for fear those demons would be murther-
ing her.”

Pat wasted no time in arguing. Telling
off one of the men to act as guard, he mounted
with the others, and next moment was

galloping furiously
through the woods
in the direction
Linda had taken.
Night fell, and still
he had not re¬
turned. Mrs. Holan,
in an anguish of
anxiety and fear,
paced the veranda
to and fro like a
wild thing. She
never knew till then
how dear the child
was to her — her
heart grew sick with
terror as she thought
of her alone and
lost in that vast
bush. Suddenly
the sound of a
horse’s hoofs thud¬
ded softly on her
straining ears. She
flew rather than ran
down the steps.
The moon was just
creeping up, and
the light shone
wanly through the
trees. It was suffi¬
cient, however, to
outline the burly form of a bearded man,
who, swinging himself gently from his horse,
was approaching her on foot and bear¬
ing in his arms a bundle wrapped in a coat.
When Peggy got near him her limbs failed
her and her heart seemed suddenly to stop
beating. “Was it Linda?” she thought.
“Had anything happened to her?” The
man’s words reassured her, however.

“ Don’t be for waking of her, missus,” he
said, in a whisper. With a stifled cry the
mother sprang forward, stretching out her
arms. After a momentary pause, and with
a movement strangely reluctant, the man
transferred his precious freight.

Peggy gave a great sigh of utter joy as she
strained the sleeping form to her, and gazed
into the flushed, unconscious, happy face.

“ Come inside,” she whispered. “ Nay,
you shall ! ” she added, seeing the man
hesitating. She seized his hand, and drew
him gently after her. He followed un¬
resisting, but it did not escape her attention
that as he entered he shifted his belt so that
two revolver butts rested readily to his grip.

Once inside she forced him into a chair,
and poured out a flood of eager, excited

424

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

questions. Where had he found her ? Who
was he ? And so forth, till the man, sud¬
denly rising, stayed her with his hand.

“Look ’ere, missus ! ” he said, “I ain’t good
at beating about the bush — leastways, not
with words. My name’s Jake Hardy, and
them was my fellows as held you up this
afternoon ; though, as they ain’t back to
camp, I guess there’s a chance your old man
held them up. The little ’un crossed our
trail this evening lookin’ for ’er daddie. The
boys were for holdin’ her for ransom. Waal,
I thought different.” He paused and mopped
his face, gazing with a curious, hungry look
at the child. Then he went on : “ There
was a time when I ’ad a kiddy like that, just
about the same age, too. Then I got trunked
for a thing as I never did, s’elp me never !
And when I came out after twelve months she
was under the sod—kind
of pined, you know, lookin’
fer ’er daddie and mebbe
sum mut to eat, fer ’er
was dead too.
went crazed and
the bush. That’s
missus. And

He hardly heard the tale his wife sobbed
out as he clasped the little one to his heart.
When its full significance reached him later
he was very silent for awhile, and Linda
wondered why his eyes glistened and his voice
was so funny and husky as he muttered at
last, “Poor fellow, you did right letting them
go, little woman.”

When later the sovereigns came out of the
milk-pan, Linda, sitting in her night-gown
reflectively licking the cream off, coin by
coin, murmured: “Will that funny man what
cried when he sung me to sleep come to
breakfast ? ”

And he did, though none but Linda and
her parents know that the clean-shaven, quiet

mammie
Then I
took to
my yarn

that’s the reason I brought
your little ’un back to you.
It’s men I’m agen, and the
cruel demons as make men
brutes, not little, innercent
angels. Good-day, ma’am.
You’ll be safe agen me and
mine, this day out, and
if the boys did get your
shekels, you shall have ’em
back the morning.”

He feasted his eyes yearn¬
ingly for a moment on the
child, then turned towards
.the door.

“ Wait! ” called Peggy,
whose eyes were streaming.
She moved to the door of

■ ik w

an inner room and called out, “ lorn, loose
the prisoners and bring them out.”

The man peering over her shoulders saw
his two comrades lying cheek by jowl, lashed
hand and foot. Next minute, after a renewed
command from Peggy, they were loosed, and
ten minutes later, in spite of Tom’s grumbling
protest, were swallowed in the black shadows
of the bush. More than an hour passed
before Pat, wild of face and haggard-eyed,
returned to find Linda awake and wildly
shrieking, “ Muddie ! Look ! I here’s fardie
coming ! ”

man who signed on with Pat Holan early the
following dawn was the same man as had
been there the night before. And the police
at Ballarat, who received some £ 9°° with
the intimation that Jake Hardy had retired
from business, and forwarded the said sum
by way of restitution, winked the weather-eye
very sapiently, and opined that it was a really
deep move on Jake’s part to put them off
their guard. But they never thought through
all the following years of identifying him with
Linda’s stalwart henchman whom everyone
save Linda knew as “ Surly Mike.”

The Romance of Niagara Bridges.

By Orrin

O matter what caused the for¬
mation of the Niagara gorge,
the fact remains that its exist¬
ence has forced a wonderful
demonstration of man’s skill.
The romance of the Niagara
Bridges is the most marvellous and interesting
:Story of its kind in the history of the world.

It is, indeed, a strange coincidence that as
the current of the river cut its way through
the canyon, it was separating what were to
.be sections of two nations—the river being
the boundary between New York State and
the Dominion of Canada—which were later
to be brought into . mutual rejoicing over
the connection of the mighty cliffs by such
a tender bond as that of a boy’s kite-string.

In the early day s,„ before
the Niagara gorge had been’'
spanned by a bridge, the
only means of crossing was
by a ferry operated close to
the foot of the Falls—that,
great, natural spectacle which
has for centuries commanded
the admiration of the people
of the world. Then the Nia¬
gara locality was deemed
quite a distance west, but
ambitious man kept plung¬
ing still farther westward to
open up the new country
beyond. The gorge of
Niagara lay across the direct
pathway. It was evident that
this obstacle to travel must
be overcome, and the neces¬
sary money was secured to construct a bridge.
The style of structure decided upon was of
the suspension type, and the site was at the
point where the edges of the cliffs were over
8 ooft. apart, and this right above where the
terrible whirlpool rapids begin. The first
thing to be done was to establish connection
between the bluffs. No boat could live in
the waters below, and so a line could not be
carried across in that way. It was proposed
to fire a rocket high in the air, giving it
sufficient slant to allow it to fall on the
opposite shore, and thus carry a cord across
from bank to bank. It was found to be
impracticable to do this, and then the simple
•method that brought success was adopted.

Among the boys of the small village on
the New York bank there was one who had
won wide distinction for his ability as a kite-

Vol. xviii.—64

E. Dunlap.

flyer. His name was Homan Walsh (No. i).
To him the contractors went for help. They
asked him to display his skill with his kite,
and try to let it fall from the sky on to the
distant shore. Young Walsh entered into
the attempt with great enthusiasm. He recog¬
nised that the prevailing wind pf the locality
was from the south-west, and so he sought the
Canadian shore as a starting-place- for hfe
kite. Going up the river two nules he was
ferried across the stream, and theiY.he walked
back down along the" bank to the Bridge., site.
It was not long ere he had his kite, wliich he
had named “ The Union,’’ high in the Air.
The breeze was good. Walsh and the people
who had gathered on either , bank were hope¬
ful. It was expected ' that with-sunset the
wind would go down so that
the*' kite' fcouid'' be ' lowered
and the connection between
the'banks -made. .Darkness
fell. The wind continued to
blow a:stiff-breeze. All hope
was gone for the time being,
and it was recognised that
possibly with the turn of the
night the wind would settle
as desired. Along the Cana¬
dian shore where, young
Walsh waited, holding fast
to the kite-string as a doctor
would to the pulse of a
patient, in order to know the
strength of the pull, bonfires
were lighted so that the on¬
lookers might keep warm
during the coolness of the
night. Soon off across the gorge similar watch
fires blazed up on the New York shore, and
Walsh knew his purpose was understood.

Midnight came. The night turned. One
day had given place to another. The wind
went down. The kite did not pull so hard.
Walsh knew it was settling—but where? An
hour or more passed. Then over the gorge,
high above the roar of the rapids, there
came to his ears the sound of cheering.
Faint, indeed, it was, but it was sufficiently
loud to tell the glad story that the kite had
fallen, and that between the rocky cliffs of
the world-famed Niagara chasm connection
had for the first time been established. It
was, indeed, a happy moment for him, as he
afterward said himself to the writer. “ I
felt,” said he, “ that I had leaped from boy¬
hood to manhood. I had joined two

,

I.—HOMAN WALSH, WHO, AS A BOY, MADE
WITH HIS KITE-STRING THE FlfcST CON¬
NECTION BETWEEN THE NIAGARA CLIFFS.
From a Photograph.

426

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

2 .—THE FIRST CABLEWAY—ON THE SITE OF THE FIRST SUSPENSION BRIDGE.

From an Old Print.

countries. Boy-like, I was proud of my
work.” A short time passed, and then there
was a sharp, sudden tugging at the string
Walsh held in his grasp. The strain in¬
creased. Suddenly it relaxed. The end of
the cord that Walsh held fell loose. Tears
burst from his eyes, for he knew that there
had been too much cord let out, allowing
it to sag until it had caught on the rough, un¬
even surface of the big pieces of ice of a floe
passing down the river. The very wind that
had raised his kite had broken the ice-field in
Lake Erie and brought it down the river just
in time to undo what he had accomplished.
It was a sorrowful ending of his effort. Kind,
new-found friends gave him comfort until
morning, when he went up to the ferry to
cross the river to his home. Arriving there,
he found that the ice was coming over the
Falls in such vast fields that a boat dare
not attempt a crossing. For eight days
he was held on the Canadian side by this
condition of the river, finally reaching
home safely. He found his kite in good
condition, and resolved to try again.

This purpose he carried out at the first
favourable opportunity, and succeeded
in making the connection between the
cliffs. This was the commencement of
the first great bridge across the Niagara
gorge, as well as of the first great sus¬
pension bridge erected in America.

The slender kite-string served to draw
a heavier rope across the gorge. Wire
cables followed, and on one of these wire
cables the first cableway in America was

operated (No. 2).
'This cableway was
used for passenger
service and also for
the construction
work. The cable
was made of thirty-
six No. 9 iron
wires, and on it an
iron basket was
operated. This old
relic of the early-
day bridge con¬
struction at Nia¬
gara is still in. the
possession of the
Buffalo Historical
Society. It was de¬
signed by Judge
T. G. Hulett, of
Niagara Falls, who
is still alive. It
was made of strips
of band-iron, varying in width from an inch
to an inch and a half, fastened with rivets.
The illustration (No. 3) shows that it is
higher at the ends than in the centre. The
manner in which its shape was decided upon
is most interesting. In December, 1847,
Judge Hulett and General Ellet, the con¬
tractor, met at the old Eagle Tavern, at the
Falls, and during their conversation the merits
of a cable and basket as an aid to the work
were discussed. The form of the basket was
determined by Judge Hulett rising from the
old-fashioned rocking-chair in which he sat,
and, pulling another chair of similar pat¬
tern up to it, he said, “ There is the
shape of your basket.” A glance at the
following illustration will show that this idea
was closely adhered to. One of the men
referred to favoured wood as the material for
the basket, but a rapid calculation showed

3.—THE IRON BASKET USED ON THE FIRST CABLEWAY,
From a Photograph.

THE ROMANCE OF NIAGARA BRIDGES.

427

that a basket made of iron would be lighter,
and so it was that the first great suspension
bridge in all America was built by aid of
this device. While the cableway was in
operation the fare charged for passage
across the gorge in the basket was $1 for
each person, and on some days as much as
$125 was taken.

On October 10th, 1848, the value of the
basket and cableway was well illustrated at
the time of an accident. A violent wind¬
storm had wrecked one of the sections of
the bridge-work, and the floor, with four
men on it, was thrown across the cable line.
Back and forth they swung 200ft. above the
river at the mercy of the storm. It was
a thrilling spectacle. Volunteers were called
for to man the basket and go to their
rescue. The men who went out in the
basket carried with them a small ladder, and
by its aid the four men scrambled into the
car and were drawn safely to shore.

From the work performed on this cableway
the first suspension bridge at Niagara was
developed. It was of wood, even to the
towers, and was completed in 1848.

From this success in spanning the gorge
grew the idea of building a suspension bridge
on the same site for railway purposes. The
project won favour, and John A. Roebling
was selected as the engineer. The work pro¬
gressed with reasonable rapidity, and the
bridge was finished in 1855. It was the only
great railway suspension bridge ever erected.
It was a wooden structure, the length of span
being about 800ft. It was a double-deck
structure, the upper deck being for railway
trains and the lower deck for carriages and
ped estrians.

At the time of
its erection it
was regarded
as a great—in
fact, wonderful
— triumph of
engineer i n g
skill, and such
it truly was.

The towers of
the railway
bridge were of
stone.

In 1880 a
most wonder¬
ful feat of engi¬
neering was
performed in
connection
with this

bridge, which was nothing more or less than
the replacing of the old wooden truss by a
metal truss* without in any way interfering
with traffic across the bridge on either deck.
While the bridge was being thus transformed
there were no serious accidents, and traffic
proceeded with its accustomed regularity.
The engineer in charge of this work was
Leffert L. Buck, a man who has won brilliant
fame in connection with the Niagara bridges,
as well as in Europe. In 1886 a still further
transformation was made in the structure by
replacing the towers of stone with steel
towers. This also was accomplished without
interrupting traffic. With this finished the
bridge had been entirely reconstructed
(No. 4).

The reconstructed suspension bridge filled
all requirements for over ten years, but the
constantly increasing weight of railroad
rolling stock, and the fact that the suspension
bridge had but a single railway track across
its upper deck, developed the necessity for
constructing a new bridge. It was then that
the death-knell of the Niagara suspension
bridges was sounded, engineers deciding that
an all-metal arch was the proper structure
to replace the most historic suspension
bridge in the world. On April 9th, 1896,
work on the foundations of a new arch was
commenced. It was projected that this arch
should occupy the identical site of the sus¬
pension bridge, and that the new arch should
be erected and the old suspension bridge
removed without delaying the traffic over
the structure. The abutments of this new
arch were located mid-way between the water’s
edge and the top of the bluff on what is

4.—THE STEEL SUSPENSION BRIDGE, WHICH WAS REPLACED BY THE LOWER ARCH.
From a Photograph.

428

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE .

known as the Clinton ledge of limestone.
High up from the abutments to the suspen¬
sion bridge above, great false-work structures
were built in order to facilitate the arch
construction. The abutments are four in
number, two on each side of the river, each
supporting one leg of the arch.

The work of erecting the steel super¬
structure began September 17 th, 1896, and
the bridge was fully completed August 27th,
1897, the test taking place July 29th, 1897.
The span of the main arch from abutment to
abutment is 550ft., and it is connected to the
banks by two approach
spans 115ft. in length. The
height of the centre from
the water is about 200ft.

It can easily be imagined
that the erection of such a
great arch was an under
taking of magnitude. To
replace any .small bridge
with another bridge is quite
an undertaking, but to sup¬
plant a great Niagara
suspension bridge with a
structure of different type
200ft. above the water was
an undertaking requiring
the greatest skill.

Only the most skilled
bridge builders could be
employed, for the slightest
error might send scores of
men to death in the rapid
running waters below. Every part of the
new arch must fit to a nicety, so that when
lowered into position it would be a perfect
part of the whole. Nearly all the trains of
the Grand Trunk Railway pass over this
structure, and during the entire work not a
single train was delayed, while traffic on the
carriage floor was delayed but a brief time
daily, this fact being precautionary rather
than a necessity. On each side of the river
anchor-pits were built, and out from these
extended anchor chains to hold the steel that
formed the halves of the arch, the method
of erection being to build out from either
side and placing the last section in the
centre. Day after day the great steel arms
continued to grow out from the abutments
• (as'Seen-in No. 5), until finally they met and
were connected in the centre, completing the
springing.of the arch. From this point the
work was very rapid. Section by section
the old suspension bridge was torn away and
new parts of the.arch, inserted, yntil the old
structure had entirely given place to the new,

when the load was shifted on to the new
arch, which was now brought into continuous
service. The superstructure of the suspen¬
sion bridge, the old cables, and the towers
were taken down, and the grandest arch in
the world for railway purposes stood out in all
its beauty over the chasm.

The test of the arch was a never-to-be-
forgotten spectacle. Early on the afternoon
of July 29th, 1897, there put out from the
Canadian side two great trains. Each train
consisted of eight locomotives and nine
loaded coal cars, on top of which rails were

piled to increase the weight. In addition to
this a heavy load was placed on the lower
floor. Slowly the trains made their way
out on the upper deck of the structure.
Thousands of people lined the river banks
on both sides, to witness the test. The
trains stopped, as though afraid to proceed.
It was simply to give the engineers an oppor¬
tunity to take levels. Then they ran a little
farther out on the arch. They stopped
again. It was a thrilling spectacle. What
if the arch should succumb to the load?
People held their breath. The signal to go
ahead was again given. The front engines
stood over the centre of the arch. More
levels were taken. Again the engines forged
ahead. They were at the three-quarter post.
Silently they stood, and then they pulled
ahead again. The weight of the entire two
trains was on the bridge. There was just a
moment of silence, and then there burst forth
from the engines of the train such triumphant
shrieks of whistling as never before had
startled the echoes of the Niagara gorge

THE ROMANCE OF NIAGARA BRIDGES.

429

(No. 6). People waved their hats in frenzy
of excitement, and cheer upon cheer swept
across from shore to shore. The engineers

who witnessed it. One piece, the Falls of
Niagara, was displayed by a perfect wall of
fire reaching from the floor of the arch to the

From a J

6.—TEST OF THE ARCH—TRAINS WHISTLING IN TRIUMPH.

[Photograph..

had made a perfect job. The first Niagara
arch had successfully withstood a greater
load than was likely ever to be put on it
again, unless at some future time it should
be again tested.

Within a few weeks the bridge companies
and the Grand Trunk Railway inaugurated a
three days’ celebration of the successful com¬
pletion of the wonderful bridge, and excur¬
sions were run from all parts of the States
and the Dominion of Canada. Such a feast
of rejoicing had
never before and
never since been
witnessed on the
banks of the
famous Niagara.

All day and almost
all night long
people of the two
countries surged
across the arch
free, enjoying the
regal entertain¬
ment provided on
both sides of the’
river, all very
much resembling
an English coun¬
try fair. The fire¬
works feature of
the celebration
will never be for¬
gotten by those

water in the river. It was indeed a sublime
spectacle, beyond all possibilities of descrip¬
tion. Thousands upon thousands of people
rejoiced over the accomplishment of modern
engineering, and expressed pleasure un¬
bounded at the progress of the age (No. 7).

While the original suspension bridge still
stood, the development of railroad interests
in and about Niagara, owing to the con¬
struction of more trunk lines, developed a
demand for the construction of another

From a Photograph.

43 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

bridge, and a site 300ft. above the suspension
bridge was selected. On this site the great
cantilever bridge of Niagara was erected. It
is a double-track structure; in fact, the first
double-track bridge ever built across the
Niagara gorge. It is owned by the Michigan
Central Railroad Company, and is indeed a
famous structure. Work on this grand piece
of engineering was commenced April 15th,
1883, and it was completed December 1st of
the same year. It is the second bridge of
the kind built in the United States. Its
total length is 910ft., divided into two canti¬
lever arms, one of which is 375ft. long and
the other 395ft. long. These cantilevers or
arms are supported on steel towers, which
rise 130ft. from piers located at the water’s
edge. In the centre the ends of the canti¬
lever arms are connected by a fixed span
125ft. long. On the shore ends of the canti¬
lever arms rest huge stone abutments weigh¬
ing many tons.

The cantilever bridge stands higher above
the water than the lower steel arch, and as it
was built in 1883, it was the first Niagara
bridge to be built out from the ends and con¬
nected in the centre high over mid-stream.
Monster false works were erected on both
sides of the river, and section by section the
cantilever arms grew out over the river. It
being the initial work of the kind at Niagara,
it attracted unusual .attention, and each day
the progress made was noted by crowds of
admiring humanity. Finally there was but a
single section of the fixed span of the centre
to be placed (No. 8). So close were the two
ends of the arms that a plank was thrown
across the gulf to
connect them.

Then it was that
an interesting in¬
cident occurred.

The engineer in
charge, desiring a
young lady friend
should have the
honour of first
crossing the
bridge, gave strict
orders that none
of the workmen
should cross the
plank. The temp¬
tation was too
great, however.

“Jack” McClov,
the well - known
Niagara guide,
who was then at

work on the bridge, sprang across the narrow
plank, and thus had the honour of being
the first to cross from section to section of
this wonderful Niagara bridge. When the
engineer learned of McCloy’s deed he
promptly discharged him, so McCloy walked
the plank in a double sense.

The test of this bridge (shown com¬
plete in No. 9) was made on December
20th, 1883. About eight o’clock that morn¬
ing seven heavy freight engines ran across
the structure in line, but the formal and
most severe test occurred about noon of
that day during a heavy snowstorm. On
each of the two tracks ten large locomotives
and twelve platform cars loaded with gravel,
making twenty locomotives and twenty-four
cars in all, were run out on the bridge. The
structure stood the test nobly, greatly to the
pleasure of the engineers. The trains
stretched from pier to pier, and when their
full weight was on the bridge the whistles of
the locomotives sounded the good news to
the assembled thousands.

The success met with by the promoters
and builders of the railway suspension bridge
created a demand for a bridge two miles
farther up stream, close to the Falls, where
the scenic feature was more pronounced.
After much opposition a charter was obtained,
and in the winter of 1867-68 a rope was
carried across the river at the site of the
proposed new bridge on an ice bridge, and
thus connection was made between the cliffs
at this point for another structure which was
to develop many interesting incidents in
bridge destruction and bridge construction.

From aj

8,—THE CANTILEVER RRIOGE IN PROCESS OF CONSTRUCTION.

t Photograph.

THE ROMANCE OF NIAGARA BRIDGES.

43i

From a]

-THE CANTILEVER BRIDGE COMPLETED.

I Photograph.

The bridge first built on this site was a
wooden structure, opened to the public on
January 2nd, 1869. It was only about 10ft.
wide, and carriages were unable to pass one
another on it. This led to long waits at either
end, and no doubt many readers of this
article will remember the long lines of carri¬
ages moving in one direction across the
bridge in caravan form, while many others
were waiting for the line to pass in order that
they might secure the right of way. Those

were the days when
the Niagara hack-
man was in his
prime, and the
locality had not
been revolution¬
ized by the elec¬
tric trolley. In
1872 steel sup¬
planted wood in
the bottom chord,
and in 1884 the
wooden towers, in
which elevators
were operated on
the Canadian side,
gave way to towers
of steel. In Octo¬
ber, 1887, the work
of widening the
bridge was com¬
menced, and it was
completed June
13th, 1888, with¬
out any suspension
of traffic. This gave an entire new steel
structure from bank to bank, with a span of
1,268ft. (No. 10). As a suspension bridge, it
was the admiration of all who visited Niagara,
but it was doomed to an untimely fate.

On the night of January 9-ioth, 1889,
the Niagara locality was visited by a
terrific hurricane, and when daylight came in
the morning not a single inch of the bridge
proper remained, it having been torn away
from the cliffs as though cut out by a knife,

From «]

IO.—NIAGARA SUSPENSION BRIDGE OF t588,

( Photograph.

43 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

and the entire mass of steel lay bottom
up' in . the gorge below. On the , slopes of
the bank on each side of the river the
ends of the fallen mass were visible,, while
beneath the- deep, silent waters of the river
the greater portion of th’e wreck was hidden,
and there it remains to this. day. On the
fatal night the wind swept down the gorge
across’ the Horseshoe- Fall from the south¬
west. With its span of over 1,200ft., the
bridge was broadside to; the gale. It was
caught by the storm, and at nightfall was
swinging back and forth on the wind. People
who desired to cross the structure were warned
of their danger, but;'.sojpiie % •/few.. venturesome
persons in response to. duty; pressed on across
the tossing bridge.

at an angle of 45deg. The force of the wind
almost took his breath away, while the
clouds of spray and water almost drowned
him. The night was intensely cold —the
clashing of the wires of the bridge, the
upheaval and swinging to and fro of the
floor, and the roar of the Falls intensified
the situation, and made the doctor almost
fear reaching the river bank. His tightly-
buttoned overcoat was torn loose by the
wind, .which fairly ripped the buttons off.
He made an attempt to throw off the gar¬
ment, but he dared not loosen his hold of
the bridge with both hands for fear of being
blown from the structure into the river. His
only hope was to hold on and creep or walk
toward the New York end, and this he did.

One of these was IpiTjohn W.vTIodge, and When lie passed off the bridge he was almost
is experience of that night has gone down' exhausted. He’was the last man to cross the
" 1 1 1 1 * ,vt ' * f ' bridge before it .fell. It is generally under¬

stood that the destruction of the bridge was
due to a parting of the suspenders, which
gave way one by ojie,_ allowing . the,, bridge
rhb’re'freedom to-swing .on the gale until it
was torn from its fastenings. It was about

his

in history as one.of this truly thrilling incidents
of Niagara. In answer to a call from a very
sick patient, Dr. Hodge, who resides on the.
New York side, wenLacross-to. Canada,, and
returned in the height ’of the storm. Only a
very high sense of duty to his, patient led
him to do this. It was'abput 10 p.m. that
he crossed to Canada, and it was n.30 p.m.
when he started to return. Down the
ink-black gorge the gale swept, bringing
great sheets of spray and water right off the
crest of the Falls, striking the bridge with
hurricane effect. As he made his way toward
the New York end he noticed by the high
tossing and low dropping of the structure
that some of the
stays had appa¬
rently broken..

From side to side
the mighty struc¬
ture surged, and
20ft. or more high
it tossed. The
doctor realized
that his life was
in peril, for the
storm seemed to
be increasing in
intensity. To the
southern or upper
rail ' of the struc¬
ture^ he clung
bps the could, and
carefully, picked
his . way over .the
doomed bridge.

His headway was
necessarily slow,
for at times the
bridge would tip

3 a.m., on the iofh of January, 1889, that
the bridge fell, and in the morning it pre¬
sented a sorrowful spectacle (No. 11) : a
twisted, broken, upturned mass in the gorge
below. For weeks it was an attraction to
visitors to Niagara, and even now at very
low water ends of the steel may be seen in
the river on the Canadian side.

While they mourned the loss of their

II.- KEiWAllNb Ur 1 ill!. MiUC, DKlL/UIi /\r l r.i\ 1 nr. IM.

From a) thrilling experience,

THE ROMANCE OF NIAGARA BRIDGES.

433

bridge the controlling companies were equal
to the occasion, and at once ordered it to
be duplicated. This rebuilding of the bridge
was a feat of surprising rapidity ; but as the
iron-mills had all the patterns, the steel parts
were quickly at hand. On March 22nd,
1889, the duplicate bridge was started, and
on May 7th, 1889, it was opened for travel,
thus accomplishing one of the most notable
feats of bridge construction ever witnessed
on the Niagara frontier. This structure had
a width of 17 and when it was built the
men behind it believed they were building
for all time.

Not so, however. In 1889 they little
realized that the ensuing decade would bring
forth such wonderful changes in the Niagara
region as to
demand a
voluntary de¬
struction of
the handsome
structure they
had built, in
order that it
might give
way to a more
modem and a
better bridge.

But all this
was to be, and
has now taken
place. With
the develop¬
ment of great
units of elec¬
trical power
at Niagara Falls there was a revolutionizing
force of wonderful power set free. The
horse - car lines of the region and other
new roads were electrically equipped, and a
new force was set to work developing the
Niagara surroundings. With the construc¬
tion of electric roads on both sides of
the gorge for scenic purposes there came
a demand for international connection of
the lines, in order that a belt-line trolley
service might be operated about the gorge.
The modern electric car is heavily weighted,
and it was found that none of the bridges
were sufficiently strong to furnish the required
service. This led to the determination to
replace the upper and new suspension bridge
with an all-metal arch.

This arch was built in 1897-98, and has
the distinction of being the greatest steel arch
in the world. The abutments stand close to
the water’s edge on both sides of the river,
and the length of the main span between

Vol, .xviii.—55

them is about 840ft. This arch has but one
floor, on which room has been provided for
double tracks for the electric car service, the
road being the first international line between
the United States and Canada. There is
ample room for carriages, and walks are also
provided for pedestrians. As the bridge prac¬
tically stands right in front of the Falls, a
grand view of the cataract is obtainable. In
the grace of its lines this arch is surpassingly
beautiful, and is to-day classed as one of the
wonderful things to be seen at Niagara. The
method of erection (No. 12) was very similar
to the arch first erected across the gorge, the
suspension bridge being removed after the
arch had been erected (No. 13). It is the
fourth bridge built .on this site.

The second suspension bridge erected
across the Niagara chasm was built right in
front of the world-famous Queenston Heights,
and stretched across the river to the Lewiston
Mountain.

Encouraged by the apparently bright pros¬
pects of the locality, capital in 1850-51
erected the second great suspension bridge
that ever spanned the Niagara. This bridge
was opened on March 20th, 1851, and it stood
firm, and furnished means of crossing the
gorge until the morning of February 1st, 1864,
when it was wrecked by a wind storm. Some
days previous to its destruction a great floe
of ice came plunging down the gorge from
Lake Erie. High winds prevailed, and the
water raised many feet. The wind subsided,
but the ice-fields of Lake Erie had been
broken by the wind and thaw, and con¬
tinued to come down over the Falls and
pass down the gorge in great quantities.
The men in charge of the structure feared

12.—CONSTRUCTION OF THE GREAT STEEL ARCH UNDER THE SUSPENSIOxV BRIDGE.
From a Photograph.

434

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

From a]

13.--THE (iKLATEST STEEL ARCH IN THE WORLD, COMPLETE.

LPhotograph.

that the guys of the bridge would be torn
away by the mass of running ice, and so
orders were given to unfasten them and
carry them up out of the path of the ice¬
field. This was done. The ice-floe passed
on down the river to Lake Ontario without
having done much damage at any point,
and none to the bridge property. Fair
weather followed. Spring appeared to be
opening, and the condition of the guys of
the bridge was overlooked. A storm of
great force swept down the rocky gorge. It
caught the bridge full on the up-side and
tossed it to and fro. Then it was recognised
that a mistake had been made in not re¬
fastening the guys, but it was too late. The
men in charge were helpless. They could
only stand on the river banks and watch the
bridge sway with the wind, hoping that it
would outride the storm. Their confidence in
this was misplaced. The hurricane increased
in fury. It fairly tore through the gorge, up¬
rooting mammoth trees, and seemed engaged
in an effort to move the cliffs. When the
storm was at its height a portion of the floor
of the structure was torn away and plunged
into the river. When the wind went down the
bridge was a sad spectacle (No. 14). It had
been severely wrenched and twisted, and a part
of the deck was gone. It was announced
that it would.be rebuilt, but time passed and
the structure continued to decay and fall
away. The fact was, the bridge had not
been a paying investment financially, and
the companies were not strong enough
financially to rebuild it. Year after year it
continued to drop away, until finally but a
small portion of the floor beams hung from

the cables, all forming one of the most in¬
teresting old landmarks of the Niagara
region up to the fall of 1898, when they
were cut away, and allowed to drop into a
watery grave in the, river, where they still
remain.

There are numerous interesting incidents
connected with the history of these old
cables, as they swung across the chasm be¬
tween two countries for years. Criminals who
dared not cross either of the bridges farther
up stream made their way over the cables in
the darkness of night. In one instance, an
Orleans County murderer was captured in
Canada, and the officers failed to under¬
stand how he crossed the river until he told
of his passage across the cables at night.
The Niagara border offers many induce¬
ments to smugglers, more in the past, perhaps,
than at present, and Customs’ officers watch
the river closely. One night two inspectors
were on guard near the old towers on the New
York side. They were watching the river
below, expecting to see a boat make for a
landing near a path that had a winding
course to the cliff top. The night was ideal
for smuggling. Now and then a young
moon broke through the clouds. The eyes
of the watchers wandered here and there
over the river surface in their effort to
decipher real or fancied objects. Midnight
had come and gone. More than once they
thought they saw a boat on the river, but
each time they were disappointed. Suddenly
one of the men gave a startled whisper.

“ Good heavens, what’s that? ” he said.

“ Where ? ” quickly inquired his com¬
panion.

THE ROMANCE OF NIAGARA BRIDGES.

435

X4 -—wkulk Uh IHE, SKCOND SUSPENSION BRIDGE, FEBRUARY I, 1864—SHOWING

from a] the cables over which the criminals escaped. [Photograph.

“ Out on the cable.”

Out over the river, on the cables, in a
crouching position, crawling up the strands
toward the abutment, was to be seen the
form of a man. He had come in view of the
two men as he reached a height on the cable
where his form was outlined against the
lighter sky beyond. It was a startling dis¬
covery. The vigilant inspectors were not
looking for that kind of game. It was hard
to determine what the man’s coming in that
way meant. They decided to lie quiet and
await developments, making their way quietly
back to the end of the cables at the
anchorages, and intending to wait for the
man to land. When he reached the top of
the towers he stood straight up and slapped
his sides with his hands, apparently resting his
muscles. His form was clearly outlined against
the sky. Soon he made his way down the
cables and stepped off within ioft. of where
the officers were. They had decided not to
molest him, for possibly he had come across

to give the signal for more
important work. The man
disappeared in the woods.
That was the last seen of him.
From the distance there fell
on the ears of the officers
the puffing and snorting of
an early morning train on
the Rome, Watertown, and
Ogdensburg Railroad, as it
made its way up the moun¬
tain. A cessation of the
noise of the locomotive told
the men on guard that the
train had stopped at the
mountain station. Inquiry
next day revealed the fact
that the man who crossed
the cables had boarded the
train at that point, but who
he was, or what his mission, *
was never known. It was
but one of the mysteries of
Niagara.

Now a new suspension
bridge has just been erected
on this very site. While the
bridge of 1851 was among
the pioneer bridges of
America, so to the same
degree does this latest
bridge mark all the advance¬
ment since made in bridge
construction during the past
half-century. The cutting
of the old cables was the
first step towards the construction of the
new bridge. The old bridge was simply
fifty years ahead of the demands of the
locality. And yet this new bridge cannot be
said to be actuated by the demands of the
Lewiston or Queenston growth, but on the
contrary it is inspired by the same revolu¬
tionizing tendencies that led to the supplant¬
ing the upper suspension bridge by a steel
arch, and this is the demands of the electric
car traffic in and about the Falls, which is
making the time-honoured Niagara hackman a
back number. It is the energetic spirit of New
Niagara that is doing all this, and compliment
is paid to the early bridge builders by selecting
the very site where failure was met years ago.

This latest suspension bridge is the only
structure of its kind spanning the Niagara, a
remarkable fact considering the fame that
the former suspension bridges gave to the
gorge. But all the old suspension bridges
have passed away, and have been supplanted
by the modern all-metal arch. The new

43 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE,

bridge has a cable span of 1,040ft., while
the suspended span is 800ft. The roadway
of the bridge is 25ft. wide, and through the
centre of it runs a single track for electric
cars. Steel was used in its construction, and
in all about 800 tons of metal was used. It
is supported by four cables, each composed
of fourteen 2^ in. wire ropes. These cables
once were part of the old upper suspension
bridge at the Falls.

All the former suspension bridges erected
near the Falls were built even with the tops
of the cliffs, but this new Lewiston bridge is
suspended midway between the water and
the top of the bank, thus following the style
of construction of the first Lewiston bridge.
This location is somewhat novel, and necessi¬
tates the building of long approaches on
either side. These approaches are double
tracked and lead to the approach spans of
the bridge, that on the New York side about

34ft. long and the one on the Canadian side
about 19ft. long. The bridge opened for
traffic on July 21st, 1899, the ceremony being
shown in our last picture (No. 15).

Such is the history of bridge erection and
destruction brought about by the marvellous
force that rent the Niagara cliffs apart. It
marks the beginning of the construction
of wonderful bridges in America, and
points out the steps of progress that
have been made. The bridges there built
have been copied for use in foreign lands,
but no place in the world has such a
wonderful and interesting history in connec¬
tion with its bridges, all of which com¬
manded the admiration of the world. There
is no doubt but that the old suspension
bridges, which are now but memories,
marked the highest stage of engineering
talent and skill at the time they were built,
and so do the two great all-metal arches,
the great cantilever, and this
latest and newest suspension
bridge, tell of the progress and
advancement made in bridge¬
building.

Homan Walsh is dead. He
died in Lincoln, Neb., on
March 8th, 1899. His body
was taken to Niagara Falls for
burial. The train that carried
it passed over the steel arch
built on the site where a half-
century before he had stood on
the river bank and flew his kite
to connect the cliffs by the
slender cord held in his hand.
In fancy, picture to yourself
the scene of that wintry day
when young Walsh successfully
united the cliffs. Review the
illustrations of this article show¬
ing the changes time wrought
in the bridge there first erected,
and then look upon the slowly-
moving train as it crossed the
bridge, bearing the silent and
dead body of the man who, as
a boy, made that train’s passage
over the mighty river possible.

Little did Homan Walsh
think that his kite-string was
building a path that would lead
him from his Western home to
the grave.

5.— OPENING OF THE NEW SUSPENSION BRIDGE, JULY 21, 1099.
From a Photograph.

Stories of the Sanctuary Club.

By L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace. Told by Paul Cato.

IV.—EAST OF NORTH.

BOUT a fortnight after the
terrible affair of the Diana
Sapphire, and when the excite¬
ment in connection with it had
partially subsided, Chetwynd
and I were alone in his con¬
sulting-room. Lunch was over, and we
were having a quiet smoke by ourselves.
Banpfylde’s horrible death had done the
Club no good, and more than one wealthy
and distinguished member had sent in his
resignation. My suspicions of Kort were on
the increase, but, watch him as I would, he
remained as impassive and unemotional as
ever, never betraying by look or word any¬
thing to lead me to suppose that he was
possessed of a special knowledge with regard
to the disappearance of the sapphire. Chet¬
wynd and I were discussing him now.

“ I don’t like the man,” I said, with
vehemence.

My brother partner’s usually imperturbable
face wore an expression of annoyance.

“ My dear fellow,” he said, shrugging his
shoulders, “what a restless imagination you
have ! Now, I am a profound admirer of
Kort, his ability is undoubted, and I con¬
sider him a gentleman in every sense of the
word.”

He had scarcely spoken before the door
was opened, and Kort himself appeared.
He came forward and dropped into the
nearest chair.

“ I want to talk to you both,” he said ; “ I
have something to tell you. I thought of
taking you separately into my confidence,
but as you are here I may as well speak to
you together.” He paused, and looked first
at Chetwynd and then at me. “ I am in a
dilemma of a painful nature,” he continued.

“Indeed, and what is that?” I asked.
My tone was the reverse of cordial. Kort
gave me a quick glance, then he turned to
Chetwynd.

“ I crave your sympathy,” he continued.
“I am a married man—I have bad news of
my wife.”

“ You married ! ” cried Chetwynd, spring¬
ing to his feet; “ and why did you not tell us
so when we entered into partnership?”

“ Because the fact of my being married or
single was a personal matter,” he replied,
quietly. “ I did not wish to worry either of
you with my private affairs, but circumstances

have lately arisen which make it important
for me to have Isobel here.”

I started and glanced at him eagerly.

“ You have already seen my wife,” he said,
returning my gaze. “Yes, she was the lady
who called here one day several weeks ago.
We have been married for some years. She
does not enjoy good health, poor girl, and I
have kept her with a maid in town and gone
to see her whenever possible, but she has
been so much worse lately that it is neces¬
sary for me to have her under my own roof.
She will, of course, come here as an ordinary
member, and I shall pay the customary fee
for her.”

“In your case that can scarcely be ex¬
pected,” said Chetwynd. “ I will own,” he
continued, “ to a feeling of disappointment
that you should have kept your marriage a
secret from Cato and myself; but as you
have a wife we ought to welcome her.
Doubtless she will be extremely useful to us
all. We have long wanted a lady at the
head of this establishment.”

“ I grieve to say,” continued Kort—his
voice was very restrained, and also full of
sorrow—“that Isobel cannot take the posi¬
tion you are kind enough to suggest. The
slightest excitement is bad for her. She
suffers from a curious affection of the brain,
which came on shortly after our marriage.
She is very sweet and gentle, and sympathetic,
and I am sure you will like her, but there are
times when she cannot appear in public.
Nothing gives her such relief as living in
high altitudes, and I am anxious that she
should have her own private suite of rooms in
our Davos wing. As you know, the altitude
there is 7,000ft., equal to half-way up Mont
Blanc—there is no one in the Davos wing at
present. Can we manage to give my wife
two or three rooms there? It would be a
great relief to me.”

“Certainly,” said Chetwynd, “we shall be
very glad to welcome your wife, and I think
I can answer both for Cato and myself that
we will do all in our power to restore her to
health.”

“Oh, I must be her doctor,” said Kort;
“ I have studied her symptoms for years and
thoroughly understand them.” As he spoke,
an uneasy sparkle came into his dark eyes,
vanishing the next moment. “ I am much
obliged to you both, and I only regret that I

43 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

did not take you into my full confidence
before,” he added.

Two days later Mrs. Kort arrived. Her
husband brought her himself to the Sanctuary
in one of our private carriages. She was a
slender, very young-looking woman. Her
complexion and hair were so dark as to give
her quite a foreign appearance, but those
wonderful deep-blue eyes, to which I have
already alluded, made the whole expression
of her gentle face one of wonderful distinc¬
tion. There was a quiet dignity, too, about
her manner and the tones of her sweet voice;
but in repose that highly bred and lovely
face was full of unutterable sadness. It was
only when she spoke and smiled, which
she did, alas ! very rarely, that it woke up into
its full beauty. Her husband led her into
the hall, bending over her assiduously, and

“MRS. KORT ARRIVED.”

watching her with apparently the most
devoted affection. They were both fol¬
lowed by a brusque-looking, red-haired young
woman, whom I concluded was Mrs. Kort’s
maid.

Sherwin’s dying words about Isobel, the
Isobel who had doubtless broken his heart,
came back to me as I looked full at Mrs.

Kort. I then went forward and held out my
hand.

“ I have seen you already,” I said ; “ wel¬
come to the Sanctuary Club. Do you not
remember the day when you called to see
your husband here a short time ago ? ”

“No,” she replied ; “I don’t think I have
ever been here before.” She glanced anxiously
at Kort as she spoke—“ Have I, Horace ?
Have I come here already ? ”

“Yes, my love, certainly,” he replied.
“ She has a very bad memory,” he added,
glancing at me, and giving me at the same
time a warning look which seemed to say,
“ Don’t worry her.”

She sat on the nearest chair and looked
around her.

“What a pretty place,” she said; “I am
glad I have come. I am sure I shall like
to be here, and to make your

acquaintance, Dr.-”

“ Cato is my name,” I said.

“Dr. Cato,” she replied, smiling
faintly as she spoke.

“ Had you not better come at
once to your apartments, Mrs:
Kort ? ” said the maid at this junc¬
ture, coming forward and speaking
in a brisk voice.

“ Oh, yes, Susan, yes,” answered
her mistress. She got up; Kort gave
her his arm and took her upstairs.

The next day Mrs. Kort came
downstairs and joined the rest of the
guests. Wherever she went she
made friends, and everyone present
was more or less interested in her;
but wherever she went, too, she
carried that look of indescribable
sadness about with her. What worry
had she lived through ? What
mystery surrounded her past ? She
talked little, and at intervals com¬
plained of that curious and quite
abnormal want of memory. But up
in her apartments, where Chetwynd
and I constantly visited her, she
was as bright and even cheerful as
any young woman I had ever met.

Kort himself insisted on being
her physician. He was quite assidu¬
ous in his attentions, and seldom left her
long alone with either Chetwynd or myself.

“ She is better,” he said one day, a week
after her arrival; “ the Davos air is doing
her a world of good. I must take a chateau
for her in the Swiss mountains; she is so
happy when she is up in her Davos suite.”

“ But surely,” I answered, “ she ought to

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

439

be happy elsewhere. That queer brain
affection from which she suffers ought to be
looked into very carefully, Kort. It is hard
on a pretty girl like your wife to be banished
to one suite of rooms.”

“She has had already the best advice,” he
answered, in a tone which evidently resented
any further interference on my part. “ But
the day is a fine one—bracing, yet not too
bracing—I will run
upstairs now and
ask her if she
would like to have
a drive.”

He had scarcely
left the room be¬
fore Chetwynd
came in.

“ I had a letter
this morning from
a Mr. Charles
Ridley,” he said,

“a new prospective
member of the
Club. I asked him
to call this after¬
noon. He is just
home from the
usual round of
Bads, and I should
think is full of
maladies imagin-
aires I

“What time do
you expect him ? ”

I asked.

“ Oh, any time
now. He said he
would be here
about three o’clock.

I will show him
over the place;
you had better
come with us.”

Almost imme¬
diately afterwards
there was a ring at
the front door, and
the next moment

the butler announced Mr. Charles Ridley.
A tall, thin, fair-haired man was shown in.
He might have been about forty years of
age. He was dressed with the greatest care,
wearing a frock-coat, in the lapel of which
was a pink carnation. Holding his hat in
his hand he came daintily across the room
as Chetwynd rose to greet him.

“ Mr. Ridley, I believe?” said Chetwynd.

“ That is my name,” he replied. “ You

have heard of me from our mutual friends,
the Jacksons. I am tired of wandering in
Continental spas, and hearing great things of
your Club am anxious to inspect it.”
Chetwynd introduced him to me.

“ We shall have pleasure in conducting
you over the place,” he said. “Will you
come with us now?”

Chetwynd led the way, and Ridley and I
followed. We
showed him over
the main part of
the establishment,
took him to the
wing specially set
aside for our
various hydro-
pathic treatments,
and showed him
that part of the
Davos suite not
occupied by Mrs.
Kort.

He expressed
himself delighted
with everything,
and made one or
two pertinent re¬
marks, showing
that he was a well-
informed man.

“ This is just
the thing for me,”
he said; “you
have, I see, one
of the Exchange
Telegraph instru¬
ments in the smok¬
ing-room. It is
most convenient
having racing re¬
sults out here as
soon as one would
get them in one’s
own club in Pall
Mall.”

“ Then you are

MR. CHARLES RIDLEY.” interested in the

turf?” I asked.

“ Oh, I dabble a little for amusement,”
he replied, with a laugh. “I am an idle
man, and must do something, 1 pour passer
le temps.' I shall enjoy this place—it seems
quite an ideal place for repose after the
eternal irritation of foreign hotels.”

As we were descending the staircase after
going all over the great house I saw that
Kort was standing in the hall. He was
smoking, with his back to the fireplace.

440

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

As we approached him I noticed that he was
regarding us rather curiously, and I fancied
that I saw him give a start—his cheroot
certainly dropped on the rug. He picked it
up and turned to us.

Chetwynd immediately introduced Ridley.
Ridley did not even bow or take the slightest
notice of Kort’s outstretched hand. He
stepped back, and a deep, red-brick colour
suffused his face. It was all too evident
that the men had met before. Before Ridley
could utter a word, however, Kort stepped
briskly forward.

“ Mr. Ridley ! ” he exclaimed, “ I remember
you now perfectly.” Again he held out his
hand, his mouth smiled, but not his eyes.
There was no answering smile on Ridley’s
face. He returned Kort’s glance steadily,
and said, in a quiet tone : —

“ How do you do, Mr. Kort? This is a
strange meeting—strange, and unlooked for.”

The little scene scarcely occupied a
minute, and we were all chatting easily again
almost directly ; but I could not help watch¬
ing Kort’s manner, for I had never seen his
face wear quite such an expression before.
Usually so quiet and self-possessed, there
was now a look of unrest, if not fear, in his
eyes. He sat down and crossed one leg
over the other, and the rapid but regular
movement of the foot told me that his heart
was beating fast—a secret sign I learned
years ago, and often used, unsuspected by
patients themselves. It told me he was
restraining himself for all he was worth.

Ridley stayed a few moments longer, pro¬
mised to come to the Club in a couple of
days, and left us.

I did not say a word of my suspicions to
Chetwynd, but I continued to watch Kort.
I saw that he was not himself: he had lost
some of his self-control, and evidently did not
wish to find himself alone in my presence.

Ridley arrived towards the end of the week,
and now, somewhat to my surprise, I saw
that he and Kort were on friendly terms.
Our new member was a good-humoured but
uninteresting individual, the one great interest
in his life being to read the sporting papers
and send telegrams to his bookmaker. He
had, however, one other hobby : he spent a
great deal of time over photography—he
possessed several excellent and expensive
cameras, and in the afternoons would make
excursions alone or accompanied by Kort for
the purpose of getting good subjects for
photography. When not so engaged he
would spend most of his time in the smoking-
room, anxiously watching the results of his

racing ventures as they were recorded on
the green baize board where the tape was
pinned. As I got to know him better I saw
that he was cursed with nerves in a state
of high irritation, and judging by this sign
manual I perceived that many of his specu¬
lations were the reverse of successful.

Since the arrival of Ridley I also noticed
that Mrs. Kort never came downstairs. Late
one evening we were in the hall; most of
the members had already gone to bed, but
Kort, Ridley, Chetwynd, and myself still sat
up, chatting idly over our pipes. Suddenly
I bent towards Kort.

“Is your wife worse?” I asked; “I have
not seen her for a week.”

The moment I uttered the words Ridley
bent forward in his chair; he stared at Kort,
then he said, in a low tone of intense astonish¬
ment :—

“ Is your wife here ? ”

“ Yes,” answered Kort. His manner was
nonchalant, and yet at the same time had a
decided note of suppressed resentment in its
tone.

“ Yes,” he said again, in an emphatic
manner, “ my wife is here.”

“ I should like to meet Mrs. Kort again,”
was Ridley’s reply.

“ My wife is ill at present,” answered
Kort; “ I have been obliged to keep her up¬
stairs for a week. When she is fit to receive
you I am sure it will be a pleasure to her to
renew your acquaintance.” As he spoke, he
rose and looked steadily into Ridley’s eyes.
There was a sort of challenge in his
expression.

Ridley tapped his foot impatiently.

“ When you say your wife is ill I believe
you,” he said, emphatically ; “the miracle is
that she should be alive.”

Kort made no answer to this, but his
sallow face seemed to me to become paler
than its wont.

“ I am going up to my wife now,” he said,
after a moment of almost oppressive silence.
“ Good-night, gentlemen.”

When he had gone, Ridley turned with a
laugh to me.

“ A little put out, eh ? ” he said. “ I had
him there. May I ask you two gentlemen
where you came across your amiable third
partner ? ”

His question evidently annoyed Chetwynd.

“ As Mr. Kort happens to be our partner,
we decline to discuss him,” he said. Then
he glanced at me : “ I am going to follow
Kort’s example, and am off to bed,” he said.

Ridley lay back in his chair.

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

441

“ RIDLEY LAY BACK IN HIS CHAIR.”

“ So you are both under that man’s fasci¬
nations,” he remarked. “ Well, it’s no affair
of mine.”

I turned the conversation, but during the
night that followed I often thought of
Ridley’s words and the look of ill-concealed
apprehension on Kort’s face.

The next day I happened to be in a
distant part of the grounds with our new
patient. I noticed that he was in a state of
high irritability, and, guessing the cause,
asked him how his speculations were going
on.

“ I hope everything is all right,” I said, in
conclusion.

“Things are far from all right,” was his
answer. “ I am a born gambler, Dr. Cato ;
I own it to my discredit. I have been
heavily hit the last few weeks.”

“ Is the pleasure worth the loss ? ” I asked.
“ Backing horses always seems to me not
only a dull but an expensive amusement.”

“ Perhaps so,” he answered, “ but at pre¬
sent I must go on. I don’t mind telling you
that I have lost a large sum, but I am quite
certain to get it back next week at Kempton
Park. After next week I intend to give up
the pleasures of the turf—that is, when I have
recouped my losses. I have obtained certain

Vol. xviii. —56.

information which I can
depend on as reliable, and
I am making a heavy
plunge.”

“ I hope you will be suc¬
cessful,” I answered.

“Thanks,” he replied.
He took his cigar from his
mouth, remained silent for
a moment, then turned to
me.

“ Dr. Cato,” he said,
suddenly, “ I saw that I
annoyed you and Dr.
Chetwynd last night when
I spoke as I did to your
partner, Kort. I wish to
assure you now, however,
that I did so with inten¬
tion. The fact is I have
been a good deal exercised
in my mind lately as to
whether or not lam justi¬
fied in making a communi¬
cation to you of a serious
nature. It relates to your
partner. I was considerably
amazed to find him here,
and still more astonished
to hear that his wife is
an inmate of this house.”

“ Well, and what of that ? ” I asked.

“If you knew as much as I do, you
would well say ‘What of that?’ Ought I
to enlighten you or ought I not ? ”

“ Do you know anything against Mrs.
Kort?” was my next question.

“ Against her ? —good heavens, no ! except
indeed that she is a victim. May I tell you
more, or would you rather be left in the
dark?”

“ I am afraid I cannot listen to you,” I
said, after a pause. “ Mr. Kort being our
partner we are bound to hear nothing against
him; or at least, if we do, he must know
of what you accuse him, and you must be
prepared to prove your words.”

“ Better leave things alone for the present,”
he said, after a pause. “ 1 met him five
years ago in Vienna. He is a man of un¬
doubted ability and fascination,” he made
the last remark slowly, and with a peculiar
smile hovering round the corners of his
mouth. The next instant we both turned
our heads ; there was a light step on the
grass behind us. Kort came up.

“ I just came out to tell you, Ridley,” he
said, “ that the Dolphin’s price has come
through on the tape. Twenty to one.”

442

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Twenty, to one ! 55 cried Ridley, bis whole
face undergoing a magical change. “ By
Jove ! that’s splendid; they’re a smart clique
in Russell’s stables. Now ? s my chance. I’ll
drive down to Gregson, my bookmaker, at
once and get on all I can. The price will
be back to ten to one to-morrow night. I
am much obliged to you, Kort.”

He hurried off, and Kort seated himself
by my side.

“ Plunges pretty heavily, eh ? ” he said.

“Yes, but 1 suppose he is a rich man,” I
answered.

“Is he? I happen to know to the con¬
trary. From a source that must be nameless
I hear that he is on his last legs. Fie
means to try and recoup himself by a big
plunge on the Dolphin, Captain Harrison’s
horse. He has lost close on ^40,000 this
last fortnight, and I know he is in a desperate
condition.”

“ By the way,” I said, “ he tells me he
knew you in Vienna five years ago.”

Kort laughed.

“Yes, I knew him, poor chap. In my
opinion he is not all there, the inevitable
result of a lazy and self-indulgent life. I
should not be surprised to see him go in for
G.P.I.”

“ General paralysis of the
insane !” I cried ; “ I don’t
see much sign of that.”

“ Well, I may be wrong.

I only know this, that if the
Dolphin should lose the
Sun bury Handicap at Kemp-
ton next week, I should not
like to be responsible for
what Ridley might do. I
only hope he will win, for
his own sake. He has
asked me to go down with
him, and 1 intend to do so.

You had better come, too.

The patients seem to be all
in pretty good health, just
now, and you can surely be
spared.”

“ I will see,” I answered ;

“if Chetwynd stays here 1
can go with you.” I rose as
1 spoke and went indoors.

I felt considerably disturbed,
and the more so as I could
not confide my suspicions to anyone.

It was evident that Ridley did know
something to Kort’s discredit — some¬
thing upon which the man’s position,
perhaps even his liberty, depended. The

whole thing was mysterious and unsatis¬
factory, and the most trying part of it was
that, beyond doubt, Kort’s young wife was
involved in the affair. There was something
queer about Mrs. Kort, something enigmatical,
impossible to define. Her illness was unlike
any which I had ever come across. She was
ill and she was not ill. In the Davos suite of
rooms she looked like a person in bounding
health ; and yet out of that suite she was
nervous, depressed, uncertain in her words,
and troubled with the strangest, most fleeting
memory. In fact, she hardly possessed a
memory at all.

On the day before the raceTvort was mani¬
festly very uneasy about his wife. He said
she was in a strange state of excitement, and
that if matters did not soon improve, he
would take her abroad without delay.

“ I can do nothing, of course,” he con¬
tinued, “until after Kempton Park Races, for
I have promised to stand by Ridley on that
occasion ; but afterwards, unless she is better,
I shall have to ask you and Chetwynd to give
me a holiday.”

I replied that that could easily be managed,
but his words and restlessness impressed me
a good deal, and towards evening I resolved
to go up and see Mrs. Kort
on my own account. I found
her in the sitting-room which

I FOUND HER IN THE SITTING-ROOM.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

443

was attached to her bedroom, and in a state
of extreme agitation. She knew me quite well,
and a look of momentary pleasure filled her
eyes when I appeared, but then she said,
in a distressed and yet restrained voice :—

“You ought not to visit me, Dr. Cato.
My husband is prescribing for me and does
not wish any other doctor to interfere, and/’
she added, “ my head aches too frightfully
for me to bear any ordinary conversation just
now. Go away, please, leave me.”

The maid Susan bustled into the room.

“ I must ask you, sir, to leave my mistress
at once,” she said ; “ these attacks of strong
excitement come on now and then ; the one
thing to bring Mrs. Kort round again is
absolute quiet.”

I left the room, determined to go down¬
stairs, find Kort, tell him I did not like his
wife’s state, and ask him to see her with me,
as I believed in the old adage that two heads
are better than one.

Mrs. Kort’s sitting-room opened into a
large ante-room, which was also kept at a
high altitude. I was just going through this
room into the outer corridor, when the
sound of voices in the passage without fell
on my ears.

“You had better be civil to me,” said
Ridley, “ for I hold your reputation, and
worse, in my hands.” 1

“You can prove nothing,” I heard Kort
reply, and then the two men went down the
corridor.

The next morning, at ten o’clock, Kort,
Ridley, and I started in the wagonette for
Kempton. I noticed that Kort, with a fore¬
sight for our comfort unusual with him, had
provided a large hamper, containing, he told
me, enough luncheon for four, as he had
invited Dot Fisher, the jockey, to lunch with
us.

We arrived at the course before the first
race, and drew up outside the railings.
Leaving the wagonette in charge of the
groom, we strolled into the ring and heard
the Dolphin’s name mentioned pretty
frequently between punter and bookmaker.
Fie was now a strong second favourite at 5
to 1, and Ridley whispered to me that the
thing was a certainty. The horse had
already won a trial that must put all the
other horses out of court. Although the
man was full of hope, he was also in a state
of most pitiable excitement, and I could not
help feeling sorry for him, and hoping that
he would succeed in his wild venture. At
present his hopes were roseate, for the
Dolphin was certainly the most admired

horse in the paddock, and was in the highest
possible favour. He was a beautifully built
chestnut of six years, and in the pink of
condition.

As Fisher had not a mount in the second
race it was agreed that we should lunch then.
The jockey, a small man with a wizened
face, wearing Captain Flarrison’s colours, a
yellow and green jacket and cerise cap,
came to our trap, accompanied by Ridley.
He took his seat on the box beside Kort,
Ridley and I being behind.

Kort had provided an excellent bill of
fare, and we fell to, for we were hungry.
Fisher, however, refused to eat or drink any¬
thing, and only smoked a cigarette.

“ What are you going to drink, Cato ? ”
said Kort, turning to me.

“A whisky and soda,” I replied; “ I cannot
drink champagne at this time in the morning.”

“ All right, hold your glass,” he said, lean¬
ing down for a soda-water bottle. He un¬
fastened the wire, and the next moment the
cork flew out with a pop, the contents flying
about and deluging the jockey beside him.

“ Steady, Mr. Kort,” cried Fisher, taking
out his handkerchief, mopping his face and
wiping his eyes ; “ I don’t want a bath.”

The soda-water had gone chiefly into his
face and over his cap and coat. We all
laughed as Kort with an angry exclamation
flung the bottle down on the grass and
opened another. At that moment the
saddling bell for the Sunbury Handicap
sounded, and Fisher sprang from the box.

“ Good luck go with you,” cried Ridley ;
“remember, it’s a monkey if you win.”

The jockey turned and waved his hand as
he disappeared into the weighing-room.

“It will soon be over now,” said Ridley,
his face paling as he spoke.

Five minutes later the fifteen runners came
cantering down the course—a pretty sight—
Fisher upon the Dolphin, who carried himself
as if his victory were already prejudged.
After one or two breaks away, the flag fell to
a good start, and we stood up watching the
horses through our glasses as they streamed
out into view.

Suddenly, I heard Ridley utter a cry.
Flis hand gripped my arm with trembling
violence.

“Good heavens ! Look ! he has bolted—
he is mad- I am ruined!” he cried, flinging
himself back on the seat in an access of
despair.

It was perfectly true. A babel of shouts
came from the ring, for the Dolphin had left
the course and was galloping wildly across

444

1HE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ * STEADY, MR. KORT,’ CRIED FISHER.”

the ground. In a few moments he was pulled
up and Fisher had dismounted, as half-a-
dozen men rushed up to him. What were
they doing ? One of them had caught the
Dolphin and another, for some inexplicable
reason, was leading the jockey by the arm
towards the paddock.

Ridley remained dazed by the fearful
catastrophe, while Kort and I leapt down
and hurried across the inclosure. We had
not even seen what horse had won. In a
few moments Kort, who knew some of the
stewards, led me to the room where Fisher
was seated. We quickly learned what had
happened. Just after the start the jockey
had been seized with some strange affection
of his sight, and could no longer steer his
horse.

“ What can it be ? ” I cried, as Kort
raised Fisher’s head and looked into his
eyes. There was a queer look in them : the
pupils were enormously dilated, and did not
re-act to light.

“Some obscure cerebral lesion,” said
Kort. “ He must remain quiet; it may
pass off.”

“ Cerebral lesion ! ” I cried ; “ impos¬

sible ; there is no paralysis.”

It was certainly the most extraordinary
case I had ever seen, and I failed to account
for it in any way ; but as we left the jockey

in the care of his friends, and went back to
Ridley, a wild thought flashed through my
brain. Just before the race Fisher had been
drenched with soda-water, a large portion of
the contents having gone into his face and
eyes. Kort had brought the soda-water with
the other provisions to the racecourse. Was
this bottle specially prepared ? Did it con¬
tain-? I did not allow rnyself even to

whisper the thought which came to me, but
hurrying to the wagonette I looked for the
bottle. Of course it was gone. Without it,
whatever suspicion I might entertain, nothing
could be done. What did it all mean ? Into
what dreadful maze of crime had we entered ?

In a few words I told Ridley what had
happened. He scarcely seemed to hear or
care. After a pause he suggested that we had
better return home at once.

The journey back was dismal, and a gloom
hung over Ridley and myself. My suspicions
were stronger than ever, but I had no clue
to guide me, and failed to see the slightest
loophole by which 1 could bring Kort to
book. Of our party he alone was cheerful,
and offered many clever suggestions to account
for Fisher’s sudden and mysterious attack.

The next morning, though evidently still
much shaken, Ridley seemed more himself.
I met him about eleven o’clock going out
with his camera to take some stereoscopic

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

445

views of the grounds. I applauded him for
his intention, and told him I was glad he
was pulling himself together. I then went
to my own private sitting-room. I happened
to be rather busy that morning, and was soon
absorbed in accounts, forgetting everything
else in this employment. I had not been
long busy before Kort knocked and entered.
He looked peculiarly grave.

“ Have you seen Ridley anywhere about?”
he asked.

“Yes,” I answered ; “ I met him going out
with his camera some time ago.”

“ How was he ? How did he look ? ”

“ I thought more cheerful; why do you
ask ? ”

“ Because I do not feel easy about him.
He came to me early this morning, and there
was a nasty look on his face. I disliked his
manner and the way he spoke.”

“ What do you mean ? ” I asked.

“ I have already mentioned my fears with
regard to him. The shock of yesterday has
thoroughly unhinged him, and I
do not know what may happen.

I have tried to cheer him up,
and recommended him to do
some photography. If he broods
over his loss he may lose his
reason. By the way, I see you
are doing accounts. There are
several things I want to talk to
you about with reference to
them. Let me see, what is the
time ? ” He glanced at the clock.

“Five minutes to twelve—shall
we go into them now ? ”

“ Very well,” I answered, and
we plunged into a quantity of
miscellaneous matters. We had
been engaged about half an
hour when Chetwynd quickly
entered.

“ The most awful thing has
happened,” he cried. “ Ridley
has shot himself through the
head with a revolver—his body
has just been found in the
grounds. It could not have
been more than half an hour
ago.”

Kort and I sprang to our feet.

“ What ? ” I exclaimed, “ is
he dead ? ”

“ Quite dead. He was found
by one of the gardeners, who
came running to tell me.”

“ Poor fellow,” said Kort,

“that accursed racing. Fool

that I was to let him go alone ! I feared it,
Cato, and told you so. It is too dreadful.”

“ I have sent for the police,” said Chet¬
wynd; “ you had both better come down with
me, the inspector will want to see us all.”

We left the room, and Chetwynd leading
the way we soon reached the spot. Yes,
there lay the poor fellow among the low
bushes in the plantation about a quarter of a
mile from the house. His camera was beside
him, and a revolver lay beneath his right hand.
As we looked at the body an indescribable
feeling of the utmost horror assailed me.
The vague events of the last few weeks
seemed to have culminated in this awful
tragedy. Of course there would be an in¬
quest, and at that inquest I should have to
give evidence. The truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth on my oath—the
evidence I should be bound to give in the
interests of justice would include what I had
overheard pass between Kort and the man
whose dead body now lay before me.

“ THERE LAY THE POOR FELLOW.”

446

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

As these thoughts passed through my brain
1 took a step forward.

“ Don’t touch him,” cried Kort. “ Leave
him exactly as he is for the police to see.
Ah, here is the inspector coming now.” He
spoke quietly, not like a man who had any¬
thing to fear.

The inspector of police made his examina¬
tion carefully and quickly, asked a few ques¬
tions, and then, taking possession of the
camera and the revolver, had the body
placed on the ambulance, which was led
away to the mortuary. We then returned to
the house.

That night I slept badly. The next day
the inquest was held. The court was crowded,
all the available seats provided for the public
being full. Chetwynd and I were provided
with seats beneath the coroner’s desk, and
just before the coroner entered Kort sauntered
in and took a place by my side. With all
his apparent nonchalance I could see that
he was agitated, though scarcely more so
than myself.

The jury were quickly sworn, and, having
viewed the body, returned to their seats.
The first witness
called was the
gardener who had
found the dead man
at 12.20 ; then a Mr.

Henry Sharpies, who
had come from town,
and who was a per¬
sonal friend of the
deceased. He gave
evidence of identi¬
fication, but could
assign no cause for
suicide beyond the
fact that Ridley had
lately sustained heavy
losses.

The constable now
called for Mr. Kort,
who stepped into the
witness-box and took
the oath. The
coroner began im¬
mediately to ques¬
tion him.

“You have, I
believe, Mr. Kort,
some knowledge of the very heavy specula¬
tion in which the deceased was engaged?”

“ Yes,” answered Kort, “ it was a large bet,
or series of bets. He lost a bet that would
have brought him in ^50,000 on the Dolphin
at Kempton Park the day before yesterday.”

“ The horse lost, I understand, by some
accident occurring to the jockey ? ” continued
the coroner; “ with this, however, we have
nothing to do. Did the deceased say any¬
thing to you, Mr. Kort, which would lead
you to suspect that in the event of his losing
he might take his life ? ”

“ He told me,” answered Kort, “ that he
was in a desperate condition, and that if he
lost he was ruined. His manner certainly
did lead me to suspect that such an action
was possible, and I mentioned my fears to
Dr. Cato.”

“ Plow long have you known the deceased?”
asked the coroner.

I was watching Kort sharply, and saw that
at this moment he gave an uneasy gesture.
His words, however, were perfectly quiet.

“ I met Mr. Ridley five years ago in
Vienna, but had not seen him since till he
became a member of the Sanctuary Club.”

“You think,” said the coroner, “that the
wound on the head was self-inflicted ? ”

“ Certainly,” answered Kort, “ and,” he
added, “of such a nature that death would
be quite instantaneous.

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

447

This ended Kort’s evidence, and I was
then called. In the first few answers to the
questions put to me I merely corroborated
Kort’s evidence as to Ridley’s heavy loss,
and then I added that in all probability the
wound was self-inflicted.

“ Why do you say ‘ probability,’ Dr. Cato ?
Do you mean that there is a possibility of
such a wound being given by someone else?”

“ A possibility, certainly,” I replied.

Have you any reason to suppose that
the deceased had an enemy ? ”

“ I am not aware that he had one,” I
answered.

“ Do you know of anyone to whom his
death would be an advantage? ”

At this question I hesitated—a wild
tumult of thoughts was racing through my
brain. The coroner quietly repeated his
remark.

“From something he mentioned to me,
and also from subsequent remarks which I
happened to overhear, I have such a sus¬
picion,” I replied, slowly. Then I added, “Do
you demand this as evidence from me ? ”

“ Certainly ; you must tell us everything
you know.”

I glanced at Kort, and saw that his eyes
were fixed on my face. I then quietly
repeated the remarks I had overheard pass
between him and Ridley. The sensation
that followed my words was profound—a
hush fell all over the room. Then the
coroner turned to me again.

“ When did you first hear the news of
the deceased’s death ? ” he asked.

“ At half-past twelve, when Dr. Chetwynd
came in and told us.”

“ You say ‘us’? ”

“ Yes, for Mr. Kort was with me at the
time.”

“ How long had he been with you ? ”

“ He came into my room at ten minutes
to twelve.”

“ How is it that you remember the time
so accurately ? ”

“ I remember looking at the clock and
also at my own watch.”

“And Mr. Kort had not left the room
until Dr. Chetwynd came in ? ”

“ No.”

“When was the deceased last seen alive?”

“ I saw Ridley about eleven o’clock.”

The coroner noted my answers carefully,
and then, rising in his seat, said:—

“Gentlemen, I adjourn this inquest until
ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”

The next instant Kort rose from his seat.

“ May I ask you one question, sir ? ”

“Certainly,” replied the coroner.

“The police, I believe, took charge of
Mr. Ridley’s camera—may I ask whether the
photographs have been developed, and, if so,
may I see them ? ”

“ The plate has been developed, and I
believe a print has been taken from it,”
replied the coroner; “ there is no objection
to your seeing it at the police-station.”

Why Kort made this request I could
not imagine. I only knew that, as a result
of my evidence, the inquest had been
adjourned for the police to institute further
inquiries. I saw Kort go up to the inspector,
speak a few words to him, and they went out
together.

Chetwynd and I now returned to the Club,
which we reached about half-past eleven.

Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed
before Kort, accompanied by the inspector,
entered. He came up to me in the friend¬
liest manner, and, without the slightest
reference to my startling evidence against
him, said :—

“ Dr. Cato, will you and Mr. Chetwynd
kindly accompany the inspector and myself?
I shall value your advice on a certain im¬
portant point.”

Without a word we all went into the garden,
and made our way to the spot where we had
found Ridley’s body. Here the inspector
produced a print of the photograph Ridley
had last taken, and he and Kort examined it
minutely. Then Kort began to move about
as if to get certain trees in a line.

“This,” he said, “is the exact spot from
where that photograph was taken. Do you
agree with me?” he added, turning to me.

I examined the print closely, and then
assented.

“ What is the exact time now ? ” was his
next question.

“ Five minutes past twelve,” I replied.

“ Then we will wait exactly where we are
for a few moments. Do you see that little
window in the summer-house across there ? ”

“ Yes,” I answered.

“ May I ask you to stand quite still in this
spot and watch it closely ? ”

“ Why ? ” I asked. .

“You will see presently,” he replied, and
the inspector nodded and smiled.

I did as I was desired, still unable to grasp
what they both meant. At the end of some
minutes Kort said, quietly :—

“ Do you see any change in the window?”

“None,” I replied, .“except that I can
scarcely look at it now because it is reflecting
the sun into my eyes.”

448

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Ah, exactly. This was not the case when
you first saw it ? ”

“ No.”

“ Well, look at this print again,” he con¬
tinued. “ That bright white spot on the
photograph corresponding to the pane of glass
over there is quite perceptible, is it not ? ”

“ Quite,” I answered ; “ it

makes a feature in the picture.”

“ Well, when Ridley took that
photograph the sun was reflected
from that window just as you see
it now. It is therefore self-
evident that the photograph
could not have been taken
before the sun shone on that
window. It occurred to me just
now that by referring to the print
we could approximately deduce
the time that Ridley shot him¬
self, as it must, since death was
instantaneous from the nature of
the wound, have been at some
period after the exposure of the
plate. You can see for yourself
that this photograph was taken
after midday, for the shadows on
the print fall slightly to the East
of North, showing plainly that it
was taken after the sun was at
its meridian or midday. The
body was found at 12.20 : Ridley
must, therefore, have shot him¬
self between 12.10 and 12.20.

Is that not clear, inspector ? ”

“ Perfectly clear,” replied the
man ; “ it is an extremely clever
and convincing piece of detec¬
tion.”

I gazed at Kort for a moment in utter and
absolute amazement, for I saw in an instant
that if he was in my room at ir.50, and did
not leave it until we both went with Chet-
wynd to view the body, he could not have
possibly committed the murder.

The rare ingenuity, the very concisive
reasoning that admitted of no deception,
unless indeed the sun himself could lie,
rendered me speechless.

“ Mr. Kort,” I said, “ my evidence this
morning was in the interests of justice. There
was no other course open to me but to tell
the truth of what I knew. I am still very
much puzzled by a great deal that has
occurred, but your innocence at least is
proved beyond dispute.”

“ You were perfectly right in what you did,
Dr. Cato,” he answered, in a magnanimous
tone, “ but the fact is, poor Ridley was

labouring under a gross misunderstanding
with regard to some conduct of mine which
happened many years ago. I will explain,
later on, the unworthy suspicion which
he harboured against me—but seeing that
what you said just now might cast a
slur on my innocence, it occurred to me

to clinch the matter in the way I have done.
The result has exceeded my most sanguine
expectations. Pray do not think any more
about it.”

The coroner’s verdict next day was what
might have been expected, “ Suicide during
temporary insanity.”

“ Well,” I said to Chetwynd later on that
same day, “ my lips are silenced for the
present, and poor Ridley’s have been silenced
for ever.”

“ And yet you still suspect ? ” Said Chet¬
wynd, looking keenly into my face.

“ I still suspect,” I replied, with emphasis.
Little did I guess as I said the words what
extraordinary events were soon to occur—
events which would make the Sanctuary
Club itself a by-word. For when a man is
desperate, and has the ingenuity of a devil—
to what will he not stoop !

By R. E. Vernede.

SUNSET of considerable
effulgence occupied the sky as
our train puffed into the small
Devonshire railway station. It
was a passion of my aunt’s
family, enlarged for the
occasion by one or two elderly relations and
young friends, to plunge during their summer
holidays into the farthest possible recess of
the country, and there distract themselves
with the delirious conviction that they were
not in reality born, bred, and inhabitant within
the sound of Bow Bells. I accepted my
aunt’s invitation, because, after all, diplomacy
(my future career) requires a reserve of
physical strength easily to be acquired in
rural retirement. Besides, the presence of
men about town gives the rustics some idea
of what is going on.

As the train stopped I put up my eye-glass
—a necessity for anyone meditating
diplomacy—and stepped out of the carriage
with some dignity, rejecting the proffer of
numerous brown-paper hand-parcels which
my aunt was distributing among her family
and dependents. Personally, I object to
this travelling en famille. It necessitates an

Vol. xviii.—57.

amount of luggage which, piled on a small
deserted country . platform, suggests a
domesticity positively bourgtoise. Neverthe¬
less, as a party, I flattered myself that we
were making some small impression, when
—to the utter. destruction of my tribal
equanimity—I heard an old, greyheaded
gentleman scolding the station - master in
loud, irate tones for permitting us to get
out there.

“ Curse it, sir,” he was saying; “ do you
suppose I should have come to stay in this
confounded hole of yours if I had known it
was going to be swamped by a horde of
trippers ? ”

“ Vurry sorry, sur, I’m seure,” said the
meek station-master.

“Sorry, sir—what’s the use of being sorry?
Can’t you send ’em on to the next place ? ”

“’Vraid I cawn’t, sur,” said the station-
master ; “ ’gainst the comp’ny’s reg’lations,
sur, I’m ’vraid, sur.”

“ Company’s regulations,” sniffed the old
gentleman. “ What does that matter ? Tell
’em about the shrimps they’ll get, boats a
shilling an hour, niggers on the beach.
They’ll go on.”

45°

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Whether the meek station-master would
have been driven to compliance or not I
cannot say, for at that moment the train
began to snort and struggle out of the station
before all our baggage was unloaded. One
local porter and the guard scattered the
remaining things along the platform as the
train moved on. The remaining porter ran
alongside, gleaning packages as he went, and
keeping up a continuous reckoning: “Thirty-

seven—thirty-eight—thirty-nine-”

“Forty,” shrieked my aunt, as the train
seemed to be leaving us for good. “Stop
the train ! There are forty packages.”

‘forty,’ shrieked my aunt.”

“ Vorty,” counted the puffing porter, as a
large hat-box flew out into the siding, and
the other local official swung himself from
the van with some agility.

Meanwhile I had reset my eye-glass, which
had fallen in sheer dismay at the old gentle¬
man’s impertinence, which was the more
exasperating because, just outside the fence
that inclosed the platform, two young ladies
were seated in a small dog-cart, in full hear¬
ing of his atrocious observations. In fact, they
seemed to be a part of his menage, for he
went and bawled across the railings to the
girl who was holding the reins.

“Great nuisance, my dear ! Whole pack
of trippers landed here. I thought we’d got
away from them all.”

The girl . addressed made no audible
answer, but she cast a contemptuous glance

at our luggage, and beckoned to the old
gentleman to get into the dog-cart, which she
thereupon drove away. Unable to mark my
sense of his behaviour, I turned upon the
station-master, and was threatening him with
many penalties for this incredible reception
and the treatment of the hat-box, when Jim
came up behind, slapped me violently on the
shoulder, and said :—

“ Come on, old Buffalo ! ”

“Really, Jim--” I began.

“They’reall waiting,” he said, “and there’s
a ten-mile drive.”

Jim—a common enough name, but it was
impossible to call him James,
as his god-parents had done:
they seem to imagine that they
are entitled to do anything after
paying for a silver mug—was
my cousin. He was intoler¬
able at times, as now. The
moral impression we might
have made had been rendered
impossible. How can one
crush even a station - master
after being called “ Old Buf¬
falo ” ? I resigned myself to
circumstances and ascended the
wagonette.

This Devonshire village had
its charms—a combe or split
in the great cliff-line along the
coast enabling one to get down
to the sea-level without a rope
ladder or a broken neck; a
sufficiency of high-hedged steep
lanes, like a Canadian chute—
with loose stones in place of
water ; a limpid sea — full of
prawns ; admirable sunsets.
There was no one in the place except
the old gentleman and his family, so that
really one could leave off an eye-glass
without courting criticism. I seldom wore
mine except when the old gentleman (“ the
Buffer,” Jim called him), or his family, came
in sight. The family seemed to consist of
a daughter of haughty countenance (lovely
—according to Jim—in fact, he raved) and
daughter’s friend—fat. All three of them

wore an air of extreme displeasure, or else
frigid unconcern, whenever we met them. I
used to transfix the distance with my glass.
Only once again did the old gentleman return
to volubility, which was, on the occasion of
shooting at a rabbit half-way up a hill, when
he suddenly appeared on the top and heard
the shots whistling past his ears. Otherwise,
we were mutually blind, deaf, and dumb.

A TALE OF A JUDY SHOW.

45i

Jim rather sympathized with him, but then
he had an aggravating habit of appreciating
other people’s prejudices. It was due to
this and to Jim’s enthusiasm for sailing—
about which he knew nothing—that the ice
came to be broken.

It was on a fateful morning that Jim and
I—the vanguard of a picnic party—came
down to the beach, staggering under sand¬
wiches and kettles and
cold boiled fowls, which
the others were to follow
and eat, in the odorous,
picturesque neighbour¬
hood of sea - weed and
anemones. In the tiny
bay that dozed between
the knees of the cliff a
fisherman kept two
ancient boats, one of
which he let to the Buffer,
the other he retained for
lobstering purposes.

“Vurry pleased to let
you genelmen have ’er,”
he had said to us, “ when
I ain’t wantin’ ’er myself.

But take a word from
me as knows, and don’t
you go out in ’er lest I’m
with ye. The tides are
vurry queer.”

He had entertained us
with a story of a local
maelstrom, attracted to
which the boat had
circled round and round
with him so swiftly that
he had become almost too
giddy to see the passing steamer which
finally rescued him. Jim had been inclined
to ascribe this misadventure to cider; and
I instanced the case of the postman,
who seemed to think our garden a local
maelstrom, round which he was com¬
pelled to walk until he had deciphered
all our correspondence with an industry
and ease that did credit to the village school¬
master.

On this fateful morning, however, the warn¬
ings of the fisherman were forgotten. There
on the beach, from which the high tide was
just turning back, lay the tub. Beside it were
a mast and sail : a pleasant breeze appeared
to blow smoothly from the land : the sea was
like a pancake at rest. It was too much for
Jim, and as under the circumstances I
thought it would not be too much for
me, in a very few moments we had the

pipe in order to keep the taste of sea out of
my mouth.

“Not at all,” said Jim. “We’ll just sail
out and tack back again in time to meet the
others. Catch hold of that rudder, will you ?
Now, pull the right string—the left; no, the
right.”

“It seems to answer this rudder about as
much as an elephant would, if you pulled its
tail,” I said, disgustedly. “ There is no
finesse about the Gompy Jane.”

“ The very boat for a sea,” said Jim, with
the air of a connoisseur.

“ Is that what you call tacking ? ” I
inquired, as the sail shifted from one side to
the other with a very rapid motion, hitting
me smartly on the back of the head at the
same time.

“ It’s all right,” said Jim, hastily, following
the vagaries of the sail with some agility.

Gompy Jane in the water, the sail strung up
from the mast in a style of Jim’s own inven¬
tion, and were being wafted—sideways as the
crab crawls—out to sea.

“ Splendid thing, the sea! ” said Jim,
bursting with originality, as he enjoyed such
control of the sail as the wind did not
dispute.

“ Treacherous ! ” I suggested, lighting a

“splendid thing, the sea!”

45 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

‘‘You needn’t be alarmed. There’s another
boat a good deal farther out.”

A boat was just visible in the distance—
about a mile out. Beyond it a slight mist
was gathering up. The Buffer then was also
cruising? It explained Jim’s desire to sail.
He wished to see if the Buffer’s daughter
was on board—possibly to meet her on the
neutralizing levels of the dispassionate sea,
and attract her attention with a display of
nautical ability.

“ There is nothing new under the sun,” I
said.

“Feeling bad, old fellow?” asked Jim.

“Not at all,” I said, with dignity; “but
we ought to turn soon. We have the picnic
things with us.”

We had covered about half a mile in a
very few minutes. Then the wind changed
westward and blew along the coast. We had
gone westward with it while Jim was explain¬
ing the theory of tacking to me. The mist
had enveloped the Buffer’s boat.

“Well,” said Jim, “if you think we ought
to turn, just pull that rudder the right way,
and we’ll come round into the wind.”

“With pleasure,” I said. I pulled the
right way without making any impression. I
then pulled the wrong way, and put an oar
out tentatively over the stern to assist the
rudder. The tub persisted in its crab-like
career, and the waves were amusing them¬
selves.

Jim was rather pig-headed. He insisted
that the Gompy Jane should be brought
round in the proper way. The proper way
was apparently any way that did not necessi¬
tate rowing. The Gompy Jane showed no
sign of conforming to Jim’s theories. I
coaxed her as a sailor coaxes an unruly horse :
I contorted her rudder until it came off in
my hand, like a lizard’s tail—the Gompy Jane
was not to be mobilized. Jagged rocks,
surrounded by swirling seas, seemed to be
marching out to meet us; the waves imme¬
diately beneath us were like horses that buck.

“ Oremus,” I said—“that is, let us use
the oars.”

“ I’ll pull her round,” said Jim, “it’s quite
easy. You needn’t row.”

I was glad of that, because I felt as if my
pipe was not drawing. I sat and timed Jim.
I was going to allow him a quarter of an hour
before I spoke. At the end of ten minutes
a wave smacked us broadside on, and a
canful of water toppled into the boat.

“ Drat,” said Jim, resting on his oars.

“ We are,” I remarked, with the calm of
despair, “about three hundred yards farther

down the coast than we were when you
began to row.”

“ What ? ” said Jim. “ In the wrong direc¬
tion ? ”

“ In the wrong direction,” I repeated,
solemnly. “ I am going to take off my hat
and my watch.”

“ You can’t swim it,” said Jim, testily;

“ it’s too far.”

“I can swim a mile,” I said.

“In calm water,” he said, “not in a slap¬
ping sea like this, with a waveful of liquid
down your throat every third second.”

“Then,” I said, “let us think of what our
last words are to be. If you are left, Jim,
and I am taken, you will consider anything I
say now as officially my last, and not report
it if I curse slightly as the water goes bub¬
bling inside me ? ”

Jim regarded the conversation as morbid,
though he also took off his shoes. The
tension of our situation was relieved by a
sudden shrill cry.

“ What’s that ? ” said Jim.

“A seagull ora musical starfish,” I sug¬
gested. “ I believe those exhaust possibili¬
ties.”

“ Hel—p,” the cry came again ; nearer
this time.

“ I had forgotten sirens,” I said.

In another moment the Buffer’s boat tossed
into sight through the mist, more crabwise
and undirected than the Gompy Jane. Jim
forgot his own position in a moment, and,
seizing the oars, propelled us towards it. I
could see that it was the friend who was
appealing for assistance. She sat in the stern,
hunched up, and trying to preserve her petti¬
coats from the invading sea. At intervals of
ten seconds she lifted up her voice and
shrieked for help. The Buffer’s daughter
was the only other occupant of the boat.
She sat forward, with the oars at rest in her
hands, in rather an exhausted posture, but
apparently quite unconcerned for her own
safety, and very scornful of her friend’s
behaviour. “ Hel—p 1 ” shrieked the friend as
we came alongside and I caught hold of the
boat.

Jim stood up in the Gompy Ja?ie very
politely and took off his hat.

“Can we be of any assistance to you?” he
said, in a generous manner. Generosity is a
virtue that commends itself to those who
cannot help themselves, and none is so
profuse in offering aid to others as the utterly
incompetent. But the friend was of un¬
suspicious nature. With a logic not to be
despised, since it brought comfort, she argued

A TALE OF A JUDY SHOW.

453

that two men in a boat must be two boating
men—acquainted with boats—at home on
the seas—purveyors of safety. With pale
face and many tears she explained her
predicament. Judy (Jim glanced at the
Buffer’s daughter, who was haughtily con¬
templating vacancy) was the cause of it
all (apparently an unrepentant cause). Judy
had insisted on rowing her out, though she
knew she ought not to have gone without
her father. Now Judy couldn’t get back,
and, oh! would we help them, and if we
would, should we all be drowned, and-

Jim inter¬
rupted : “ The
best thing for
you to do is to
get into our
boat, as it’s
larger. I’m
afraid we can’t
pull you back
just yet, but we
may be able
to beach her
somewhere.”

The brusque-
ness of this
order inspired
the friend with
confidence.

“Judy,” she
said, sharply,

“ do you hear ?

We are to get
into the other
boat. Do be
quick, Judy.”

“ I suppose
we must,” said
Judy, ungra¬
ciously.

Jim, standing
up in the bows,
effected carefully the transit of the tottering
friend. Then, as he held out his hand
to the Buffer’s daughter, she sprang lightly
in, disregarding him. The Buffer’s boat
reeled off into the mist.

So there we were—a bashful quartette on
a most disturbed sea. Jim pulled bow in a
fit of modesty, and left me to the stroke oar.
The Buffer’s daughter—without being asked
—grasped the rudder-lines with small firm
hands, and relapsed into abstractedness. She
was distractingly pretty and provokingly un¬
concerned. To the tear-stained friend, who
was stout as well as tear-stained, and seemed
to combine deafness with fluency, I indi¬

cated the tin for baling purposes, knowing
that work inspires confidence.

“And will you really, really take me
safe to shore ? ” she asked, in an interval
of baling, divided between coyness and
hysterics.

“Nothing, I assure you,” I said, “would
give me greater pleasure, and I think there is
quite a chance of getting to shore. But
which precise shore it will be, I cannot
venture to prophesy.”

“Oh,” she cried, as another wave came
tumbling over the side. “ What do you

mean ? ”
“Well,” I
spoke reassur¬
ingly, “ we are
at present be¬
tween the shores
of England and
Wales. If we
miss both those,
we still have a
choice between
Ireland and
America, though
we shall be
rather hungry
by the time we
get to America.”

“Oh,” moan¬
ed the friend,
“I’m hungry
now. I don’t
want to go to
America.”

“ It has a
very fair con¬
stitution,” I
hastened to
assure her,
“and you can
get candy and
cream - ice. In
that respect America is better than Ireland,
which is full of Fenians and potatoes, though
local government is having most pacific
results.”

“ Help ! ” cried the friend, “ help ! ” She
was unappreciative of my simple efforts, and
since Jim gave me a poke in the back of a
diplomatic nature, I desisted.

Nevertheless, though the sea continued to
rage, the friend cheered up in the course of
the next two hours, which was about the time
we must have spent at that galley-like labour
of the oars. Then she began to chat hard,
and I learned many things about the Buffer
family. The Buffer himself was a barrister

454

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

from London, who always spent his holidays
in Devonshire, and the friend had been asked
to keep Judy company, being a recent school-
friend. The Buffer’s one idea was to get
away from everyone and everything. Really,
he was very nice—though rude—but he hated
trippers and tripping resorts. This was said
in an apologetic manner, that I did not
permit myself to notice. The Buffer’s
daughter sat like an icicle in the stern.

Quite suddenly, as it seemed, the mist
cleared and the sun came out. It was great
good fortune that we had headed for the shore
at this point, for there it lay before us—the
beach of a small cove, comparatively rockless
and uncommonly calm. The tide, when it is
not with you, has an unpleasant habit of being
against you, and as neither tide nor wind
seemed to be with us, we took the best part
of an hour getting within reach. Then the
Buffer’s daughter, without altering her
steering, or—so to speak—turning a hair, ran
us between the rocks into the cove beyond.
The Gompy Ja?ie grounded on a stone in
about a foot of water, and Jim paddled
ashore with the anchor. The situation was
still a distressing one, for the cove was about
five miles from anywhere, and surrounded by
high cliffs, which by their very nature forbade
trespassing. A more immediate trouble was
that dry land still lay seme fifteen yards off.

Chivalry and a rapid endeavour to esti¬
mate the friend’s weight vied for a moment
in my breast, but chivalry prevailed. I
splashed into the water, and offered to con¬
vey the friend to land. She accepted bash¬
fully, but without
hesitation, and a
deep blush over¬
spread her cheeks.

If the blush in¬
creased her weight,

I do not know, but
half-way to shore
I was thankful that
the distance was no
greater. Jim had
returned to the
boat, where the
Buffer’s daughter
was making ready
to wade.

“May I carry
you ? ” he said.

“Thank you,”
she said, coldly;

“I can manage
quite well by my¬
self.”

“It would give me great pleasure,” he
said, “ and prevent you from getting wet.”

“ If you will move out of the way,” she
answered, quickly, “ I can wade.”

“ I think you are quite wet enough
already.” Jim had a masterful manner when
he chose. There was no answer; and, as I
landed my burden, I turned to watch them
coming in. She lay in his arms resignedly,
like a tamed lynx, with drooping eyes. Her
yellow hair, wisped and wetted with the
brine, had come uncoiled, and hung dragging
over his right shoulder. As for J im—from
his rapt expression and methodical gait—
you would have thought he was just starting
on a fifty-mile walk in the direction of
Paradise. She thanked him in a low voice,
as he set her down; then stooped hurriedly,
as if she feared to have been taken in the
act of gratitude, and became intent on
squeezing sea water from the corners of her
dress.

“ What shall we do now ? ” exclaimed the
friend, to whom dry land had restored a
natural volubility. “ I don’t know, Judy,
what your father will say, for it must be quite
late in the afternoon, and how we are to get
away from here it’s difficult to see. And I’m
sure that these gentlemen must be very
hungry after rowing us ashore like that. I’m
very hungry myself, and I expect you are,
Judy, though you won’t admit it.”

“Why not winkles? ” I suggested, as Judy
volunteered no reply.

“ Winkles ? ” said the friend, dismally.
* £ What are they like ? ”

I WAS THANKFUL THAT THE DISTANCE WAS NO GREATER.

A TALE OF A JUDY SHOW.

455

“ Dear me,” I said, “ I thought all ladies
liked winkles. Pin-money is so called, simply
because ladies used to spend all their money
on buying pins to extract winkles with.”

“ How very interesting ! ” said the friend,
enthusiastically responsive to this etymo¬
logical information. “ I think, Judy, that
we’re very lucky. Some people have to eat
penguins.”

“ And rats and bustards and whale-
blubber,” I put in.

“Yes, don’t they? Which must be very
disagreeable. But if we can find winkles, I
have several pins.”

“ There is also,” I said, “ a picnic basket
in the boat, with chickens and sandwiches
and kettles, and that sort of thing. We could
eat those for dessert—after the winkles.”

The friend rolled her eyes with delight.
“ Don’t you think,” she said—“ don’t you
think it would perhaps be better to eat those
first and have the winkles afterwards ? ”

“ Which ever you think best,” I said. “ I
am at your service.”

Jim had been prospecting, and came up
to say that he could get up the cliff at one
place. He drew me aside.

“ We must let the Buffer know of their
whereabouts. We can’t get back by sea. I
don’t suppose the friend would dare try—
and it’s getting late.”

“ Beastly dangerous cliff to climb,” I said.

“ Lots of rabbits do it,” said Jim.

“Better have lunch first,” I urged, but Jim
was obstinate. He was of the stuff that
makes martyrs and mules and Mohawk
Indians, and occasionally rather good English¬
men. At present he was like a horse from
the livery stables, that is determined to be
back within the hour. Off he trotted,
squelching in his boots.

I set myself to hunt for small pieces of
wood to boil the kettle with, observing that
the coasts of England were disgracefully free
of wreckage. The friend unpacked the
hamper, gloating, and the Buffer’s daughter
sat on a small rock—her hands clenched
rqiind her. knees—and examined her favourite
vis-a-vis —the horizon.

The sun shone pleasantly: overhead, I
believe, some gulls cackled, as they see¬
sawed through air, and, without doubt,
innumerable winkles dozed upon the rocks.
It was a peaceful scene.

It was spoilt by Jim falling suddenly with
a crash from half-way up the cliff. I started
and dropped the stick, over which I was
bending ; the friend dropped her sandwich,
and shrieked aloud; the Buffer’s daughter

turned quite pale, gave a little gasp, and
sped swiftly to the side of the cliff where Jim
lay. It seemed that the cliff had given way,
as these slate cliffs will—first the foot-holds,
then the hand-grips. Jim had not liked to
call my attention to the fact, for fear of
alarming the others, and fell silently as the
last piece of slate crumbled. Since there
was a split rock resembling the back of an
iron porcupine two inches to the right of
where he fell, it was lucky—as I told him,
when I had recovered breath—that he had
selected so unencumbered a resting-place.
Meanwhile the Buffer’s daughter had burst
into speech. She demanded—without an “ if
you please”—the large handkerchief of her
friend, tore it into strips, and after unlacing
Jim’s boot, began to wind it about his ankle,
Jim feebly protesting that nothing was the
matter.

“ It’s sprained,” she said, briefly, as a huge
swelling came to view. I drew off the
friend, who was anxious to help, but unable
to conceal her emotions, and set to build¬
ing an oven, while she communicated to
me her intentions of becoming an hospital
nurse.

“A delightful profession!” I said, con¬
templating my oven with satisfaction and
setting the kettle upon it. “ There’s nothing
like an hospital for cheering one up.”

“ No, there isn’t, is there ? ” she said,
“ except a theatre. But I think I like in¬
fectious children better than people with
broken legs and splintery backs.”

“ Quite the Socratic idea,” I said. There
is no easier way to the heart of the foolish
than to credit them with their deficiencies.

The sun shot golden bullets at all things
that were not entrenched in the shadow of
the cliffs ; the waves became smaller and
smaller, and stumbled up against the rocks,
as though made sleepy with their flow, and
the silence grew more intense. The friend
said she thought she could manage a little
chicken, but would wait until the kettle
boiled. On our side of the cove was prose ;
from the side where Jim reclined, scraps of
poetic conversation floated over, showing
that the Buffer’s daughter had found tongue.
Above the slight singing of the kettle and
the awful loquacity of the friend, some lines
of Rossetti came distinctly to my ears :—

. Sometimes thou seem’st not as thyself alone,

But as the meaning of all things that are—

I shook my head slowly and screwed my
eye-glass round. “Really,” I said, “er—‘the
meaning of all things that are ’ ? ”

“Shall I take them over some sandwiches?”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

45 6

asked the friend, who suffered, as I have
said, from deafness.

“One moment, pray,” I said, “something
—possibly the kettle—will be boiling soon.”

The friend stopped in her charitable
errand, and took a sandwich herself. Once
more some words floated towards me :—

Even such Love is—and is not thy name Love ?

“No, no, it’s Judy,” I murmured.

“The kettle is boiling,” announced the
friend.

I got up and strolled over to the other
side of the cove. The silence was intense.
I fixed Jim with my glass.

“ How are you feeling? ” I inquired.

“You see,” said Jim, grinning, “Judy is
trying a sort of secondary aid to the wounded,
at the wounded’s request. Fact is, we’re
engaged.”

There is not much more to tell. We had
an agreeable tea, though there was an unac¬
countable scarcity of sandwiches. The friend
was taken into confidence—not by Judy—
but it did not cause her to lose her appetite.
About six o’clock, when I was about to
attempt the ascent of the cliff, in great
trembling lest, if I broke my leg, the friend
should offer secondary aid—or indeed first
—the Buffer himself, accompanied by a
crowd of villagers, hailed us from the top.

“ FACT IS, WE’RE ENGAGED.”

“Like a young top,” said Jim, hilariously.

“ May I congratulate you,” I said, turning
to the Buffer’s daughter, “ on the successful
way in which you have given first aid to the
wounded ?”

“Thanks,” she said ; and then, with a burst
of laughter which some people might call
“silvery,” “do you know—I rather like you,
though you do wear an eye-glass and have
been teasing Amelia, especially as you are
Jim’s friend.”

“Jim’s friend?” I said.

“Yes,” said the Buffer’s daughter, imper¬
turbably; “the friend of Jim.”

He became undeniably affable when he
found his daughter safe, though he seemed
inclined to resent an effort made by the
friend to fall upon his neck. This was
after we had been drawn up by ropes, the
friend’s rope parting in two strands. Jim
was taken home on a stretcher, and next
day the Buffer came round and bestowed
a blessing. Behind him came Judy, and
bestowed other blessings. So I left Jim
there on the sofa, and helped entertain
the friend in the garden. We discussed
the nutritious properties of Devonshire
cream.

Walking the Pole.

By A. H. Broadwell.

Photographs specially taken by A. /. Johnson.

E have heard much about the
North Pole, and vve are going
to hear a great deal more about
the South Pole presently; in
the meantime, however, we
will introduce you to a memor¬
able voyage on and along a new kind of pole
altogether.

The pole under treatment in this case is
but a very commonplace one at best. We

end of the pole; as this, unfortunately, is
but a rare achievement, the coveted trophy
generally goes to the competitor who travels
farthest along the uncertain path.

Though sad to relate, it is nevertheless
quite true that none of the many brave men
who are shown in the pictures that follow
succeeded in reaching the end of the pole.
They one and all struggled bravely on, but
there came a time when every effort proved

THE COMPETITORS.

may safely call it a common or garden
scaffolding pole, strongly braced over a sheet
of deep water.

Now, walking the pole has become part
and parcel of every self - respecting water
carnival, and, needless to say, is the bonne
bouche of any such entertainment, inasmuch
as it provides endless merriment at the
expense of the fantastically-clad competitors.

The main idea is to reach the far end of
the vacillating thing, which feat requires a
deal of pluck and much more balancing-
power than falls to the lot of ordinary
mortals.

Various prizes are offered ; the chief plum,
however, falls to him who reaches the very

Vol. xviii.—58

unavailing, a moment when nothing save
the instantaneous abolition of the laws of
gravity could have saved them from an
ignominious tumble and consequent immer¬
sion.

The contest under notice took place at the
splendid open-air baths of the Tunbridge
Wells Swimming Club, all arrangements
being made through the kindness of its
courteous secretary, Mr. W. Tyrell Biggs,
who helped us to obtain the extraordinary
pictures of water polo published in last
month’s issue.

The group which we reproduce first was
taken immediately before the contest took
place. The costumes are numerous, and it

45 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

ROBERT TAKES THE PLUNGE.

his helmet, cau¬
tiously made his
way to the start¬
ing-point amid a
sudden and
breathless silence,
and then, with a
final look of de¬
fiance at some¬
one tittering near
by, he bravely
went forth. As
will be noticed,
however, his self-
assurance left him
at an early stage
of the proceed¬
ings, and, much
against his will,
he was “run in ”
soon after by an
every-day citizen,
who may be seen
in the second

A COUNTRY LASS.

picture above, towing him to the
bank in the best style advocated
by the Royal Humane Society.

We now come to a couple
of tumbles much resembling dives.
It is evident that at the crucial
moment the two masqueraders
regained their self-possession for
a moment, endeavouring to dive

will be noticed
that, according to
the most ap¬
proved London
County Council
methods, Robert
is strongly in
evidence, while
our American
cousin cuts a
brave figure, as
proud of his stars
and stripes as
Yankee ever was.

Our bobby was
a brave man, and
tackled the pole
with that con¬
fidence which we
usually expect
fro m every
member of the

“run in.”

force. Unabashed by the repeated cries of
“ Move on, please,” he carefully adjusted

WALKING THE POLE.

459

according to
rules. He in the
nigh t-d r e s s
tumbled head¬
long, holding a
candlestick in
the left hand ;
she in the sun-
bonnet endea¬
voured to be
graceful, but
wasn’t.

The Yankee
caught slipping
off the pole
presented a
gorgeous spec¬
tacle in the full

on this slip¬
pery path
tandem fashion.
Alas, however,
union is not
always strength,
for, curious to
relate, the man
in front assured
us that, but for
the man at his
back, he most
certainly would
have reached
the end of the
pole and, of
course, vice
versa. How¬
ever that may

THE YANKEE.

THE RETURN JOURNEY.

be, they ventured together, and fell to¬
gether, as all good friends should do.

HIS DOWNFALL.

glory of his stars and
stripes. His hat of
large dimensions might
have been intended for
a life-buoy in cases of
emergency. He is los¬
ing his balance in the
first picture, is half-way
immersed in the second,
while in the third he
very pluckily returns
to the shore apparently
none the worse for his
ducking.

The next picture de¬
picts what might well
be called a “ double
event.” Each, unwilling
to make a start without
the other, ventured

A DOUBLE EVENT,

460

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

greeted with shouts of laughter not
unmingled with commiseration.

The Italian count whose graceful
departure is shown in the next
photograph boasted that he of all
would reach the much-coveted goal;
there was to be no dilly-dallying
about his walk; in Italy they did
these things every day. “ Why, sir,
I’d walk this pole in my sleep,”
said he to an unsuccessful com¬
rade. He spoke truly—it was only a
dream ; half-way through his perilous
journey he indulged in a little by¬
play, lost his balance, and like the
plucky knight he was he made the
best of a bad business in the manner
shown.

AUNT SALLY S HOPELESS CASE.

If you will take the trouble
to refer to the group on the
first page of this article you
will get a good idea of Aunt
Sally’s appearance before
this unfortunate accident
took place. She was happy
then in the pride of her
old-fashioned sun-bonnet,
but all good things must
come to an end. The pic¬
ture illustrates a crisis in
poor Sally’s life—a frantic
clutch at the empty air
above — a tremendous splash —- and soon
afterwards a bedraggled re-appearance,

AN ITALIAN NOBLEMAN.

Our last picture shows a general melee of our
good-humoured and much-bedecked crcwd.

A GENEKAL MELEE.

Hilda Wade.

By Grant Allen.

VIII.—THE EPISODE OF THE EUROPEAN WITH THE KAFFIR HEART.

NFASHIONABLE as it is to
say so, I am a man of peace:
I belong to a profession whose
province is to heal, not to
destroy. Still, there are times
which turn even the most
peaceful of us perforce into fighters—times
when those we love, those we are bound to
protect, stand in danger of their lives ; and
at moments like that no man can doubt what
is his plain duty. The Matabele revolt was
one such moment. In a conflict of race we
must back our own colour. I do not know
whether the natives were justified in rising or
not; most likely, yes; for we had stolen
their country: but when once they rose,
when the security of white women depended
upon repelling them, I felt I had no alter¬
native. For Hilda’s sake, for the sake of
every woman and child in Salisbury and in
all Rhodesia, I was bound to bear my part
in restoring order.

For the immediate future, it is true, we
were safe enough in the little town ; but we
did not know how far the revolt might have
spread; we could not tell what had happened
at Charter, at Bulawayo, at the outlying
stations. The Matabele, perhaps, had risen
in force over the whole vast area which was
once Lo-Bengula’s country ; if so, their first
object would certainly be to cut us off from
communication with the main body of
English settlers at Bulawaya

“I trust to you, Hilda,” I said on the day
after the massacre at Klaas’s, “ to divine for
us where these savages are next likely to
attack us.”

She cooed at the motherless baby, raising
one bent finger, and then turned to me with
a white smile. “There you ask too much
of me,” she answered. “Just think what a
correct answer would imply ! First, a know¬
ledge of these savages’ character : next, a
knowledge of their mode of fighting. Can’t
you see that only a person who possessed my
trick of intuition, and who had also spent
years in warfare among the Matabele, would
be really able to answer your question ? ”

“ And yet such questions have been
answered before now by people far less in¬

tuitive than you,” I went on. “ Why, I’ve
read somewhere how, when the war between
Napoleon the First and the Prussians broke
out in 1806, Jomini predicted that the
decisive battle of the campaign would be
fought near Jena : and near Jena it was
fought. Are not you better than many
Jominis ? ”

Hilda tickled the baby’s cheek. “ Smile,
then, baby, smile ! ” she said, pouncing one
soft finger on a gathering dimple. “And
who ivas your friend Jomini ? ”

“ The greatest military critic and tactician
of his age,” I answered. “ One of Napoleon’s
generals. I fancy he wrote a book, don’t
you know—a book on war—‘ Des Grandes
Operations Militaires,’ or something of that
sort.”

“ Well, there you are, then ! That’s just
it! Your Jomini, or Hominy, or whatever
you call him, not only understood Napoleon’s
temperament, but understood war and under¬
stood tactics. It was all a question of the lie
of the land, and strategy, and so forth. If I
had been asked, I could never have answered
a quarter as well as Jomini Piccolomini—
could I, baby? Jomini would have been
worth a great many me’s. There, there, a
dear, motherless darling ! Why, she crows
just as if she hadn’t lost all her family ! ”

“ But, Hilda, we must be serious. I count
upon you to help us in this matter. We are
still in danger. Even now these Matabele
may attack and destroy us.”

She laid the child on her lap and looked
grave. “ I know it, Hubert: but I must
leave it now to you men. I am no tactician.
Don’t take me for on^ of Napoleon’s
generals.”

“Still,” I said, “we have not only the
Matabele to reckon with, recollect. There
is Sebastian as well. And whether you know
your Matabele or not, you at least know your
Sebastian.”

She shuddered. “ I know him : yes, I

know him.But this case is so difficult.

We have Sebastian—complicated by a rabble
of savages, whose habits and manners I do
not understand. It is that that makes the
difficulty.”

462

2HE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“COULD I, BABY?”

“ But Sebastian himself? ” I urged.

“ Take him first in isolation.”

She paused for a full minute with her chin
on her hand and her elbow on the table.
Her brow gathered. “ Sebastian ? ” she re¬
peated. “ Sebastian ?—ah, there I might
guess something. Well, of course, haying
once begun this attempt, and being definitely
committed, as it were, to a policy of killing
us, he will go through to the bitter end, no
matter how many other lives it may cost.
That is Sebastian’s method.”

“ You don’t think, having once found out
that I saw and recognised him, he would
consider the game lost and slink away to the
coast again ? ”

“ Sebastian ? Oh, no : that is the absolute
antipodes of his type and temperament.”

“ He will never give up because of a
temporary check, you think?”

“ No, never. The man has a will of sheer
steel—it may break, but it will not bend.
Besides, consider, lie is too deeply involved.
You have seen him : you know: and he
knows you know. You may bring this
thing home to him. Then what is his
plain policy? Why, to egg on the natives
whose confidence he has somehow gained
into making a further attack and cutting
off all Salisbury. If he had succeeded in
getting you and me massacred at Klaas’s, as
he hoped, he would no doubt have slunk off
to the coast at once, leaving his black dupes
to be shot down at leisure by Rhodes’s
soldiers.”

“ I see : but having failed in that ? ”

“ Then he is bound to go through with
it and kill us if he can, even if he has to
kill all Salisbury with us. That, I feel
sure, is Sebastian’s plan : whether he can
get the Matabele to back him up in it or
not is a different matter.”

“But taking Sebastian himself alone?”

“ Oh, Sebastian himself alone would
naturally say, ‘ Never mind Bulawayo !
Concentrate round Salisbury, and kill off
all there first: when that is done, then
you can move on at your ease and cut
them to pieces in Charter and Bulawayo.’
You see, he would have no interest in the
movement, himself, once he had fairly got
rid of us here. The Matabele are only
the pieces in his game. It is me he
wants, not Salisbury. He would clear
out of Rhodesia as soon as he had carried
his point. But he would have to give
some reasonable ground to the Matabele
for his first advice: and it seems a
reasonable ground to say, £ Don’t leave
Salisbury in your rear, so as to put yourselves
between two fires. Capture the outpost first:
that down, march on undistracted to the
principal stronghold.’ ”

“Who’s no tactician?” I murmured, half
aloud.

She.laughed. “ That’s not tactics, Hubert:
that’s plain common sense—and knowledge
of Sebastian. Still, it comes to nothing. The
question is not, ‘What would Sebastian
wish ? ’ it is, ‘ Could Sebastian persuade
these angry black men to accept his guid¬
ance?’”

“ Sebastian ! ” I cried ; “ Sebastian could
persuade the very devil ! I know the man’s
fiery enthusiasm, his contagious eloquence.
He thrilled me through, myself, with his
electric personality,, so that it took me six
y ears —and your ‘aid—to find him out at last.
His very abstractness tells. Why, even in
this war, you may be sure, he will be making
notes all the time on the healing of wounds
in tropical climates, contrasting the African
with the European constitution.”

“ Oh, yes : of course. Whatever he does,
he will never forget the interests of science.
He is true to his lady-love to whomever
else he plays false. That is his saving
virtue.”

“ And he will talk down the Matabele,” I
went on, “ even if he doesn’t know their
language. But I suspect he does, for, you
must remember, he was two years in South
Africa as a young man, on a scientific ex¬
pedition, collecting specimens. He can ride

HILDA WADE.

463

like a trooper: and he knows the country.
His masterful ways, his austere face, will cow
the natives. Then again, he has the air of a
prophet, and prophets always stir the negro.
I can imagine with what air he will bid them
drive out the intrusive white men who have
usurped their land, and draw them flattering
pictures of a new Matabele empire about to
arise under a new chief, too strong for these
gold-grubbing, diamond-hunting mobs from
over sea to meddle with.”

She reflected once more> “ Do you
mean to say anything of our suspicions in
Salisbury, Hubert ? ” she asked at last.

“ It is useless,” I answered. “ The Salis¬
bury folk believe there is a white man at the
bottom of this trouble already. They will
try to catch him : that’s all that is necessary.
If we said it was Sebastian, people would
only laugh at us. They must understand
Sebastian as you and I understand him
before they would think such a move credible.
As a rule in life, if you know anything
which other people do not know, better keep
it to yourself: you will only get laughed at as
a fool for telling it.”

“ I think so too. That is why I never say
what I suspect or infer from my knowledge
of types—except to a few who can understand
and appreciate. Hubert, if they all arm for
the defence of the town, you will stop here,
1 suppose, to tend the wounded ? ”

Her lips trembled as she spoke, and she
gazed at me with a strange wistfulness.
“No, dearest,” I answered at once, taking
her face in my hands. “ I shall fight with
the rest. Salisbury has more need to-day of
fighters than of healers.”

“I thought you would,” she answered,
slowly. “And I think you do right.” Her
face was set white: she played nervously
with the baby. “ I would not urge you : but
I am glad you say so. I want you to stop :
yet I could not love you so much if I did not
see you ready to play the man at such a
crisis.”

“ I shall give in my name with the rest,” I
answered.

“ Hubert, it is hard to spare you—hard to
send you to such danger. But for one other
thing I am glad you are going .... They
must take Sebastian alive : they must not
kill him.”

“They will shoot him red-handed if they
catch him,” I answered confidently. “ A
white man who sides with the blacks in an
insurrection ! ”

“ Then you must see that they do not do
it. They must bring him in alive and try

him legally. For me—and therefore for you
—that is of the first importance.”

“Why so, Hilda?”

“ Hubert, you want to marry me.” I
nodded vehemently. “ Well, you know I
can only marry you on one condition—that
I have succeeded first in clearing my father’s
memory. Now, the only man living who
can clear it is Sebastian. If Sebastian were
to be shot, it could never be cleared—and
then, law of Medes and Persians, I could
ne\er marry you.”

“ But how can you expect Sebastian, of all
men, to clear it, Hilda ? ” I cried. “ He is
ready to kill us both, merely to prevent your
attempting a revision : is it likely you can
force him to confess his crime, still less induce
him to admit it voluntarily ? ”

She put her hands into the hollow of her
eyes.and pressed them hard with a strange,
prophetic air she often had about her when
she gazed into the future. “ I know my
man,” she answered, slowly, without un¬
covering her eyes. “ I know how I can do
it—if the chance ever comes to me. But
the chance must come first. It is hard to
find. I lost it once at Nathaniel’s. I must
not lose it again. If Sebastian is killed
skulking here in Rhodesia, my life’s purpose
will have failed : I shall not have vindicated
my father’s good name : and then, we can
never marry.”

“ So I understand, Hilda, my orders are
these : I am to go out and fight for the
women and children of Salisbury, but I am
to take care, if possible, that Sebastian shall
be made prisoner alive, and on no account
to let him be killed on the open ! ”

“ I give you no orders, Hubert. I tell
you how it seems best to me. But if Sebas¬
tian is shot dead—then you understand it
must be all over between us. I never can
marry you until or unless I have cleared my
father.”

“Sebastian shall not be shot dead,” I
cried, with my youthful impetuosity. “ He
shall be brought in alive, though all Salisbury
as one man try its best to lynch him.”

I went out to report myself as a volunteer
for service. Within the next few hours the
whole town had been put in a state of siege,
and all available men armed to oppose the
insurgent Matabele. Plasty preparations were
made for defence. The ox-waggons of settlers
were drawn up outside in little circles here
and there, so as to form laagers, which acted
practically as temporary forts for the pro¬
tection of the outskirts. In one of these I
was posted. With our company were two

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THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

American scouts, named Colebrook and
Doolittle, irregular fighters whose value in
South African campaigns had already been
tested in the old Matabele war against
Lo-Bengula. Colebrook in particular was an
odd-looking creature—a tall, spare man,
bodied like a weasel. He was red-haired,
ferret-eyed, and an excellent scout, but scrap¬
pier and more inarticulate in his manner of
speech than any human being I had ever
encountered. His conversation was a series
of rapid interjections, jerked out at intervals,
and made comprehensible by a running play
of gesture and attitude.

“Well, yes,” he said, when I tried to draw
him out on the Matabele mode of fighting.

4 -

“ Not on the open. Never ! Grass, if you
like. Or bushes. The eyes of them ! The
eyes He leaned eagerly forward, as

if looking for something. “See here, Doctor:
I’m telling you. Spots. Gleaming. Among
the grass. Long grass. And armed, too.
A pair of ’em each. One to throw he
raised his hand as if lancing something—
“ the other for close fighting. Assegais, you
know. That’s the name of it. Only the
eyes. Creeping, creeping, creeping. No
noise. One raised. Waggons drawn up in
laager. Oxen outspanned in the middle.
Trekking all day. Tired out: dog tired.
Crawl, crawl, crawl ! Hands and knees.
Might be snakes. A wriggle. Men sitting
about the camp-fire. Smoking. Gleam of
their eyes! Under the waggons. Nearer,
nearer, nearer ! Then, the throwing ones in
your midst. Shower of ’em. Right and left.
‘ Halloa 1 stand by, boys ! ’ Look up : see

’em swarming, black like ants, over the
waggons. Inside the laager. Snatch up
rifles ! All up ! Oxen stampeding, men
running, blacks sticking ’em like pigs in the
back with their assegais. Bad job, the whole
thing. Don’t care for it, myself. Very
tough ’uns to fight. If they once break
laager.”

“ Then you should never let them get at
close quarters,” I suggested, catching the
general drift of his inarticulate swift pictures.

“ You’re a square man, you are, Doctor !
There, you touch the spot. Never let ’em
get at close quarters. Sentries ?—creep past
’em. Outposts ?—crawl between. Had

Forbes and Wilson like that. Cut ’em off.

Per-dition ! . . . . But Maxims
will do it! Maxims ! Never
let ’em get near. Sweep the
ground all round. Durned
hard, though, to know just
ivhen they’re coming. A
night: two nights : all clear:
only waste ammunition.
Third, they swarm like bees :
break laager : all over ! ”

This was not exactly an
agreeable picture of what we
had to expect—the more so
as our particular laager hap¬
pened to have no Maxims.
However, we kept a sharp
look-out for those gleaming
eyes in the long grass of which
Colebrook warned us : their
flashing light was the one
thing to be seen, at night
above all, when the black
bodies could crawl unperceived through the

tall dry herbage. On our first night out we
had no adventures. We watched by turns
outside, relieving sentry from time to time,
while those of us who slept within the laager
slept on the bare ground with our arms
beside us. Nobody spoke much. The
tension was too great. Every moment we
expected an attack of the enemy.

Next day news reached us by scouts from
all the other laagers. None of them had
been attacked : but in all there was a deep,
half-instinctive belief that the Matabele in
force were drawing step by step closer and
closer around us. Lo-Bengula’s old impis or
native regiments had gathered together once
more under their own indunas—men trained
and drilled in all the arts and ruses of savage
warfare. On their own ground, and among
their native scrub, those rude strategists are
formidable. They know the country and how

“ I TRIED TO DRAW HIM OUT.”

HILDA WADE.

465

brief shorthand of speech, run¬
ning his ferret eyes over me.

“None,” I answered. “But
a noiseless tread, and a capacity
for crawling through holes in
hedges which may perhaps be
useful.”

He glanced inquiry at Doo¬
little, who was a shorter and
stouter man, with a knack of
getting over obstacles by sheer
forcefulness.

“ Hands and knees ! ” he
said, abruptly, in the imperative
mood, pointing to a clump of
dry grass with thorny bushes
ringed about it.

I went down on my hands
and knees and threaded my
way through the long grasses
and matted boughs as noise¬
lessly as I could. The two old
hands watched me. When I
emerged several yards off, much
to their surprise, Colebrook
turned to Doolittle. “ Might
answer,” he said, curtly. “.Major
says, choose your own men.
Anyhow, if they catch him,
nobody’s fault but his. Wants
to go. Will do it.”

We set out through the long

WE WATCHED BY TURNS.”

to fight in it. We had nothing to oppose to
them but a handful of the new Matabeleland
police, an old regular soldier or two, and a
raw crowd of volunteers, most of whom, like
myself, had never before really handled a
rifle.

That afternoon, the Major in command
decided to send out the two. American scouts
to scour the grass and discover, if possible,
how near our lines the Matabele had
penetrated. I begged hard to be permitted
to accompany them. I wanted, if I could,
to get evidence against Sebastian : or at
least to learn whether he was still directing
and assisting the enemy. At first, the scouts
laughed at my request: but when I told
them privately that I believed I had a clue
against the white traitor who had caused the
revolt, and that I wished to identify him, they
changed their tone and began to think there
might be something in it.

“ Experience ? ” Colebrook asked, in his

grass together, walking erect at
first, till we had got some
distance from the laager, and
then creeping as the Matabele
creep themselves, without dis¬
placing the grass-flowers, for a mere wave
on top would have betrayed us at once to
the quick eyes of those observant savages.
We crept on for a mile or so. At last Cole¬
brook turned to me, one finger on his lips.
His ferret eyes gleamed. We were approach¬
ing a wooded hill, all interspersed with
boulders. “ Kaffirs here ! ” he whispered
low, as if he knew by instinct. How he
knew, I cannot tell; he seemed almost to
scent them.

We stole on further, going more furtively
than ever now. I could notice by this time
that there were waggons in front, and could
hear men speaking in them. I wanted to
proceed, but Colebrook held up one warning
hand. “Won’t do,” he said, shortly, in a
low tone. “ Only myself. Danger ahead!
Stop here and wait for me.”

Doolittle and myself waited. Colebrook
kept on cautiously, squirming his long body
in sinuous waves like a lizard’s through the

466

THE STRAND■ MAGAZINE.

“ COLEBROOK HELD UP ONE WARNING HAND.”

grass, and was soon lost to us. No snake
could have been lither. We waited, with
ears attent. One minute, two minutes, many
minutes passed. We could catch the voices
of Kaffirs in the bush all round. They were
speaking freely, but what they said I did not
know, as I had picked up only a very few
words of the Matabele language.

It seemed hours while we waited, still as
mice in our ambush, and alert. I began to
think Colebrook must have been lost or
killed—so long was he gone—and that we
must return without him. At last—we leaned
forward—a muffled movement in the grass
ahead ! A slight wave at the base ! Then
it divided below, bit by bit ; while the tops
remained stationary. A weasel-like body
slank noiselessly through. Finger on lips
once more, Colebrook glided beside us.

We turned and crawled back, stifling our
very pulses. For many minutes none of us
spoke. But we heard in our rear a loud cry
and a shaking of assegais : the Kaffirs behind
us were yelling frightfully. They must have
suspected something—seen some movement
in the tufted heads of grass, for they spread
abroad, shouting. We halted, holding our
breath. After a time, however, the noise
died down. They were moving another way.
We crept on again, stealthily.

When at last, after many minutes, we found
ourselves beyond a sheltering belt of brush¬
wood, we ventured to rise and speak.
“Well?’- I asked of Colebrook. “Did you
discover anything ? ”

He nodded assent. “ Couldn’t see him,”
he said, shortly. “ But he’s there right
enough. White man. Heard ’em talk of
him.”

“ What did they say ? ” I asked, eagerly.

“Said he had a white skin, but his heart
was a Kaffir’s. Great induna : leader of many
impis. Prophet, wise weather doctor ! Friend
of old Moselekatse’s. Destroy the white men
from over the big water : restore the land to
the Matabele. Kill all in Salisbury : especially
the white women. Witches : all witches :
they give charms to the men : cook lions’
hearts for them : make them brave with love-
drinks.”

“They said that?” I exclaimed, taken
aback. “ Kill all the white women ! ”

“ Yes. Kill all. White witches, every
one. The young ones worst. Word of the
great induna.”

“And you could not see him?”

“ Crept near waggons : close. Fellow him¬
self inside. Heard his voice : spoke English,
with a little Matabele. Kaffir boy who was
servant at the mission interpreted.”

“ What sort of voice ? Like this ? ” And
I imitated Sebastian’s cold, clear-cut tone as
well as I was able.

“The man ! That’s him, Doctor. You’ve
got him down to the ground. The very
voice. Heard him giving orders.”

That settled the question. I was certain
of it now. Sebastian was with the insurgents.

We made our way back to our laager, flung
ourselves down, and slept a little on the

HILDA WADE.

467

“ he’s there right enough.”

ground before taking our turn in the fatigues
of the night watch. Our horses were loosely
tied, ready for any sudden alarm. About
midnight, we three were sitting with others
about the fire, talking low to one another,
All at once Doolittle sprang up, alert and
eager. “ Look out, boys ! ” he cried, pointing
his hands under the waggons. “ What’s
wriggling in the grass there?”

I looked, and saw nothing. Our sentries
were posted outside, about a hundred yards
apart, walking up and down till they met,
and exchanging “ All’s well ” aloud at each
meeting.

“ They should have been stationary ! ” one
of our scouts exclaimed, looking out at them.
“ It’s easier for the Matabele to see them
so, when they walk up and down, moving
against the sky. The Major ought to have
posted them where it wouldn’t have been so
simple for a Kaffir to see them and creep in
between them ! ”

“ Too late now, boys ! ” Colebrook burst
out, with a rare effort of articulateness. “ Call
back the sentries, Major ! The blacks have
broken line ! Hold there! They’re in
upon us ! ”

Even as he spoke, I followed his eager
pointing hand with my eyes, and just

descried among the grass two
gleaming objects, seen under the
hollow of one of the waggons.
Two : then two : then two
again : and behind, whole pairs
of them. They looked like twin
stars: but they were eyes :
black eyes, reflecting the star¬
light and the red glare of the
camp-fire. They crept on tor¬
tuously in serpentine curves
through the long, dry grasses.
I could feel rather than see
that they were Matabele, crawl¬
ing prone on their bellies, and
trailing their snake-like way
between the dark jungle. Quick
as thought, I raised my rifle
and blazed away at the fore¬
most. So did several others.
But the Major shouted, angrily,
“ Who fired ? Don’t shoot,
boys, till you hear the word of
command ! Back, sentries, to
laager ! Not a shot till they’re
safe inside ! You’ll hit your
own people! ”

Almost before he said it, the
sentries darted back. The Mate-
bele crouching on hands and
knees in the long grass had passed through
them, unseen. A wild moment followed. I
can hardly describe it, the whole thing was
so new to me, and took place so quickly.
Hordes of black human ants seemed to surge
up all at once over and under the waggons.
Assegais whizzed through the air or gleamed
brandished around one. Our men fell back
to the centre of the laager and formed them¬
selves hastily under the Major’s orders.
Then a pause : a deadly fire. Once, twice,
thrice we volleyed. The Matabele fell by
dozens—but they came on by hundreds. As
fast as we fired and mowed down one swarm,
fresh swarms seemed to spring from the earth
and stream over the waggons. Others
appeared to grow up almost beneath our feet
as they wormed their way on their faces along
the ground between the wheels, squirmed
into the circle, and then rose suddenly erect
and naked, in front of us. Meanwhile, they
yelled and shouted, clashing their spears
and shields : the oxen bellowed : the rifles
volleyed. It was a pandemonium of sound
in an orgy of gloom. Darkness, lurid flame,
blood, wounds, death, horror.

Yet in the midst of all this hubbub I
could not help admiring the cool military
calm and self-control of our Major. His

468

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

voice rose clear above the confused tumult.
“ Steady, boys, steady ! Don’t fire at random.
Pick each your likeliest man, and aim at him

By-and-by, with a little halt, for the first
time they wavered. All our men now
mounted the waggons, and began to fire on

“ A WILD MOMENT FOLLOWED.”

deliberately. That’s right : easy — easy !
Shoot at leisure, and don’t waste ammu¬
nition ! ”

He stood as if he were on parade, in the
midst of this palpitating turmoil of savages.
Some of us, encouraged by his example,
mounted the waggons, and shot from the
tops at our approaching assailants.

How long the hurly-burly went on I can¬
not say. We fired, fired, fired, and Kaffirs
fell like sheep : yet more Kaffirs rose fresh
from the long grass to replace them. They
swarmed with greater ease now over the
covered waggons, across the mangled and
writhing bodies of their fellows : for the dead
outside made an inclined plane for the living
to mount by. But the enemy were getting
less numerous, I thought, and less anxious
to fight. The steady fire told on them.

them in regular volleys as they came up.
The evil effects of the surprise were gone by
this time : we were acting with coolness and
obeying orders. But several of our people
dropped close beside me, pierced through
with assegais.

All at once, as if a panic had burst over
them, the Matabele with one mind stopped
dead short in their advance and ceased
fighting. Till that moment, no number of
deaths seemed to make any difference to
them. Men fell, disabled : others sprang up
from the ground by magic. But now, of a
sudden, their courage flagged—they faltered,
gave way, broke, and shambled in a body.
At last, as one man, they turned and fled.
Many of them leapt up with a loud cry from
the long grass where they were skulking,
flung away their big shields with the white

HILDA WADE .

469

thongs interlaced, and ran for dear life, black
crouching figures, through the dense, dry
jungle. They held their assegais still, but
did not dare to use them. It was a flight,
pell-mell — and the devil take the hind¬
most.

Not until then had I leisure to think and
to realize my position. This was the first
and only time I had ever seen a battle. I
am a bit of coward, 1 believe—like most
other men—though I have courage enough
to confess it : and I expected to find myself
terribly afraid when it came to fighting. In¬
stead of that, to my immense surprise, once
the Matabele had swarmed over the laager
and were upon us in their thousands, I had
no time to be frightened. The absolute
necessity for keeping cool, for loading and
reloading, for aiming and firing, for beat¬
ing them off at close quarters—all this so
occupied one’s mind, and still more one’s
hands, that one couldn’t find room for any
personal terrors. “They are breaking over
there ! ” “ They will overpower us yonder ! ”

“ They are faltering now ! ” Those thoughts
were so uppermost in one’s head, and one’s
arms were so alert, that only after the enemy
' gave way and began to run at full pelt could
a man find breathing-space to think of his
own safety. Then the thought occurred to
me, “ I have been through my first fight,

and come out of it alive : after all, I was a
deal less afraid than I expected ! ”

That took but a second, however. Next
instant, awaking to the altered circumstances,
we were after them at full speed, accompany¬
ing them on their way back to their kraals in
the uplands with a running fire as a farewell
attention.

As we broke laager in pursuit of them, by
the uncertain starlight we saw a sight which
made us boil with indignation. A mounted
man turned and fled before them. He
seemed their leader, unseen till then. He
was dressed like a European—tall, thin, un¬
bending, in a greyish white suit : he rode a
good horse, and sat it well: his air was com¬
manding, even as he turned and fled in the
general rout from that lost battle.

I seized Colebrook’s arm, almost speechless
with anger. “The white man!” I cried.
“ The traitor ! ”

He did not answer a word, but with a set
face of white rage loosed his horse from where
it was tethered among the waggons. At the
same moment I loosed mine. So did Doo¬
little. Quick as thought, but silently, we led
them out all three where the laager was
broken. I clutched my mare’s mane, and
-sprang to the stirrup to pursue our enemy.
My sorrel bounded off like a bird. The
fugitive had a good two minutes’ start of us ;

470

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

but our horses were fresh, while his had
probably been ridden all day. I patted my
pony’s neck: she responded with a ringing
neigh of joy. We tore after the outlaw, all
three of us abreast. I felt a sort of fierce
delight in the reaction after the fighting. Our
ponies galloped wildly over the plain : we
burst out into the night, never heeding the
Matabele whom we passed on the open in
panic-stricken retreat : I noticed that many
of them in their terror had even flung away
their shields and their assegais.

It was a mad chase across the dark veldt—
we three, neck to neck, against that one
desperate runaway. We rode all we knew.
I dug my heels into my sorrel’s flanks, and
she responded bravely. The tables were
turned now on our traitor since the afternoon
of the massacre. He was the pursued and
we were the pursuers. We felt we must
run him down and punish him for his
treachery.

At a breakneck pace we stumbled over
low bushes: we grazed big boulders : we
rolled down the sides of steep ravines: but
we kept him in sight all the time, dim and
black against the starry sky: slowly, slowly—
yes, yes !—we gained upon him. My pony
led now. The mysterious white man rode
and rode—head bent, neck forward—but
never looked behind him. Bit by bit we
lessened the distance between us. As we
drew near him at last, Doolittle called out to
me in a warning voice, “Take care, Doctor!
Have your revolvers ready ! He’s driven to
bay now ! As we approach he’ll fire at us ! ”

Then it came home to me in a flash. I
felt the truth of it. “He dare not fire ! ” I
cried. “ He dare not turn towards us. He
cannot show his face ! If he did we might
recognise him ! ”

On we rode, still gaining. “Now, now,”
I cried, “ we shall catch him ! ”

Even as I leaned forward to seize his rein,
the fugitive, without checking his horse,
without turning his head, drew his revolver
from his belt, and, raising his hand, fired
behind him at random. He fired towards
us, on the chance. The bullet whizzed past
my ear, not hitting anyone. We scattered,
right and left, still galloping free and strong.
We did not return his fire, as I had told
the others of my desire to take him alive.
We might have shot his horse; but the
risk of hitting the rider, coupled with
the confidence we felt of eventually hunting
him to earth, restrained us. It was the great
mistake we made.

He had gained a little by his shots, but we

soon caught it up. Once more I said, “We
are on him ! ”

A minute later, we were pulled up short
before an impenetrable thicket of prickly
shrubs, through which I saw at once it would
have been quite impossible to urge our
staggering horses.

The other man, of course, reached it before
us, with his mare’s last breath. He must have
been making for it, indeed, of set purpose ;
for the second he arrived at the edge of the
thicket he slipped off his tired pony, and
seemed to dive into the bush as a swimmer
dives off a rock into the water.

“We have him now ! ” I cried, in a voice
of triumph. And Colebrook echoed, “ We
have him ! ”

We sprang down quickly. “Take him
alive, if you can ! ” I exclaimed, remembering
Hilda’s advice. “ Let us find out who he is,
and have him properly tried and hanged at
Bulawayo ! Don’t give him a soldier’s
death ! All he deserves is a murderer’s ! ”

“You stop here,” Colebrook said, briefly,
flinging his bridle to Doolittle to hold.
“ Doctor and I follow him. Thick bush.
Knows the ways of it. Revolvers ready ! ”

I handed my sorrel to Doolittle. He
stopped behind, holding the three foam-
bespattered and panting horses, while Cole¬
brook and I dived after our fugitive into the
matted bushes.

The thicket, as I have said, was impene¬
trable above ; but it was burrowed at its base
by over-ground runs of some wild animal—
not, I think, a very large one; they were
just like the runs which rabbits make among
gorse and heather, only on a bigger scale—
bigger even than a fox’s or badger’s. By
crouching and bending our backs, we could
crawl through them with difficulty into the
scrubby tangle. It was hard work creeping.
The runs divided soon. Colebrook felt with
his hands on the ground : “ I can make out
the spoor ! ” he muttered, after a minute.
“ He has gone on this way ! ”

We tracked him a little distance in, crawling
at times, and rising now and again where the
runs opened out on to the air for a moment.
The spoor was doubtful, and the tunnels
tortuous. I felt the ground from time to time,
but could not be sure of the tracks with
my fingers : I was not a trained scout like
Colebrook or Doolittle. We wriggled deeper
into the tangle. Something stirred once or
twice. It was not far from me. I was un¬
certain whether it was him —Sebastian—or a
Kaffir earth-hog, the animal which seemed
likeliest to have made the burrows.

HILDA

WADE.

47i

Was he going to elude us even now?
Would he turn upon us with a knife ? If so,
could we hold him?

At last, when we had pushed our way
some distance in, we heard a wild cry from
outside. It was Doolittle’s voice. “ Quick !
quick ! Out again ! The man will escape !
He has come back on his tracks and
rounded ! ”

I saw our mistake at once. We had left
our companion out there alone, rendered
helpless by the care of all three horses.

Colebrook said never a word. He was a
man of action. He turned with instinctive
haste, and followed our own spoor back
again with his hands and knees to the open¬
ing in the thicket by which we had first
entered.

Before we could reach it, however, two
shots rang out clear in the direction where
we had left poor Doolittle and the horses.
Then a sharp cry broke the stillness—the
cry of a wounded man. We redoubled our
pace. We knew we were outwitted.

When we reached the open we saw
at once by the uncertain light what had
happened. The fugitive was riding away on

a black lump, among the black bushes about
him.

We looked around for him and found him.
He was severely, I may even say dangerously,
wounded. The bullet had lodged in his right
side. We had to catch our two horses, and
ride them back with our wounded man, lead¬
ing the fugitive’s mare in tow, all blown and
breathless. I stuck to the fugitive’s mare :
it was the one clue we had now against him.
But Sebastian, if it was Sebastian, had ridden
off scot-free. I understood his game at a
glance. He had got the better of us once
more. He would make for the coast by the
nearest road, give himself out as a settler
escaped from the massacre, and catch the
next ship for England or the Cape, now this
coup had failed him.

Doolittle had not seen the traitor’s face.
The man rose from the bush, he said, shot
him, seized the pony, and rode off in a
second with ruthless haste. He was tall
and thin, but erect — that was all the
wounded scout could tell us about his
assailant. And that was not enough to
identify Sebastian.

All danger was over. We rode back to

“the fugitive was riding away.”

my own little sorrel. Riding for dear life,
not back the way we came from Salisbury,
but sideways across the veldt towards Chimoio
and the Portuguese seaports. The other
two horses, riderless and terrified, were
scampering with loose heels over the dark
plain. Doolittle was not to be seen : he lay,

Salisbury. The first words Hilda said when
she saw me were, “ Well, he has got away
from you ! ”

“ Yes : how did you know ? ”

“ I read it in your step. But I guessed as
much before. He is so very keen : and you
started too confident.”

Mrs. Delany's Flower-Work .

HE author, or inventor, of this
truly wonderful work was
Mary Delany, well known
from her “ Autobiography and
Correspondence,” which was
edited by Lady Llanover, and
published in six volumes in 1861 and 1862.

The early life of this interesting lady was
somewhat romantic. She was born at
Coulston, in Wiltshire, and was the daughter
of Bernard Granville, younger brother of
George Granville, Lord Lansdowne. Her
father’s sister Ann (afterwards Lady Stanley),
being Maid of Honour
to Queen Mary, Mary
Granville was sent at
an early age to live
with her aunt, in ex¬
pectation of a place
in the Queen’s house¬
hold ; but the Queen
dying soon after, and
the Granvilies being
r Lories, they lost the
Court favour, and
Mary went to stay
with her uncle, Lord
Lansdowne, at Long-
leat, the family seat.

Here she stayed for
some time, and her
beauty, wit, and good
breeding attracted
much attention;
among her admirers
was a young gentle¬
man named Twyford,
who succeeded in
gaining her affections.

But in this case, as in
so many others, the
course of true love did
not run smooth, for one day, when they were
all at dinner, an old gentleman was brought in
wet and dripping, having travelled on horse¬
back on an exceedingly rainy day, and was
announced as Mr. Alexander Pendarves, of
Roscrow, Cornwall.

Her uncle was, she says in her letters,
“ exceedingly pleased at his arrival, and
begged him to join them at once. I expected
to have seen somebody with the appearance
of a gentleman,” says Mrs. Delany, writing at
the time, “ when the poor old dripping,
almost drowned, Gromio was brought into
the room, like Hob out of the well: his wig,
his coat, his dirty boots, his large, unwieldy

person, and his crimson countenance were
all subjects of great mirth to me.”

Thus she writes of the man who was
destined to become her future husband, for
though nearly sixty, this Gromio , as she calls
him, was rich, and falling in love with her at
sight, he prevailed upon her uncle to further
his cause, and he, nothing loth, being eager
to strengthen his political interest in that part
of Cornwall, of which Pendarves owned the
greater part, promised to do so. With this
object, he pleaded the old gentleman’s cause
with all the eloquence' he could command,
but, his niece remain-
ing obd prate, he
threatened to have her
young lover, Twyford,
dragged through a
horse-pond, should he
venture to appear.
Yielding at last to
these forcible argu¬
ments, she consented,
and, much against her
inclination, was mar¬
ried to Pendarves in
February, 1718. Her
young lover died
shortly after of an ill¬
ness believed to have
been brought on by his
hopeless attachment.

After six years of
unhappy married life
her ancient partner
died, leaving her with
nothing but her join¬
ture, for she had un¬
fortunately dissuaded
him on the day before
his death from signing
his will.

It was during this interval of widowhood
and before her second marriage, which took
place in 1743, that she made the acquaintance
of her lifelong friend, the Duchess of Port¬
land, as well as a number of prominent
literary ladies of the time. The Duchess
took her under her especial care, and she was
frequently at Bulstrode, the Duke’s seat in
Buckinghamshire. Here it was that the
greater part of the “ Flower Mosaic Work ”
was accomplished ; for her second husband,
Patrick Delany, dying only five years after
their marriage, the Duchess insisted upon
her taking up her abode with her altogether.
She, therefore, passed the summers at Bui-

MRS. DELANY'S FLOWER-WORK.

473

strode and the winters in her own house in
London, in St. James’s Place, where she was
the centre of attraction among a group of
famous literary people of the time, among
whom was Horace Walpole, who spent much
of his leisure at her house, Miss Burney
(Madame d’Arblay), who lived with her
during the latter part of her life, Mrs. Mon¬
tague, Mrs. Chapone, Dr. Burney, Mrs.
Carter, etc.

With the Royal Family she was an especial
favourite, George III. always speaking of her
as “ his dearest Mrs. Delany,” and after the
death of her dear friend and benefactor, the
Duchess of Portland, which took place in
1785, he settled upon her a pension of
^300 a year, and gave her a house at
Windsor for life, where she was frequently
visited by all the members of the Royal
Family, from the King and Queen down to
the little Princess Amelia, who always called
her “dear Lany.”

The “ Flower-Work,” of which a few speci¬
mens are here reproduced, was not begun till
she was in the seventy-fourth year of her age,
when, her eyesight beginning to fail her, and
feeling herself likely to be cut off from the
elegant pursuits of life, painting and drawing,
fine needlework, etc., in which she was
remarkably proficient, she cast about for some

TUBEROSE.

SNOWDROP.

other occupation which would give employ¬
ment to her ever-busy fingers, and at the
same time occupy her mind. The result was
this remarkable work from which this selec¬
tion has been made, which was admitted
by Sir Joshua Reynolds and all the best
judges of the art of drawing and painting to
be unrivalled in perfection of outline, delicacy
of cutting, accuracy of shading and perspec¬
tive, and harmony and brilliancy of colour;
while, at the same time, they were the
admiration of such botanists as Sir Joseph
Banks, Dr. Solander, etc. Indeed, Sir
Joseph Banks used to say of them that they
were the only imitations of Nature that he had
ever seen from which he could venture to
describe botanically any plant without the
least fear of committing an error.

What first suggested the idea to Mrs.
Delany, and encouraged her to proceed with
the work, was a mistake which her friend the
Duchess of Portland made one day in taking
an imitation geranium, which she had just
cut out from paper, for the real one. It
is thus recorded : “ Having a piece of
Chinese paper on the table of bright
scarlet, a geranium caught her eye of a
similar colour and, taking her scissors, she
amused herself by cutting out each flower
by her eye, in the paper resembling its

Vol xviii— 69

474

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

hue; she laid the paper petals on a black
ground, and was so pleased with the effect
that she proceeded to cut out the calyx,
stalks, and leaves in shades of green and
pasted them down.

After she had completed
a sprig of geranium in
this way, the Duchess
of Portland came in
and exclaimed, ‘ What
are you doing with the
geranium ? 7 having
taken the paper imita¬
tion for the flower.

Mrs. Delany answered
that, if the Duchess
really thought it so like
the original, a new
work was begun from
that moment; and the
work was begun at the
age of seventy-four and
ended at the age of
eighty-five; such a work
as no other person
before or since has ever
been able to rival or
even approach.”

It was long after the suggestion that the
aged and indefatigable worker brought her
work into any system, and in the first year
she finished only two flowers, but in the
second she accomplished sixteen, and in the
third 160, and after that many more.

The flowers were all from Nature, fresh
gathered or still growing plants, and her col¬
lection consists of whatever is most choice
and rare, in flowers, plants, and weeds. Her
plan was to place the plant or flower before
her, and at the back of it, but not to touch
it, she put a sheet of black paper doubled in
the form of a folding screen, which, forming
a dark background, threw out distinctly the
outlines of the leaves and flowers, and made
the lights and shadows more distinct. She
did not draw the plants, but, by her eye, cut
out each flower, or rather each petal, as
they appeared; the lights and shades and
tints were afterwards all likewise cut out and
laid on, being pasted one over the other—
the stamina, style, and leaves were separately
done in the same manner, in various coloured
papers, which she used to procure from
captains of vessels coming from China, and
from paper-stainers, from whom she used to
buy pieces of paper in which the colours had
run and produced extraordinary and unusual
tints. In this manner she procured her
material, and was enabled to produce the

utmost brilliancy where it was required with
the greatest harmony of colouring from the
various semi-tones of tint laid on.

But the part of the work in which she
appears ever to remain
unrivalled is the way in
which, by the eye
alone, she directed the
scissors, to cut out the
innumerable parts
necessary to complete
the outline, shadowing,
and detail of every leaf,
flower, and stem, with
such exactness that they
all hung together, and
fitted each other, as if
they had been produced
instantaneously by the
stroke of a magic wand,
and yet without a fault
in perspective, or in
the most difficult fore¬
shortening. To look at
them it is difficult to
imagine that the work
is not done in relief, so
strongly do the subjects
appear to stand out from the paper. They
are, however, done absolutely on the flat, as
much so as if they were painted on the
paper.

Her plan was to finish a thousand, but the

MUSK THISTLE,

MRS. DELANY’S ELOWER -WORK.

475

BURNET ROSE.

progress of the work was stopped when she
was within only twenty of that number.
In 1782 she was compelled to abandon
the work, her eyes being no longer able
to direct her scissors in imitating accu¬
rately the exquisite and minute tracery of
Nature.

Each flower is marked on the back of its
mount with the spot from whence she took
or received her model, with the date, and on
not a few are interesting notes, of which the
following are a few examples :—

“Finished Thursday, Sept. 7th, 1781.
The day after I had the honour of paying
my duty at the Queen’s Lodge, at Windsor.”
“ Bulstrode, Sept. 25th, 1780. Lord Mans¬
field came.” “ Bulstrode, Aug. 7th, 1778.
Finished the day after the King and Queen
were at Bulstrode.” “ The flower given me
by Lord Harcourt,” etc. On the front in
■ either corner are the name of the flower and
the monogram of the artist in coloured
letters ; but the last year, when she found
her eyes becoming vveaker and weaker, and
threatening to fail her before her work was
accomplished, she cut out her initials in white,
for she says, “ I fancied myself nearly work¬
ing in my winding-sheet.”

One of the last flowers that she did was
the Portlandia grandiflora , a West Indian
flower, so called, according to a note in Mrs.
Delany’s own hand, after Her Grace of
Portland, “ a great lover of botany and well

acquainted with all English plants.” This
flower is dated at the back by herself, “ Bul¬
strode, 9th Aug., 1782. Kew,” from whence
the original specimen had been sent to her
by command of the King and Queen, who
always desired that any curious or beautiful
plant in the Royal Gardens should be trans¬
mitted to Mrs. Delany when in blossom, and
there are numbers of flowers executed by
Mrs. Delany marked “ Kew.”

Nothing seems to have been too minute or
intricate for these busy clever fingers, and
every little detail of each plant is faithfully
imitated, even to the down of the thistle and
the tiny hairs on the stem of different plants.
She even dared to attempt to imitate, and
with remarkable success, the delicate fronds
of the asparagus, which was a masterpiece,
and forms one of the half-dozen or so speci¬
mens which Queen Charlotte selected for
herself from the collection, the spaces from
which she drew them still remaining vacant
in the volumes, with the words in Mrs.
Delany’s own hand written across the page,
“ Selected by Queen Charlotte.”

The work is contained in ten folio volumes,
and is now in the national collection at the
British Museum, to which institution it was
bequeathed by Lady Llanover in 1897.

HORSE-CHESTNUT*

Curiosities .*

[ We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted .]

of the canoeist to run the “shoot” without being
upset. The photographer was standing at the
bottom of one of the piers of the dam.

CARVED BY A CONVICT.

This is a photo, of a small keg carved with an
ordinary pocket-knife out of a solid piece of wood,
by a French prisoner in Quebec. On one side appear
the words : “ Fill it and you will see what it holds.”
When filled it is found to hold exactly one quart.
Mow the ingenious prisoner managed to measure the
capacity of his keg so accurately it is difficult to con¬
jecture. We are indebted for the photo, to Mr.
E. A. Beatty, of Paignton.

SHOOTING A CHUTE.

This striking photograph was taken by Mr. J.
Pitblado, of Winnipeg, during a canoe trip last
summer. On the Manitou River, in one of the
lumbering districts of Western Ontario, a number of
dams have been built, and a “ shoot ” made in each
for running logs down. The photograph represents
Mr. J. B. McLaren, Q.C., of Winnipeg, and his wife
in the act of running one of these “shoots” in a
canoe. The current is very rapid, and it is remark¬
able that the photograph was taken at exactly the
proper moment. It required great skill on the part

NICE FOR AUNT SALLY !

When swarming, bees alight on “all sorts and
conditions ” of places, but probably few are more
curious than the one depicted in
the photo. On the lawn in the
garden of one of the principal
bee - keepers of Worcestershire
stood an old Aunt Sally, which
had been placed there for the
amusement of the children ;
and when the bees swarmed,
they thought the short petti¬
coats of her ladyship would
prove an admirable resting-
place. The sight was such a
novel one when they had settled
down, that the owner, before
hiving the bees, brought his
camera upon the scene, and the
photo, here depicted is a repro¬
duction of the original. The
photo, is sent us by Mr. J.
II. Davenport, of 3, Dagmar
Road, S.E.

* Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited.

CURIOSITIES.

477

SELF-SUPPORTED.

We are indebted to Mr. T. A. Cantle, of Shive-
hampton, for the above photograph, which shows
a new method of a party of people resting them¬
selves. As will be seen, each knee supports a
sitter. As Mr. Cantle sagely remarks: “This
should be a big boon to a large family, who by
its use could profit by selling their chairs.”

ROOT UPWARDS.

To the right, half-way down a steep road known as
Undertaker Hill, west of Milwaukee, Wisconsin,
winds a rocky road at the base of a high bluff, over¬
grown with trees and greensward, and at the end of
the road, near an ancient stone distillery, is an apple
tree that apparently reverses the order of Nature,
inasmuch as it bears fruit and leaves upon its roots.
About thirty years ago this tree, when but 2ft. in
height, was uprooted, and its branches planted where
the roots had been. It still grows to bear fruit, and is
to-day a curiosity that has puzzled horticulturists.
This singular experiment in horticulture was prompted
by a legend of a beautiful maiden, who, charged with
a heinous crime and sentenced to death, uprooted
a linden tree, planted its top where the roots had
been, and made the prophecy that it would grow
for ever as a monument to her innocence and to the
cupidity of her persecutors. The tree grew, as she
had predicted. The legend was told in Germany.
It was heard by John Meiners, who subsecpiently
emigrated to America and built the old stone dis¬
tillery near Milwaukee. This man replanted twenty-

ROPE v. IRON.

According to the
proverb, the constant
dropping of water will
wear away a stone.
Here is something
even more remarkable
of the same kind—a
photo, which repre¬
sents the indentations
made by the constant
rubbing of the tow-
ropes on an iron bar
5in. square, which
protects the stonework
of one of the bridges
on the Grand Junction
Canal. We have to
thank Mr. A. M. Mac-
killigan, of Berkhamp-
stead, for this curiosity.

five small apple trees in this way. For
a long time they showed no sign of life.
Then one began to bud, and of all those
planted, this is the only one that could be
nursed to a hardy life. The tree has not
grown more than 2ft. in height since it was
replanted. It now has a trunk about I2in.
in diameter and about 4ft. high. The roots,
now limbs, instead of growing vertically,
grow horizontally, in long, slender arms, of
which there are about twenty, so as to form
excellent protection from the rain for one
who may be seated underneath the tree.
The branches form a flat, circular tree top
about 60ft. in diameter. The tree has
borne fruit for about twenty years. This
photograph of the tree was taken while its
fruit was ripening upon it by Mr. J. C.
Muisse, of the Milwaukee Sentinel , Wis.

478

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

example of the ‘ Batouri Ju-Ju’
{i.e., white man’s witchcraft).
The crater made by the explo-
sion can be seen in the photo.”

A WIRE NEST.

Mr. George Taylor, of Merino
Downs, Roma, had a pet magpie,
which frequented the head station
for years, but always left at the
pairing season, after which it
returned. Curiosity prompted the
Taylor family to see where,, the
bird went to, and found it had a
nest in a high gum tree. Dr.
Sheaffe, of Roma, wanted a
young magpie, and a boy was

‘THE PACE THAT KILLS!”

• Mr. A. Emery, the lion. Sec. of the Manchester
City Bicycle Club, sends us this amusing photo.
“ A photograph,” he explains, “of a few members
of the above club on their novel pacing machine.”

THE AMAZING FREAK OF AN EXPLOSION.

From Lieutenant R. Lyle McClintock, Curragh
Camp, we have received this most interesting photo,
and letter : “I inclose a contribution for your
‘ Curiosity ’ page—the freak of an explosion. Early
in 1899—being at that time serving with the West
Africa Frontier Force at Lokoja, on the middle Niger
—I was told to blow up a large dead tree which stood
on the river bank at a landing-place, obstructing
traffic. I estimated about 81 b. gun-cotton as the
charge, but having a lot of damaged stuff to get rid
of, I put about 2olb. in a hole under the roots,
tamped it heavily, and lit the fuse. All the camp
came down to see the fun, and when, after the dense
dust cloud caused by the explosion had cleared away,
the tree was still apparently unmoved, they jeered not
a little. However, on examination it proved that the
heavy charge had blown the tree vertically into the
air, where it had turned end for end and come down
point first into the ground. It now stood immovably
planted only 4ft. Sin. from its original position, quite
vertically, roots in air. So complete was the
illusion that the skipper of a Niger stern-wheeler
actually moored his boat to it as usual a week after
without noticing the inversion. On account of the
moral effect on the natives, it is now preserved as an

From a Photo, bn A. Lower £ Co., Brisbane.

sent up the tree for a young bird,
which he secured, and on his
return to terra-firma informed his
spectators that the bird’s nest was
built of wire. His assertion
naturally provoked a great deal
of ridicule, when the boy, to
prove his assertion, again went up
the tree and cut the nest down.
Upon examination it was found
the old bird had collected bits of
wire of all shapes and sizes, and
formed the foundation of a nest,
on top of which it had laid a
piece of half-inch wire netting as
a mattress, and then built its
straw bed for the young ones.
Photo, sent by Mr. R. W. Thur-
low ? of Brisbane,

CURIOSITIES .

479

his bunk by the rope ladder arranged at
the end of the hammocks. This hammock
was so arranged that in rainy weather
there was an immense covering put over
the top, made of three or four rubber
ponchos, and, as a result, all kept dry.
The photograph was taken by Mr. A. B.
Collier, late Captain and Adjutant, 2nd
Ohio Volunteer Infantry.

BROUGHT UP ON THE BOTTLE.

The accompanying photograph, which
we have received from Mr. G. L.
Sullivan, West Medford, Massachusetts,
is that of a water - melon raised on
the Boston Common Fruit Ranch
in Colorado, at the town of Manza-
nola. This melon was “ brought up on
a bottle , n which also appears in the
picture. When it was the size of a small
cucumber all the other branches of the
vine on which it grew were cut off and
every other melon on that particular
branch was taken off. A slit was made
in the stein of the melon, and through
this a narrow lamp-wick was run, the
other end of which was placed in a bottle
of water and sugar. The melon drank
up the sweetened water again and again,

COOL CAMPING.

The 2nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry,
which was organized and mustered into
the services of the U.S. Army, April
25th, 1898, for service in the Spanish-
American War, was encamped at
Chickamauga Park, Georgia, from the
1st of May until the 1st of September,
and while there the members of Com¬
pany K decided to put to use their
canvas hammocks, which had been fur¬
nished for service in Cuba. As will be
observed by the accompanying photo¬
graph, the hammocks were arranged in
tiers, thereby giving each of the eight
men a cool and airy bunk, which cer¬
tainly was a treat compared to the hot
tents. The top hammock, which is occupied by Ser- and when it was ripe it weighed 25II). A good-sized

geant Partlow, who was the originator of the idea, melon of this variety weighs 14th. It had practically

was at least 25ft. above the ground, and he reached no rind, and w-as unusually delicious and sweet.

WILLOW FLIES.

This is a photograph of
“ willow flies,” a kind of fly
which appears for a few days
during early summer on Green
River, Ky., and other streams
of the district. The flies appear
about dusk, apparently rising
from the w’ater, and in such
numbers that they obscure the
lights towards which they fly.
The photo, shows a watch lan¬
tern on a Government barge, set
out at dusk, and photographed
next day with the flies it had
attracted during the night. There
were probably two or three
bushels of them. In appearance
the fly resembles the English
May-fly. This photo. w r as taken
by Mr. D. A. Watt, U.S.
Assistant Engineer, of Bowling
Green, Ky.

480

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A DOUBLE-BARRELLED CANNON.

This, the only double - barrelled cannon in the
world, was cast by a citizen of Athens, Georgia,
during the Civil War of 1861—65. The inventor’s
idea was unique. It was to connect two solid

shot by means of a chain, and then to load the
cannon with these shot. Doth barrels were !o be
fired at the same time, and it was expected that the
chain would tighten ancl mow down a company of
men at one time. The cannon was fired but once,
for on the first trial one barrel exploded before the
other. One ball had the start of the other, and the
two left the gun with a rotary motion, tearing up the
earth and small trees for quite a distance. After the
close of the war the cannon disappeared, and was not
found until a few years since, when it was mounted
by the city of Athens. Mr. T. R. King, of Athens,
Ga., sends us this curiosity.

A HORSE IN A FIX.

A TORPEDO GONE WRONG.

This photo, illustrates the whaler of II.M.S. Archet
with a torpedo stuck in her, and the carpenters
cutting it out. The boat is alongside the ship, and
the photo, was taken from the top of the hammock
nettings, i.e ., directly above the boat. While at tor¬
pedo practice, the torpedo struck the
whaler, which was lying near the target
in readiness to pick it up on the expiration
of its run, as seen in the photograph.

This striking picture was sent in by Lieut.

C. A. Fulcher, R.N.

A CHURCH BUILT BY ONE MAN.

Stivichall Church, near Coventry, which
will seat nearly one hundred people, is in
the unique position of having been built
by one man only. It was built in 1810 by
a man named James Green, a stonemason
of Coventry, and was opened in 1817.
The photo, was sent to us by Mr. G. T.
Mills, of Coventry, who informs us that
the building of the church was undertaken
by James Green as an act of penance.

The horse shown in the picture is blind,
and falling into the Des Moines River,
at Bonaparte. Iowa, a short distance above
the dam, floated down until he arrived as
shown in the picture. He seemed in¬
stinctively to realize his perilous position,
as the current is very swift, and there is a
sheer descent of probably 25ft. A great
many plans were proposed to rescue him,
but all dismissed as not feasible, until
his owner anchored his boat up the
stream with a large stone, and let him¬
self down near enough to throw a rope
over the horse’s head, and then towed
him up stream and to shore. The photo,
shows the horse’s master in the act of
preparing the rope. Photo, sent in
by Mr. L. L. Talbott, of Des Moines,
Iowa,

THE PROCESSION TO CROXLEY.
[See page 484.)

Vol. xviii.

No. 107.

The Strand Magazine

NOVEMBER, 1899.

7 he Croxley Master.

In Three Parts. Part II.

By A. Conan Doyle.

ORK was struck at one o’clock
at the coal-pits and the iron¬
works, and the light was ar¬
ranged for three. From the
Croxley furnaces, from . Wil¬
son’s Coal-pits, from the Heart¬
sease Mine, from the Dodd Mills, from the
Leverworth Smelters, the workmen came
trooping, each with his fox-terrier or his
lurcher at his heels. Warped with labour
and twisted by toil, bent double by week-
long work in the cramped coal galleries, or
half-blinded with years spent in front of white-
hot fluid metal, these men still gilded their
harsh and hopeless lives by their devotion to
sport. It was their one relief, the only thing
which could distract their mind from sordid
surroundings, and give them an interest
beyond the blackened circle which inclosed
them. Literature, art, science, all these
things were beyond their horizon; but the
race, the football match, the cricket, the
fight, these were things which they could
understand, which they could speculate
upon in advance and comment upon
afterwards. Sometimes brutal, sometimes
grotesque, the love of sport is still one
of the great agencies which make for
the happiness of our people. It lies
very deeply in the springs of our nature,
and when it has been educated out, a
higher, more refined nature may be left,
but it will not be of that robust British
type which has left its mark so deeply on the
world. Every one of these ruddled workers,
slouching with his dog at his heels to see
something of the fight, was a true unit of his
race.

It was a squally May day, with bright sun¬
bursts and driving showers. Montgomery
worked all morning in the surgery getting his
medicine made up.

“ The weather seems so very unsettled, Mr.
Montgomery,” remarked the doctor, “ that I
am inclined to think that you had better
postpone your little country excursion until a
later date.”

“I am afraid that I must go to-day, sir.”

“ I have just had an intimation that Mrs.
Potter, at the other side of Angleton, wishes

Vol. xviii.— 61

to see me. It is probable that I shall be
there all day. It will be extremely incon¬
venient to leave the house empty so long.”

“ I am very sorry, sir, but I must go,” said
the assistant, doggedly.

The doctor saw that it would be useless to
argue, and departed in the worst of bad
tempers upon his mission. Montgomery felt
easier now that he was gone. He went up
to his room, and packed his running shoes,
his fighting drawers, and his cricket sash into
a hand-bag. When he came down Mr.
Wilson was waiting for him in the surgery.

“ I hear the doctor has gone.”

“Yes, he is likely to be away all day.”

“ I don’t see that it matters much. It’s
bound to come to his ears by to-night.”

“Yes, it’s serious with me, Mr. Wilson.
If I win,* it’s all right. I don’t mind telling
you that the hundred pounds will make all
the difference to me. But if I lose, I’ll lose
my situation, for, as you say, I can’t keep it
secret.”

“ Never mind. We’ll see you through
among us. I only wonder the doctor has not
heard already, for it’s all over the country
that you are to fight the Croxley Champion.
We’ve had Armitage up about it already.
He’s the Master’s backer, you know. He
wasn’t sure that you were eligible. The Master
said he wanted you whether you were eligible
or not. Armitage has money on, and would
have made trouble if he could. But I
showed him that you came within the condi¬
tions of the challenge, and he agreed that it
was all right. They think they have a soft
thing on.”

“Well, I can only do my best,” said
Montgomery.

They lunched together ; a silent and rather
nervous repast, for Montgomery’s mind was
full of what was before him, and Wilson had
himself more money at stake than he cared
to lose.

Wilson’s carriage and pair were at the door,
the horses with blue and white rosettes at
their ears, which were the colours of the
Wilson Coal-pits, well known on many a
football field. At the avenue gate a crowd
of some hundred pit men and their wives

Copyr"ght, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited.

484

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

gave a cheer as the carriage passed. To the
assistant it all seemed dream-like and extra¬
ordinary—the strangest experience of his life,
but with a thrill of human action and interest
in it which made it passionately absorbing.
He lay back in the open carriage and saw the
fluttering handkerchiefs from the doors and
windows of the miners’ cottages. Wilson had
pinned a blue and white rosette upon his coat,
and everyone knew him as their champion.
“ Good luck, sir; good luck to thee ! ” they
shouted from the roadside. He felt that
it was like some unromantic knight riding
down to sordid lists, but there was something
of chivalry in it all the same. He fought
for others as well as for himself. He might
fail from want of skill or strength, but deep
in his sombre soul he vowed that it should
never be for want of heart.

Mr. Fawcett was just mounting into his
high-wheeled spidery dog-cart, with his little
bit of blood between the shafts. He waved
his whip and fell in behind the carriage. They
overtook Purvis, the tomato-faced publican,
upon the road, with his wife in her Sunday
bonnet. They also dropped into the proces¬
sion, and then, as they traversed the seven
miles of the high road to Croxley, their two-
horsed rosetted carriage became gradually the
nucleus of a comet with a loosely radiating
tail. From every side road came the miners’
carts, the humble, ramshackle traps, black and
bulging, with their loads of noisy, foul-tongued,
open-hearted partisans. They trailed for a
long quarter of a mile behind them—crack¬
ing, whipping, shouting, galloping, swearing.
Plorsemen and runners were mixed with the
vehicles. And then suddenly a squad of
the Sheffield Yeomanry, who were having
their annual training in those parts, clattered
and jingled out of a field, and rode as an
escort to the carriage. Through the dust-
clouds round him Montgomery saw the
gleaming brass helmets, the bright coats, and
the tossing heads of the chargers, the
delighted brown faces of the troopers. It
was more dream-like than ever.

And then as they approached the mon¬
strous uncouth line of bottle-shaped buildings
which marked the smelting works of Croxley,
their long, writhing snake of dust was headed
off by another but longer one which wound
across their path. The main road into which
their own opened was filled by the rushing
current of traps. The Wilson contingent
halted until the others should get past. The
iron men cheered and groaned according to
their humour as they whirled past their
antagonist. Rough' chaff flew back and

forwards like iron nuts and splinters of coal.
“ Brought him up, then.” “ Got t’hearse for
to fetch him back?” “Where’s t’owd
K-legs ? ” “ Mon, mon, have thy photograph

took—’twill mind thee of what thou used to
look.” “He fight?—he’s now’t but a half-
baked doctor!” “Happen he’ll doctor thy
Croxley Champion afore he’s through wi’t.”

So they flashed at each other as the one
side waited and the other passed. Then
there came a rolling murmur swelling into a
shout, and a great break with four horses
came clattering along, all streaming with
salmon-pink ribbons. The driver wore a
white hat with pink rosette, and beside him
on the high seat were a man and a woman,
she with her arm round his waist. Mont¬
gomery had one glimpse of them as they
flashed past: he with a furry cap drawn low
over his brow, a great frieze coat, and a pink
comforter round his throat. She brazen, red¬
headed, bright coloured, laughing excitedly.
The Master, for it was he, turned as he
passed, gazed hard at Montgomery, and gave
him a menacing, gap-toothed grin. It was a
hard, wicked face, blue-jowled and craggy, with
long, obstinate cheeks and inexorable eyes.
The break behind was full of patrons of the
sport, flushed iron foremen, heads of depart¬
ments, managers. One was drinking from a
metal flask, and raised it to Montgomery as
he passed, and then the crowd thinned, and
the Wilson cortege with their dragoons swept
in at the rear of the others.

The road led away from Croxley, between
curving green hills, gashed and polluted by
the searchers for coal and iron. The whole
country had been gutted, and vast piles of
refuse and mountains of slag suggested the
mighty chambers which the labour of man
had burrowed beneath. On the left the road
curved up to where a huge building, roofless
and dismantled, stood crumbling and forlorn,
with the light shining through the windowless
squares.

“ That’s the old Arrowsmith’s factory.
That’s where the fight is to be,” said Wilson.
“ How are you feeling now ? ”

“ Thank you. I was never better in my
life,” Montgomery answered.

“ By Gad, I like your nerve ! ” said Wilson,
who was himself flushed and uneasy. “You’ll
give us a fight for our money, come what
may. That place on the right is the office,
and that has been set aside as the dressing
and weighing room.”

The carriage drove up to it, amidst the
shouts of the folk upon the hill-side. Lines
of empty carriages and traps curved down

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

485

upon the winding road, and a black crowd
surged round the door of the ruined factory.
The seats, as a huge placard announced,
were five shillings, three shillings, and a
shilling, with half - price for dogs. The
takings, deducting expenses, were to go to
the winner, and it was already evident that
a larger stake than a hundred pounds was
in question. A babel of voices rose from
the door. The workers wished to bring
their dogs in free. The men scuffled. The
dogs barked. The crowd was a whirling,
eddying pool surging with a roar up to the
narrow cleft which was its only outlet.

The break with its salmon - coloured
streamers and four reeking horses stood
empty before the door of the office ; Wilson,
Purvis, Fawcett, and Montgomery passed in.

There was a large, bare room inside, with
square, clean patches upon the grimy walls,
where pictures and almanacs had once

hung. Worn linoleum covered the floor,

but there was no furniture save some

benches and a deal
table with a ewer
and a basin upon
it. Two of the
corners were cur¬
tained off. In the
middle of the room
was a weighing
chair. A hugely fat
man with a salmon
tie and a blue waist¬
coat with birds’-eye
spots came bustling
up to them. It was
Armitage, the
butcher and grazier,
well known for
miles round as a
warm man, and the
most liberal patron
of sport in the
Riding.

“ Well, well,” he
grunted, in a thick,
fussy, wheezy voice,

“ you have come,
then. Got your
man ? Got your
man ? ”

“ Here he is, fit
and well. Mr. Mont-
gomery, let me
present you to Mr.

Armitage.”

“ Glad to meet
you, sir. Happy to

make your acquaintance. I make bold to
say, sir, that we of Croxley admire your
courage, Mr. Montgomery, and that our only
hope is a fair fight and no favour and the best
man win. That’s our sentiment at Croxley.”

“And it is my sentiment also,” said the
assistant.

“ Well, you can’t say fairer than that, Mr.
Montgomery. You’ve taken a large contrac’
in hand, but a large contrac’ may be carried
through, sir, as anyone that knows my deal¬
ings could testify. The Master is ready to
weigh in ! ”

“ So am I.”

“ You must weigh in the buff.”

Montgomery looked askance at the tall,
red-headed woman who was standing gazing
out of the window.

“ That’s all right,” said Wilson. “ Get
behind the curtain and put on your fighting
kit.”

He did so, and came out the picture of
an athlete, in white loose drawers, canvas

THE PICTURE OF AN ATHLETE.”

486

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

shoes, and the sash of a well-known cricket
club round his waist. He was trained to a
hair, his skin gleaming like silk, and every
muscle rippling down his broad shoulders
and along his beautiful arms as he moved
them. They bunched into ivory knobs, or
slid into long, sinuous curves, as he raised or
lowered his hands.

“ What thinkest thou o’ that ? ” asked Ted
Barton, his second, of the woman in the
window.

She glanced contemptuously at the young
athlete.

“ It’s but a poor kindness thou dost him
to put a thread-paper yoong gentleman like
yon against a mon as is a mon. Why, my
Jock would throttle him wi 5 one hond lashed
behind him.”

“ Happen he may—happen not,” said
Barton. “ I have but twa pund in the world,
but it’s on him, every penny, and no hedgin’.
But here’s t’ Maister, and rarely fine he do
look.”

The prize-fighter had come out from his
curtain, a squat, formidable figure, monstrous
in chest and arms, limping slightly on his
distorted leg. His skin had none of the
freshness and clearness of Montgomery’s,
but was dusky and mottled, with one huge
mole amid the mat of tangled black hair
which thatched his mighty breast. His
weight bore no relation to his strength, for
those huge shoulders and great arms, with
brown, sledge-hammer fists, would have fitted
the heaviest man that ever threw his cap into
a ring. But his loins and legs were slight in
proportion. Montgomery, on the other hand,
was as symmetrical as a Greek statue. It
would be an encounter between a man who
was specially fitted for one sport, and one
who was equally capable of any. The two
looked curiously at each other ; a bulldog,
and a high-bred, clean-limbed terrier, each full
of spirit.

“ How do you do ? ”

“ How do?” The Master grinned again,
and his three jagged front teeth gleamed for
an instant. The rest had been beaten out of
him in twenty years of battle. He spat upon
the floor. “We have a rare fine day for’t.”

“ Capital,” said Montgomery.

“ That’s the good feelin’ I like,” wheezed
the fat butcher. “ Good lads both of them—
prime lads—hard meat an’ good bone.
There’s no ill-feelin’.”

“ If he downs me, Gawd bless him,” said
the Master.

“ An’ if we down him, Gawd help him,”
interrupted the woman.

“Haud thy tongue, wench,” said the Master,
impatiently. “ Who art thou to put in thy
word ? Happen I might draw my hand
across thy face.”

The woman did not take the threat amiss.

“ Wilt have enough for thy hand to do,
Jock,” said she. “Get quit o’ this gradely
man afore thou turn on me.”

The lovers’ quarrel was interrupted by the
entrance of a new-comer, a gentleman with a
fur-collared overcoat, and a very shiny top-
hat—a top-hat of a degree of glossiness which
is seldom seen five miles from Hyde Park.
This hat he wore at the extreme back of his
head, so that the lower surface of the brim
made a kind of frame for his high bald fore¬
head, his keen eyes, his rugged and yet
kindly face. He bustled in with the quiet
air of possession with which the ring-master
enters the circus.

“ It’s Mr. Stapleton, the referee from
London,” said Wilson.

“ How do you do, Mr. Stapleton ? I was
introduced to you at the big fight at the
Corinthian Club, in Piccadilly.”

“ Ah, I daresay,” said the other, shaking
hands. “ Fact is, I’m introduced to so many
that I can’t undertake to carry their names.
Wilson, is it ? Well, Mr. Wilson, glad to see
you. Couldn’t get a fly at the station, and
that’s why I’m late.”

“ I’m sure, sir,” said Armitage, “ we
should be proud that anyone so well known
in the boxing world should come down to
our little exhibition.”

“Not at all. Not at all. Anything in
the interests of boxin’. All ready? Men
weighed ? ”

“ Weighing now, sir.”

“Ah, just as well I should see it done.
Seen you before, Craggs. Saw you fight
your second battle against Willox. You
had beaten him once, but he came back on
you. What does the indicator say ?—1631b.
—two off for the kit—161. Now, my lad,
you jump. My goodness, what colours are
you wearing ? ”

“ The Anonymi Cricket Club.”

“ What right have you to wear them ? I
belong to the club myself.”

“ So do I.”

“You an amateur ? ”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are fighting for a money prize?”

“ Yes.”

“ I suppose you know what you are doing?
You realize that you’re a professional pug
from this onwards, and that if ever you fight
again-”

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

487

“ I’ll never fight again.”

“ Happen you won’t,” said the woman,
and the Master turned a terrible eye upon
her.

“Well, I suppose you know your own
business best. Up you jump. One hundred
and fifty-one. minus two—one hundred and
forty - nine, twelve pounds difference, but
youth and condition on the other scale.
Well, the sooner we get to work the better,
for I wish to catch the seven o’clock express
at Hellifield. Twenty three-minute rounds,
with one minute intervals, and Queensberry
rules. Those are the conditions, are they
not ? ”

“ Yes, sir.”

“Very good, then, we may go across.”

The two combatants had overcoats thrown
over their shoulders, and the whole* party,
backers, fighters, seconds, and the referee,
filed out of the room. A police inspector
was waiting for them in the road. He had
a note-book in his hand—that terrible
weapon which awes even the London cab¬
man.

cerned. Silas Craggs, Robert Montgomery,
Edward Barton, James Stapleton, of London.
Who seconds Silas Craggs ? ”

“ I do,” said the woman. “ Yes, you can
stare, but it’s my job, and no one else’s.
Anastasia’s the name—four a’s.”

“ Craggs ? ”

“Johnson. Anastasia Johnson. If you
jug him, you can jug me.”

“ Who talked of juggin’, ye fool? ” growled
the Master. “Coom on, Mr. Armitage, for
I’m fair sick o’ this loiterin’.”

The inspector fell in with the procession,
and proceeded as they walked up the hill to
bargain in his official capacity for a front seat,
where he could safeguard the interests of the
law, and in his private capacity to lay out
thirty shillings at seven to one with Mr.
Armitage. Through the door they passed,
down a narrow lane walled with a dense bank
of humanity, up a wooden ladder to a platform,
over a rope which was slung waist-high from
four corner stakes, and then Montgomery
realized that he was in that ring in which his

“ I must take your
names, gentlemen, in
case it should be
necessary to proceed
for breach of peace.”

“ You don’t mean
to stop the fight ? ”
cried Armitage, in a
passion of indignation.
“ I’m Mr. Armitage,
of Croxley, and this
is Mr. Wilson, and
we’ll be responsible
that all is fair and as
it should be.”

“ I’ll take the names
in case it should be
necessary to proceed,”
said the inspector,
impassively.

“ But you know me
well.”

“If you was a dook
or even a judge it
would be all the
same,” said the in¬
spector. “ It’s the
law, and there’s an
'end. I’ll not take
upon myself to stop
the fight, seeing that
gloves are to be used,
but I’ll take the
names of all con¬

488

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

immediate destiny was to be worked out.
On the stake at one corner there hung a
blue and white streamer. Barton led him
across, the overcoat dangling loosely from his
shoulders, and he sat down on a wooden
stool. Barton and another man, both wearing
white sweaters, stood beside him. The so-
called ring was a square, 20ft. each way. At
the opposite angle was the sinister figure of
the Master, with his red-headed woman and
a rough-faced friend to look after him. At
each corner were metal basins, pitchers of
water, and sponges.

In the hubbub and uproar of the entrance
Montgomery was too bewildered to take
things in. But now there was a few minutes’
delay, for the referee had lingered behind,
and so he looked quietly about him. It was
a sight to haunt him for a lifetime. Wooden
seats had been built in, sloping upwards to
the tops of the walls. Above, instead of a
ceiling, a great flight of crows passed slowly
across a square of grey cloud. Right up to
the topmost benches the folk were banked—
broad cloth in front, corduroys and fustian
behind; faces turned everywhere upon him.
The grey reek of the pipes filled the
building, and the air was pungent with the
acrid smell of cheap, strong tobacco. Every¬
where among the human faces were to be
seen the heads of the dogs. They growled
and yapped from the back benches. In that
dense mass of humanity one could hardly
pick out individuals, but Montgomery’s eyes
caught the brazen gleam of the helmets held
upon the knees of the ten yeomen of his
escort. At the very edge of the platform
sat the reporters, five of them: three
locals and two all the way from London.
But where was the all-important referee?
There was no sign of him, unless he were in
the centre of that angry swirl of men near
the door.

Mr. Stapleton had stopped to examine the
gloves which were to be used, and entered
the building after the combatants. He had
started to come down that narrow lane with
the human walls which led to the ring.
But already it had gone abroad that the
Wilson champion was a gentleman, and that
another gentleman had been appointed as
referee. A wave of suspicion passed through
the Croxley folk. They would have one of
their own people for a referee. They
would not have a stranger. His path
was stopped as he made for the ring.
Excited men flung themselves in front of
him. They waved their fists in his face and
cursed him. A woman howled vile names in

his ear. Somebody struck at him with an
umbrella. “Go thou back to Lunnon. We
want noan o’ thee. Go thou back ! ” they
yelled.

Stapleton, with his shiny hat cocked back¬
wards, and his large, bulging forehead swell¬
ing from under it, looked round him from
under his bushy brows. He was in the
centre of a savage and dangerous mob.
Then he drew his watch from his pocket and
held it dial upwards in his palm.

“In three minutes,” said he, “I will declare
the fight off.”

They raged round him. His cool face
and that aggressive top-hat irritated them.
Grimy hands were raised. But it was difficult
somehow to strike a man who was so
absolutely indifferent.

“ In two minutes I declare the fight off.”

They exploded into blasphemy. The
breath of angry men smoked into his placid
face. A gnarled, grimy fist vibrated at the
end of his nose. “We tell thee we want
noan o’ thee. Get thou back where thou
com’st from.”

“ In one minute I declare the fight off.”

Then the calm persistence of the man
conquered the swaying, mutable, passionate
crowd.

“ Let him through, mon. Happen there’ll
be no fight after a’.”

“ Let him through.”

“ Bill, thou loomp, let him pass. Dos’t
want the fight declared off?”

“ Make room for the referee!—room for
the Lunnon referee.”

And half pushed, half carried, he was swept
up to the ring. There were two chairs by
the side of it, one for him and one for the
timekeeper. He sat down, his hands on
his knees, his hat at a more wonderful angle
than ever, impassive but solemn, with the
aspect of one who appreciates his responsi¬
bilities.

Mr. Armitage, the portly butcher, made
his way into the ring and held up two fat
hands, sparkling with rings, as a signal for
silence.

“ Gentlemen ! ” he yelled. And then in a
crescendo shriek, “ Gentlemen ! ”

“ And ladies,” cried somebody, for indeed
there was a fair sprinkling of women among
the crowd. “ Speak up, owd man ! ” shouted
another. “ What price pork chops ? ” cried
somebody at the back. Everybody laughed
and the dogs began to bark. Armitage
waved his hands amidst the uproar as if he
were conducting an orchestra. At last the
babel thinned into silence.

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

489

“Gentlemen,” he yelled, “the match is
between Silas Craggs, whom we call the
Master of Croxley, and Robert Montgomery,
of the Wilson Coal-pits. The match was to
be under eleven-eight. When they were

length it will, of course, be decided upon
points. Mr. Stapleton, the well - known
London referee, has kindly consented to see
fair play. I wish to say that Mister Wilson
and I, the chief backers of the two men,

“‘gentlemen!’ he yelled.”

weighed just now Craggs weighed eleven
seven, and Montgomery ten nine. The
conditions of the contest are the best of
twenty three-minute rounds with two-ounce
gloves. Should the fight run to its full

have every confidence in Mr. Stapleton, and
that we beg that you will accept his rulings
without dispute.”

He then turned from one combatant to
the other, with a wave of his hand.

(To be continued.)

Vol. xviii.—62

In Search of a Derelict.

By A. P. Buller.

From a Photo, by] the “ Perthshire.” [Denaus, Dunedin, N.Z.

F all the events of recent years
connected with the sea, per¬
haps the break-down and disap¬
pearance in mid-ocean of the
steamer Perthshire, and her
ultimate rescue after drifting
helplessly for forty-five days, covering a
distance of over 1,400 miles, affords one of
the most interesting and remarkable.

This splendid steel screw steamer was
built at Newcastle-on-Tyne in 1893, at a cost
of some Jf8 0,000, for the Shire Line, and is
one of a fine fleet trading between London,
Australia, and New Zealand. She possesses
a gross tonnage of 8,000 tons, being built
almost entirely for cargo purposes, her usual
shipments from the Colonies consisting of
frozen mutton.

On the 26th day of April of the present
year she left Sydney for the Bluff (her first
calling point in New Zealand) with a large
and valuable cargo, to be completed at the
principal ports prior to her departure for
London. She carried a few passengers and
a crew of about sixty, making in all some
seventy souls on board.

The trip ordinarily takes from four to six
days at the outside, and her non-appearance
at the Bluff, as week followed week, naturally
gave rise to much anxiety and surmise.
Vessels plying between Australia and New
Zealand kept a sharp look-out, and some

“ zig-zagged ” in their course in the hope of
finding the missing ship. No tidings came
to hand till the 26th May, when a scow of
150 tons, called the Whcingciroa , arrived in
Sydney, from New Zealand, and reported that
on the night of the 12th of May she had
seen on the horizon signals of distress, in the
shape of blue lights and a continuous fire of
rockets. Altering her course she sailed down,
and eventually discerned the loom of a huge
steamer, which proved to be the Perthshire.
The.scow signalled that she would stand by
till daylight, and the answer came back,
“Thanks.” As soon as it became light,
communications were established between
the two ships, and the captain of the scow
then learnt that the propeller shaft of the
Perthshire had broken clean off in the tail-
tube, and that in consequence she was
absolutely helpless, her spread of canvas being
too limited to give her even steering-way.

The little schooner could, of course, render
no assistance, and continued her voyage to
Sydney. The Perthshire had up to that time
been drifting for fourteen days without sight¬
ing a sail. Another fortnight elapsed ere she
was seen again, when, on May the 25th, a
barque, The Northern Chief, sighted her in
lat. 33 S., long. 164 E., still drifting to the
northward, and to the region of reefs and islets,
and now quite out of the track of steamers.
Then for a further period of eighteen days

IN SEARCH OF A DERELICT.

49 1

she passed out of human ken, and vanished as
completely as if the ocean had engulfed her.

By this time, as can be well imagined, the
public anxiety was becoming intense; the
question, “ What has become of the Perth¬
shire ? ” was asked in every quarter, and the
mystery of her disappearance became a
universal topic throughout Australasia. Tug¬
boats and private steamers were out in all
directions looking for the derelict, both in
the interests of humanity and the prospects
of heavy salvage, and at last the apprehension
became so great that two of Her Majesty’s
ships on the Australian Station were prepared
to join in the search. The steamers of the
Union Steamship Company’s line, running
weekly between Australia and New Zealand,
had all deviated in their courses, expecting
to find her, but without success, one after
the other arriving only to report “ no tidings
of the Perthshire .”

Then one of the company’s boats, the ss.
Talune , of 2,000 tons (on board of which
the writer was a passenger), left Wellington
on the 9th June, presumably for Sydney
direct. On the following morning, however,
the passengers were informed that she was
going to make a lengthy search, and had
taken in an extra supply of coal, rockets,
and towing hawsers; we also noted that she
was going far off her track, towards the north,
instead of shaping on the usual westerly
course.

On the second day out
“ a crow’s nest,” in the
shape of a coal-basket,
was swung up to the fore¬
topmast head, and from
this elevated perch two-
hourly watches were kept
—a lonely vigil for the
look-out man; but the
hope was ever present that
while sweeping the track¬
less waste of waters with
his telescope he would at
last descry the derelict.

Till now we had sighted
neither sail nor steam,
and, but for a rear-guard
of never-tiring albatrosses,
we had the ocean to our¬
selves. In fact, the end¬
less expanse of moving
water rather reminded one
of the first lessons in geo¬
graphy, when we were told
that “ the ocean occupies
a very large part of the

globe on which we live ! ” An electric
beacon light, in the form of a double shield,
was rigged up at the mast-head, fitted with
twelve electric burners, giving a power equal
to 300 candles. This shield arrangement
enabled an arc of light to show from either
side of the vessel a distance of twenty-two
miles; that is to say, a tract of forty-four
miles was covered by our beacon.

On the evening of the third day the
probability of being in the neighbourhood of
the Perthshire increased, and the rockets
were brought out for use. The first two, in
their anxiety to speed into the heavens on
their errand of help, burst prematurely when
some thirty feet up, but the third left the
deck with a screech and roared its way into
space, leaving behind its fiery train of sparks.
Its far-off explosion could just be heard
above the noise of wind and wave, followed
by the beautiful meteoric shower of bursting
stars high above us.

Throughout this and the following night
rockets were thrown up hourly, but met with
no response. Monday passed uneventfully,
and we were beginning to fear that our
ocean tramp would prove fruitless. At
noon on that day our course was still lying
to the N.W. (or, to be absolutely accurate,
N.W. yl N.), our latitude 30.20 S., longitude
167.19 E., and, roughly speaking, some 600
miles out of our course. Our commander

49 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

(Captain Spinks) had spent many anxious
hours poring over the chart, studying the
trend of the ocean currents, and plotting the
courses of the other searchers in order to
get at the proper position of the Perthshire .
He ultimately decided to run up within fifty
miles south of Norfolk Island and then take
a zig-zag or triangular course from there to
Lord Howe’s Island, his opinion being that
the missing vessel would be found some¬
where towards the
apex of the tri¬
angle, and subse¬
quent events
proved how cor¬
rect he was in his
surmise.

Towards three
o’clock on Tues¬
day morning (13th
June) passengers
awoke on missing
the now familiar
“ drum of the rac¬
ing screw,” and to
hear the sea
thrashing against
their port - holes
as our steamer
rolled from side
to side in the
swell. Lightly
clad, one hurried
on deck to hear
the cheering news
that we ha d
“ found the Perth-
shire ! ”

Away on our
starboard hand
we could see her
head-light blink¬
ing, and as the
first shaft of day
broke in the east,
there lay our
derelict silhouetted dark and large against
the horizon. The second officer had sighted
her shortly before three, a blue light burnt
on the Perthshire having attracted his atten¬
tion. We then drew close and stood by until
daylight enabled us to communicate with her.
At the time of finding her she was slowly
heading on the same course that we were on,
viz., W. by N. N., the latitude being
29*3 S., longitude 163*38 E. By referring
to the accompanying chart one will get
a fair idea of her position, some 750 miles
off her course. It was a most fortunate

circumstance that we sighted her when we
did, for Captain Spinks had decided to alter
his course within the next hour to the S.W.,
in which case we would certainly have missed
her. About 7 a.m. her captain boarded us,
meeting with a hearty cheer as he reached
our deck. His expressions of relief and
delight at such welcome succour can be left
to one’s imagination. He informed our
captain that the day before he had almost

given up hope, and had remarked, “ Shall we
ever be found ? ” He told us that on the day
of the break-down (28th April) a terrific
crash was heard on board the Perthshire , just
as if she had been struck by a tremendous
wave, followed by great shaking of the engines.
The mischief was very soon discovered, and
it was found that the propeller was hard up
against the rudder-post. As the task of
repairing the break seemed insurmountable,
and it was impossible in any way to navigate
the ship, he decided not to attempt it, trusting
to be soon picked up by some passing steamer.

SKETCH CHART—SHOWING THE TRACK OF STEAMERS FROM SYDNEY TO NEW ZEALAND. THE
POSITION OF THE “PERTHSHIRE” WHEN SHE BROKE DOWN — HER LINE OF DRIFT AS SHOWN ON
HER CHART—THE COURSE THAT THE “TALUNE” TOOK TO LOOK FOR HER—WHERE SHE WAS
DISCOVERED—AND THE LINE OF TOW TO SYDNEY.

IN SEARCH OF A DERELICT.

493

Week followed week, however, without
assistance coming; by this time they were far
off the track of vessels, drifting towards the
South Sea Islands, and the hope that always
springs eternal in the human breast at last
began to fade. At one time his ship was in
great peril of being blown towards the
dreaded Elizabeth reef (lying to the north of
Lord Howe’s Island), a strong gale taking
him in that direction, hut fortunately the
wind shifted to another quarter, and for a
time the danger was averted. Gale followed
gale, and he was quite unable to fight against
the currents, drifting in one day alone no
less than seventy-five miles.

How completely
helpless the ship
was can be gathered
from the fact that,
while drifting, she
described three
complete circles.

Every effort was
now made to get the
fractured shaft in
something like
working order, and
it proved a matter
of the most extreme
difficulty and
danger. Owing to
the fact that the
shaft had broken
off in the after¬
tube, those working
at it had very little
space to move in,
and were continu¬
ally exposed to the
danger of the water
suddenly rushing in
and drowning them
all before they could
leave the compartment. At last, after fourteen
days’ incessant work, the broken shaft was
reached (after cutting through the three-inch
stern-tube) and patched up by means of
immense couplings, sufficient to enable
the ship to steam very slowly in calm
weather, although quite unable to face a
head wind or sea. On hearing these par¬
ticulars one could not fail to admire the
silent heroism and indomitable perseverance
of the Perthshire's engineers, working so
steadfastly at what appeared at first to be an
almost hopeless task.

After mutual congratulations had been
exchanged between the two commanders
and arrangements had been discussed, we

ran up the signal to “ Prepare for towing,”
and the captain of the Perthshire then left
us. Forthwith preparations were made on
our ship. Mighty hawsers were brought
along our deck, and the sailors went about
the business as if they had graduated from
steam tugs, and that towing an ocean liner
a matter of 700 miles was quite an
every-day occurrence with them. A light
Manila hemp rope was brought over from
the Perthshire by boat, to which was attached
a 14m. hawser, and, the supply being in¬
sufficient, a wire hawser attached to that,
and then made fast on the Perthshire. Our
end of it was brought through the after-chocks
on the starboard
side, a turn taken
round the stern
bitts, then brought
along the upper
deck, passed
through the hawse-
pipes amid - ships,
and finally made
fast to the bitts on
the main deck for-
ward. A 1 o i n.
hawser was then
bent on to the
other, and veered
out some fifty
fathoms astern, the
other end being
carried along the
port side and made
fast in the same
manner as that on
the starboard side.
By this ingenious
method the strain
was equally divided
throughout the
whole ship.

At 8.30 a.m. all was ready, and a string of
bunting fluttered gaily up on the Perthshire ,
conveying the message, “ Tow slowly, and
good luck to you.” The two ships swung
gradually into line, and at 8.40 the telegraph
rang out its instructions to the engine-room.
Simultaneously the responsive screw throbbed
out its answer, and cheer after cheer went
up from both ships as they pointed their
bows to the south-west and forged slowly
ahead. It was a spectacle to be long
remembered by those fortunate enough to
witness it, and for the remainder of the day
everyone was intent on watching the great
liner straining at her cable, and plunging her
mighty bows into the deep, 100 fathoms astern.

THE “PERTHSHIRE” PREPARING FOR TOWING.
From a Photo, by Sir Walter Buller.

494

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

SHOWING THE V-SHAPED ARRANGEMENT OF THE ROP1
From a Photo, by Sir Walter Puller.

Up to this stage the weather had been
singularly fine, but our lucky star seemed to
wane as soon as we started on our long tow.
The wind now freshened on our beam, and
finally went dead ahead, bringing with it a
very lumpy sea, and towards evening it
became evident that the cable would not
stand the strain much longer. The steam
winches then came into play, and from the
chain - locker forward fathoms of anchor
cable were brought along the deck and
added to the hawser, giving an additional

length sufficient to considerably ease
tension. This necessitated a stoppage
about an hour. By noon the following
day we had covered 120 knots with our
captive, travelling at the rate of about
five or six knots an hour. By this time,
however, wind and sea had considerably
increased, and our speed diminished to
two or three knots. Thursday morning
brought no improvement in the weather,
and as the ship’s bell struck 8.30, a
mighty sea lifted us like a cork, striking
the Perthshire a minute later. The 14m.
hawser snapped in the middle like a
fiddle-string, and our charge, after a tow
of 194 miles, became a derelict once more.

The space between the ships widened
rapidly, and half a mile lay between us
in a few minutes. Signals were run up
on board the Perthshire notifying that
she had “ lost command,” and that they
would tighten up the couplings before
re-towing. To husband our coal we shut
off steam, and at three o’clock the Perth¬
shire signalled that she was ready. She
was now some distance off, drifting at

the

for

the rate of about two miles an hour,
or as the bo’sun remarked, “going to
leeward like a crab ! ” Those seven
hours of waiting helped us more easily
to realize the dreariness of drifting,
even though we possessed the power
of steaming at any moment. By
this time a tremendous sea was run¬
ning and half a gale from the south¬
west was blowing, with occasional
squalls sweeping down, accompanied
by stinging sheets of rain. A line
had to be got to the Perthshire by
some means or other, and as an open
boat could not have lived in such a
sea, it was decided to steam up to
her and endeavour to effect the con¬
nection by means of a ship’s rocket.
To do so necessitated a very close
approach, for we found that the
rockets weighted with a neces¬
sarily heavy line would only fly a short
distance. Then came an incident in seaman¬
ship to which it would be hard to find a
parallel in the records of the South Pacific.
Running close up to the Perthshire we
loosed our first missive : it ran a true course,
but struck her fore-yard, and the line fell
back. For the next twenty minutes a
running fire of rockets took place between
the ships, one after the other falling short
and bursting underwater, giving one the idea
of mimic naval warfare. At length a rocket
from the Perthshire became entangled in one
of our rocket lines, which was secured, and

THE “PERTHSHIRE” IN TOW.
From a Photo, by Sir Walter Puller.

JJV SEARCH OF A DERELICT.

495

THE “PERTHSHIRE" JUST AFTER THE BREAKING OK THE HAWSER.
From a Photo, by Sir Walter Puller.

the fusillade ceased. These efforts
to get our line on board, and
eventually to receive the Perth¬
shire's wire hawser in return,
necessitated constant manoeuvr¬
ing on the part of our steamer,
at one time a space of only some
40ft. dividing the two vessels.

On reflection for a moment it is
easy to realize how fraught with
danger such a rescue was. A
helpless leviathan, drifting, roll¬
ing, and plunging in an angry
sea, a thrust from whose towering
iron bows would have sent us to
the bottom, was a dangerous
customer to tackle. However,
it had to be done, and our captain
did it, though it was patent to
all that only a man of iron
nerve, and one that knew his
ship and knew his men, would have essayed
the task.

By four o’clock we had the Perthshire's
wire hawser on board. Our cable was now
unshackled from the anchor and brought aft
along the upper deck, sufficient cable being
laid down to allow of its being paid out when
the two cables were bent. It was then made
fast to the forward bitts on the main deck.
A heavy tackle, comprising two i6in. treble
blocks with a 4m. Manila fall, was then
rove, lashed to the towing cable, and
taken up to the bitts and capstan on the
fo’c’s’le head, this arrangement acting as a
“ spring ” to relieve the weight from the
bitts on the main deck. The after end
was then bent on to the Perthshire's wire
hawser, and again we had her in tow and
were heading once more on the home trail.
Against the heavy sea and head wind we
now made very slow progress, tugging sullenly
at our burden, and only registering seventy-
four miles by noon on the following day.
By midday on Saturday the gale was pretty
well spent, and we had added another 130
knots. Shortly afterwards the wind veered
round, and enabled the Perthshire to shake
out her canvas, and thus take some of
the strain off our engines. We now made
splendid progress, and by twelve o’clock on
the following day had reduced the distance
by 194 miles, but the fates were determined
to have a parting kick at us, for ten minutes
later the Perthshire signalled that the

couplings on the shaft had broken, and we
were again brought to a standstill. While
waiting, a pilot boat sighted us afar off,
steamed alongside, and then sped off to
Newcastle (some thirty miles distant) with
the news. A few hours later and the telegraph
would be clicking its message far and wide
that the Perthstiire had been saved! A
delay of seven hours, while the couplings
were being tightened, and we were off again,
this time without further mishap.

Sydney Heads were reached early next
morning (June 19th), and a flotilla of steam-
tugs, launches, and all sorts and conditions
of craft came out to give us joyous greeting.
Our triumphant entry down the harbour was
a touching and impressive sight: steamers
and ferry-boats blew their whistles incessantly
as they passed, and cheers went up from
every side. We took the Perthshire back to
her own moorings in Athol Bight, and there
left here. Her anchor rattled out in the
placid waters of Port Jackson, to the accom¬
paniment of a parting cheer, and the long
tow of 710 miles was over !

Thus the drama of the “missing Perth¬
shire ,” to which only a Clark Russell could
do justice, closes. Her helpless drift of over
1,400 miles, the plaything of wind and wave
for forty-five days, and her varied experiences
from the time of the breakdown to her
ultimate finding and rescue, furnish the
Pacific with a romance hard to equal in the
annals of the sea.

Hilda JVade.

By Grant Allen.

IX.—THE EPISODE OF THE LADY WHO WAS VERY EXCLUSIVE.

HE Matabele revolt gave Hilda
a prejudice against Rhodesia.
I will confess that I shared it.
I may be hard to please : but
it somehow sets one against a
country when one comes home
from a ride to find all the other occupants of
the house one lives in massacred. So Hilda
decided to leave South Africa. By an odd
coincidence, I also decided on the same day
to change my residence. Hilda’s movements
and mine, indeed, coincided curiously. The
moment I learned she was going anywhere I
discovered in a flash that 1 happened to be
going there too. I commend this strange
case of parallel thought . and action to the
consideration of the Society for Psychical
Research.

So I sold my farm and had done with
Rhodesia. A country with a future is very
well in its way: but I am quite Ibsenish in
my preference for a country with a past.
Oddly enough, I had no difficulty in getting
rid of my white elephant of a farm. People
seemed to believe in Rhodesia none the less
firmly because of this slight disturbance.
They treated massacres as necessary incidents
in the early history of a colony with a future.
And I do not deny that native risings add
picturesqueness. But I prefer to take them
in a literary form.

“You will go home, of course?” I said to
Hilda, when we came to talk it all over.

She shook her head. “ To England ? Oh,
no. I must pursue my Plan. Sebastian will
have gone home : he expects me to follow.”

“ And why don’t you ? ”

“ Because — he expects it. You see, he is
a good judge of character; he will naturally
infer from what he knows of my tempera¬
ment that after this experience I shall want
to get back to England and safety. So I
should — if it were not that I know he will
expect it. As it is, I must go elsewhere : I
must draw him after me.”

“Where?”

“ Why do you ask, Hubert ? ”

“ Because — I want to know where I am
going myself. Wherever you go, I have
reason to believe, I shall find that I happen
to be going also.”

She rested her little chin on her hand and
reflected a minute. “ Does it occur to you,”
she asked at last, “that people have tongues?
If you go on following me like this, they will
really begin to talk about us.”

“ Now, upon my word, Hilda,” I cried,
“ that is the very first time I have ever known
you show a woman’s want of logic ! I do
not propose to follow you : I propose to
happen to be travelling by the same steamer.
I ask you to marry me: you won’t: you
admit you are fond of me : yet you tell me
not to come with you. It is / who suggest a
course which would prevent people from
chattering — by the simple device of a
wedding. It is you who refuse. And then
you turn upon me like this 1 Admit that you
are unreasonable.”

“ My dear Hubert, have I ever denied
that I was a woman ? ”

“Besides,” 1 went on, ignoring her delicious
smile, “ I don’t intend to folloiv you. I
expect, on the contrary, to find myself beside
you. When I know where you are going, I
shall accidentally turn up on the same
steamer. Accidents will happen. Nobody
can prevent coincidences from occurring.
You may marry me or you may not; but if
you don’t marry me, you can’t expect to
curtail my liberty of action, can you ? You
had better know the worst at once: if
you won’t take me, you must count upon
finding me at your elbow all the world over—
till the moment comes when you choose to
accept me.”

“ Dear Hubert, I am ruining your
life ! ”

“ An excellent reason, then, for taking my
advice and marrying me instantly ! But you
wander from the question. Where are you
going ? That is the issue now before the
house. You persist in evading it.”

She smiled and came back to earth. “ Oh,
if you must know, to India, by the east coast,
changing steamers at Aden.”

“ Extraordinary ! ” I cried. “ Do you
know, Hilda, as luck will have it, /also shall
be on my way to Bombay by the very same
steamer ! ”

“ But you don’t know what steamer
it is?”

HILDA WADE.

497

“No matter. That only makes the co¬
incidence all the odder. Whatever the name
of the ship may be, when you get on board
I have a presentiment that you will be
surprised to find me there.”

She looked up at me with
a gathering film in her eyes.

“ Hubert, you are irrepress¬
ible!”

“ I HAVE A PRESENTIMENT THAT YOU WILL BE SURPRISED
FIND ME THERE.”

“ I am, my dear child : so you may as well
spare yourself the needless trouble of trying
to repress me.”

If you rub a piece, of iron on a loadstone
it becomes magnetic. So, I think, I must
have begun to acquire some part of Hilda’s
own prophetic strain ; for sure enough, a'few
weeks later, we both of us found ourselves
on the German East African steamer Kaiser
Wilhelm , on our way to Aden—exactly as
I had predicted. Which goes to prove that
there is really something after all in pre¬
sentiments !

“ Since you persist in accompanying me,”
Hilda said to me as we sat in our chairs on
deck the first evening out, “ I see what I
must do. I must invent some plausible and
ostensible reason for our travelling together.”

“ We are not travelling together,” I
answered. “We are travelling by the same
steamer; that is all — exactly like the rest
of our fellow-passengers. I decline to be
dragged into this imaginary partnership.”

“ Now do be serious, Hubert ! I am
going to invent an object in life for us.”

Vol. xviii.— 63-

“ What object ? ”

“ How can I tell yet ? I must wait and
see what turns up. When we tranship at
Aden, and find out what people are going on
to Bombay with us, I shall prob¬
ably discover some nice married
lady to whom I can attach myself.”

“ And am I to attach myself to
her, too ? ”

“ My dear boy, I never asked
you to come. You came unbid¬
den. You must manage for your¬
self as best you may. But I leave
much to the chapter of accidents.
We never know what will turn
up, till it turns up in the end.
Everything comes at last, you
know, to him that waits.”

“ And yet,” I put in, with a
meditative air, “ I have never
observed that waiters are so much
better off than the rest of the com¬
munity. They seem to me-”

“ Don’t talk nonsense. It is
you who are wandering from the
question now. Please return
to it.”

I returned at once. “So I am
to depend on what turns up ? ”

“ Yes. Leave that to me.
When we see our fellow-
passengers on the Bombay
steamer, I shall soon discover
some ostensible reason why we
two should be travelling through India
with one of them.”

“ Well, you are a witch, Hilda,” I answered :
“ I found that out long ago : but if you
succeed between here and Bombay in in¬
venting a Mission, I shall begin to believe
you are even more of a witch than I ever
thought you.”

At Aden we changed into a P. and O.
steamer. Our first evening out on our
second cruise was a beautiful one : the bland
Indian Ocean wore its sweetest smile for us.
We sat on deck after dinner. A lady
with a husband came up from the cabin
while we sat and gazed at the placid sea.
I was smoking a quiet digestive cigar:
Hilda was seated in her deck chair next
to me.

The lady with the husband looked about
her for a vacant space on which'to place the
chair a steward was carrying for her. There
was plenty of room on the quarter-deck : I
could not imagine why she gazed about her
with such obtrusive caution. She inspected
the occupants of the various chairs around

49 8

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

with deliberate scrutiny through a long-
handled tortoise-shell optical abomination.
None of them seemed to satisfy her. After
a minute’s mental effort, during which she
also muttered a few words very low to her
husband, she selected an empty spot midway
between our group and the most distant
group on either side of us. In other words,
she sat as far away from everybody present
as the necessarily restricted area of the
quarter-deck permitted.

Hilda glanced at me and smiled. I
snatched a quick look at the lady again. She
was dressed with an amount of care and a
smartness of detail that seemed somewhat
uncalled for on the Indian Ocean. A cruise
on a P. and O. steamer is not a garden party.
Her chair was most luxurious and had her
name painted on it, back and front, in very
large letters, with undue obtrusiveness. I
read it from where I sat, “ Lady Meadow-
croft.”

The owner of the chair was tolerably young,
not bad looking, and most expensively attired.
Her face had a certain vacant, languid, half
ennuy'e air which I have learned to associate
with women of the nouveau-riche type—
women with small brains and restless minds,
habitually plunged in a vortex of gaiety,
and miserable when left for a passing
moment to their own
resources.

Hilda rose from her
chair and walked
quietly forward towards
the bow of the steamer.

I rose, too, and accom¬
panied her. “Well?”
she said, with a faint
touch of triumph in her
voice when we had got
out of earshot.

“ Well, what ?”. I
answered, unsuspecting.

“ I told you every¬
thing turned up at the
end l ” she said, con¬
fidently. “ Look at
that lady’s nose ! ”

“ It does turn up at
the end—certainly,” I
answered, glancing
back at her. “ But I
hardly see-”

“ Hubert, you are
growing dull! You were
not so at Nathaniel’s....

It is the lady herself
who has turned up, not

her nose—though I grant you that turns
up too—the lady I require for our tour in
India : the not impossible chaperon.”

“ Her nose tells you that ? ”

“Her nose, in part: but her face as a
whole, too, her dress, her chair, her mental
attitude to things in general.”

“ My dear Hilda, you can’t mean to tell
me you have divined her whole nature at a
glance, by magic ! ”

“ Not wholly at a glance. I saw her come
on board, you know—she transhipped from
some other line at Aden as we did : and I
have been watching her ever since. Yes,

I think I have unravelled her.”

“You have been astonishingly quick!” I
cried.

“Perhaps—but then, you see, there is so
little to unravel ! Some books, we all know,
you must ‘ chew and digest ’; they can only
be read slowly : but some you can glance at,
skim, and skip ; the mere turning of the
pages tells you what little worth knowing
there is in them.”

“ She doesn’t look profound,” I admitted,
casting an eye at her meaningless small
features as we paced up and down. “ I
incline to agree you might easily skim her.”

“ Skim her—and learn all. The table of
contents is so short.You see, in the

‘ SHIS doesn't LOOK PROFOUND,’ I ADMITTED.’

HILDA WADE.

499

first place, she is extremely ‘ exclusive ’: she
prides herself on that—bases herself on her
* exclusiveness’: it, and her shoddy title, are
probably all she has to pride herself upon :
and she works them both hard. She is a
sham great lady.”

As Hilda spoke, Lady Meadowcroft raised
a feebly querulous' voice. “ Steward ! this
won’t do! I can smell the engine here.
Move my chair. I must go on further.”

“If you go on further that way, my lady,”
the steward answered, good-humouredly, but
with a man-servant’s deference for any sort of
title, “ you’ll smell the galley, where they’re
cooking the dinner. I don’t know which your
ladyship would like best—the engine or the
galley.”

The languid figure leaned back in the
chair with an air of resignation. “ I’m
sure I don’t know why they cook the
dinners up so high,” she murmured,
pettishly, to her husband. “ Why can’t
they stick the
kitchens under¬
ground—in the
hold, I mean

— instead of
bothering us up
here on deck
with them ? ”

The husband
was a big, burly,
rough-and-ready
Yorkshireman

— stout, some¬
what pompous,
about forty, with
hair wearing
bald on the fore¬
head : the per¬
sonification of
the successful
business man.

“ My dear
Emmie,” he
said, in a loud
voice, with a
North Country
accent, “ the cooks have got to live. They’ve
got to live like the rest of us. I can never
persuade you that the hands must always be
humoured. If you don’t humour ’em, they
won’t work for you. It’s a poor tale when
the hands won’t work. Even with galleys
on deck, the life of a sea-cook is not
generally thowt an enviable position. Is not
a happy one—not a happy one, as the fellah
says in the opera. You must humour your
cooks. If you stuck ’em in the hold you’d

get no dinner at all—that’s the long and
the short of it.”

The languid lady turned away with a
sickly, disappointed air. “ Then they ought
to have a conscription or something,” she
said, pouting her lips. “The Government
ought to take it in hand and manage it some¬
how. It’s bad enough having to go by these
beastly steamers to India at all, without

having one’s breath poisoned by-” the

rest of the sentence died away inaudibly in a
general murmur of ineffective grumbling.

“ Why do you think she is exclusive ? ” I
asked Hilda, as we strolled on towards the
stern, out of the spoilt child’s hearing.

“ Why, didn’t you notice ?—she looked
about her when she came on deck to see
whether there was anybody who ivas any-

body sitting
there, whom she
might put her
chair near. But
the Governor of
Madras hadn’t
come up from his
cabin yet; and
the wife of the
Chief Commis¬
sioner of Oude
had three civil¬
ians hanging
about her seat;
and the daugh¬
ters of the Com¬
mander-in-Chief
drew their skirts
away as she
passed : so she
did the next best
thing—sat as far
apart as she
could from the
common herd,
meaning all
the rest of us.
If you can’t
mingle at
with the

People, you can at least assert
exclusiveness negatively, by
associate with the mere multitude.”

“ Now, Hilda, that is the first time I have
ever known you show any feminine ill-nature! ”

“ Ill-nature! Not at all. I am merely
trying to arrive at the lady’s character for my
own guidance. I rather like her, poor little
thing. Don’t I tell you she will do ? So
far from objecting to her, I mean to go the
round of India with her.”

THE DAUGHTERS OK THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF DREW THEIR SKIRTS
AWAY AS SHE PASSED.”

once
Best
your
declining to

Soo

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ You have decided quickly.”

“ Well, you see, if you insist upon accom¬
panying me, I must have a chaperon : and
Lady Meadowcroft will do as well as any¬
body else. In fact, being be-ladied, she will
do a little better, from the point of view of
Society, though that is a detail. The great
matter is to fix upon a possible chaperon at
once, and get her well in hand before we
arrive at Bombay.”

“ But she seems so complaining ! ” I in¬
terposed. “ I’m afraid, if you take her on,
you’ll get terribly bored with her.”

“ If she takes me on, you mean. She’s
not a lady’s-maid, though I intend to go with
her : and she may as well give in first as last,
for I’m going. Now, see how nice I am to
you, sir ! I’ve provided you, too, with a post
in her suite, as you will come with me. No,
never mind asking me what it is, just yet:
all things come to him who waits ; and if '
you will only accept the post of waiter, I
mean all things to come to you.”

“ All things, Hilda ? ” I asked, meaningly,
with a little tremor of delight.

She looked at me with a sudden passing
tenderness in her eyes. “Yes, all things,
Hubert. All things. But we mustn’t talk of
that—though I begin to see my way clearer
now. You shall be rewarded for your
constancy at last, dear knight-errant. As to
my chaperon, I’m not afraid of her boring
me : she bores herself, poor lady : one can
see that, just to look at her; but she will be
much less bored if she has us two to travel
with. What she needs is constant companion¬
ship, bright talk, excitement. She has come
away from London, where she swims with the
crowd ; she has no resources of her own, no
work, no head, no interests. Accustomed to
a whirl of foolish gaieties, she wearies her
small brain : thrown back upon herself, she
bores herself at once, because she has nothing
interesting to tell herself. She absolutely
requires somebody else to interest her. She
can’t even amuse herself with a book for three
minutes together: see, she has a yellow-backed
French novel now, and she is only able to
read five lines at a time ; then she gets tired
and glances about her listlessly. What she
wants is someone gay, laid on, to divert her
all the time from her own inanity.”

“ Hilda, how wonderfully quick you are at
reading these things ! I see you are right:
but I could never have guessed so much
myself from such small premises.”

“Well, what can you expect, my dear boy?
A girl like this, brought up in a country
rectory—a girl of no intellect, busy at

home with the fowls, and the pastry, and
the mothers’ meetings—suddenly married
offhand to a wealthy man, and deprived of
the occupations which were her salvation
in life, to be plunged into the whirl of a
London season, and stranded at its end for
want of the diversions which, by dint
of use, have become necessaries of life
to her ! ”

“ Now, Hilda, you are practising upon my
credulity. You can’t possibly tell from her
look that she was brought up in a country
rectory.”

“ Of course not. You forget. There, my
memory comes in. I simply remember it.”

“ You remember it ? How ? ”

“ Why, just in the same way as I remem¬
bered your name and your mother’s when
I was first introduced to you. I saw a
notice once in the births, deaths, and mar¬
riages—‘ At St. Alphege’s, Millington, by the
Rev. Hugh Clitheroe, M.A., father of the
bride, Peter Gubbins, Esq., of The Laurels,
Middleston, to Emilia Frances, third daughter
of the Rev. Hugh Clitheroe, rector of Mil¬
lington.’ ”

“ Clitheroe—Gubbins : what on earth has
that to do with it? That would be Mrs.
Gubbins : this is Lady Meadowcroft.”

“ The same article, as the shopmen say—
only under a different name. A year or two
later, I read a notice in the Times that ‘ I,
Ivor de Courcy Meadowcroft, of the Laurels,
Middleston, Mayor-elect of the Borough of
Middleston, hereby give notice, that I have
this day discontinued the use of the name
Peter Gubbins, by which I was formerly
known, and have assumed in lieu thereof the
style and title of Ivor de Courcy Meadow¬
croft, by which I desire in future to be
known.’

“ A month or two later again I happened
to light upon a notice in the Telegraph that
the Prince of Wales had opened a new
hospital for incurables at Middleston, and
that the mayor, Mr. Ivor Meadowcroft, had
received an intimation of Her Majesty’s in¬
tention of conferring upon him the honour of
knighthood. Now, what do you make of
it?”

“Putting two and two together,” I answered,
with my eye on our subject, “ and taking into
consideration the lady’s face and manner, I
should incline to suspect that she was the
daughter of a poor parson, with the usual
large family in inverse proportion to his
means : that she unexpectedly made a good
match with a very wealthy manufacturer who
had raised himself: and that she was puffed

HILDA

up accordingly with a sense of self-im¬
portance.”

“Exactly. He is a millionaire or some¬
thing very like it : and being an ambitious
girl, as she understands ambition, she got him
to stand for the mayoralty, I don’t doubt, in
the year when the Prince of Wales was going
to open the Royal Incurables, on purpose to
secure him the chance of a knighthood.
Then she said, very reasonably, ‘ I worUt be
Lady Gubbins—Sir Peter Gubbins ! ’ There’s
an aristocratic name for you !—and, by a
stroke of his pen, he straightway dis-
Gubbinised himself, and emerged as Sir Ivor
de Courcy Meadowcroft.”

•*i won’t be lady gubbins."

“ Really, Hilda, you know everything
about everybody ! And what do you suppose
they’re going to India for ? ”

“ Now, you’ve asked me a hard one. I
haven’t the faintest notion. . . . And yet
. . . let me think. . . . How is this for a
conjecture ?—Sir Ivor is interested in steel
rails, I believe, and in railway plant generally.
I’m almost sure I’ve seen his name in con¬
nection with steel rails in reports of public
meetings. There’s a new Government rail¬
way now being built on the Nepaul frontier
—one of these strategic railways I think they
call them—it’s mentioned in the papers we
got at Aden. He might be going out for
that. We can watch his conversation, and
see what part of India he talks about.”

“They don’t seem inclined to give us
much chance of talking,” I objected.

WADE . 501

“No: they are very exclusive. But I’m
very exclusive too. And I mean to give
them a touch of my exclusiveness. I venture
to predict that, before we reach Bombay,
they’ll be going down on their knees and
imploring us to travel with them.”

At table, as it happened, from next morn¬
ing’s breakfast, the Meadowcrofts sat next to
us. Hilda was on one side of me : Lady
Meadowcroft on the other: and beyond her
again, bluff Yorkshire Sir Ivor, with his cold,
hard, honest blue North Country eyes, and
his dignified, pompous English, breaking
down at times into a North Country collo^
quialism. They talked chiefly to one another.

Acting on Hilda’s instructions, I
took care not to engage in con¬
versation with our “ exclusive ”
neighbour, except so far as the
absolute necessities of the table
compelled me. I “ troubled her
for the salt ” in the most frigid
voice: “ May I pass you the
potato-salad ? ” became on my
lips a barrier of separation. Lady
Meadowcroft marked and won¬
dered. People of her sort are so
anxious to ingratiate themselves
with “ all the Best People ” that
if they find you are wholly
unconcerned about the privilege
of conversation with a “ titled
person” they instantly judge you
to be a distinguished character.
As the days rolled on, Lady
Meadowcroft’s voice began to
melt by degrees. Once, she
asked me quite civilly to send
round the ice : she even saluted
me on the third day out with
a polite “ Good morning, doctor.”

Still, I maintained (by Plilda’s advice) my
dignified reserve, and took my seat severely
with a cold “ Good morning.” I behaved like
a high-class consultant, who expects to be
made Physician in Ordinary to Her Majesty.

At lunch that day Hilda played her
first card with delicious unconsciousness—
apparent unconsciousness: for, when she
chose, she was a consummate actress. She
played it at a moment when Lady Meadow¬
croft, who by this time was burning with
curiosity on our account, had paused from
her talk with her husband to listen to us.
I happened to say something about some
Oriental curios belonging to an aunt of mine
in London. Hilda seized the opportunity.
“ What did you say was her name ? ” she
asked, blandly.

5°2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Why, Lady Tepping,” I answered, in
perfect innocence. “ She has a fancy for
these things, you know. She brought a lot
of them home with her from Burma.”

As a matter of fact, as I have already
explained, my poor dear aunt is an extremely
common-place old Army widow, whose hus¬
band happened to get knighted among the
New Year’s honours for some brush with
the natives on the Shan frontier. But Lady
Meadowcroft was at the stage where a title
is a title : and the discovery that I was the
nephew of a “ titled person ” evidently
interested her. I could feel rather than see
that she glanced significantly aside at Sir Ivor,
and that Sir Ivor in return made a little
movement of his shoulders equivalent to “ I
told you so.”

Now, Hilda knew perfectly well that the
aunt of whom I spoke was Lady Tepping ;
so I felt sure that she had played this card
of malice prepense, to pique Lady Meadow¬
croft.

But Lady Meadowcroft herself seized the
occasion with inartistic avidity. She had
hardly addressed us as yet: at the sound of
the magic passport, she pricked up her ears,
and turned to me suddenly. “ Burma ? ”
she said, as if to conceal the true reason for
her change of front. “ Burma ? I had a
cousin there once. He was in the Gloucester¬
shire Regiment.”

“ Indeed ? 51 I answered. My tone was
one of utter unconcern in her cousin’s his¬
tory. “ Miss Wade, will you take Bombay
ducks with your curry ? ” In public, I thought
it wise under the circumstances to abstain
from calling her Hilda. It might lead to
misconceptions : people might suppose we
were more than fellow-travellers.

“ You have had relations in Burma ? ”
Lady Meadowcroft persisted.

I manifested a desire to discontinue the
conversation. “ Yes,” I answered, coldly,
“ my uncle commanded there.”

“ Commanded there ! Really ! Ivor, do
you hear? Dr. Cumberledge’s uncle com¬
manded in Burma.” A faint intonation on
the word commanded drew unobtrusive atten¬
tion to its social importance. “ May I ask
what was his name ?—-my cousin was there,
you see.” An insipid smile. “ We may have
friends in common.”

“ He was a certain Sir Malcolm Tepping,”
I blurted out, staring hard at my plate.

“ Tepping! I think I have heard Dick
speak of him, Ivor.”

“Your cousin,” Sir Ivor answered, with
emphatic dignity, “ is certain to have

mixed with nobbut the highest officials in
Burma.”

“ Yes, I’m sure Dick used to speak of a
certain Sir Malcolm. My cousin’s name,
Dr. Cumberledge,- was Malt by — Captain
Richard Maltby.”

“ Indeed,” I answered, with an icy stare.
“ I cannot pretend to the pleasure of having
met him.”

Be exclusive to the exclusive, and they
burn to know you. From that moment forth
Lady Meadowcroft pestered us with her
endeavours to scrape acquaintance. Instead
of trying how far she could place her chair
from us, she set it down as near us as
politeness permitted. She entered into con¬
versation whenever an opening afforded itself,
and we two stood off haughtily. She even
ventured to question me about our relation
to one another : “ Miss Wade is your cousin,
I suppose ? ” she suggested.

“ Oh, dear, no,” I answered, with a glassy
smile. “ We are not connected in any way.”

“ But, you are travelling together ! ”

“ Merely as you and I are travelling
together—fellow - passengers on the same
steamer.”

“ Still, you have met before.”

“ Yes, certainly. Miss Wade was a nurse at
St. Nathaniel’s in London, where I was one
of the house doctors. When I came on
board at Cape Town, after some months in
South Africa, I found she was going by the
same steamer to India.” Which was literally
true : to have explained the rest would have
been impossible, at least to anyone who did
not know the whole of Hilda’s history.

“ And what are you both going to do when
you get to India ? ”

“ Really, Lady Meadowcroft,” I said
severely, “ I have not asked Miss Wade what
she is going to do. If you inquire of her
point-blank, as you have inquired of me, I
dare say she will tell you. For myself, I
am just a globe- trotter, amusing myself I
only want to have a look round at India.”

“ Then you are not going out to take up
an appointment ? ”

“ By George, Emmie,” the burly Yorkshire-
man put in, with an air of annoyance, “you
are cross-questioning Dr. Cumberledge, nowt
less than cross-questioning him ! ”

I waited a second. “No,” I answered,
slowly. “ I have not been practising of late.
I am looking about me. I travel for enjoy¬
ment.”

That made her think better of me. She
was of the kind, indeed, who think better of
a man if they believe him to be idle.

HILDA WADE,

S°3

She dawdled about all day on deck chairs,
herself, seldom even reading: and she was
eager now to drag Hilda into conversation.
But Hilda resisted : she had found a volume
in the library which immensely interested her.

“What are you reading, Miss Wade?”

Lady Meadowcroft cried at last, quite
savagely : it made her angry to see anybody
else pleased and occupied when she her¬
self was listless.

“ A delightful book ! ” Hilda answered.
“ ‘ The Buddhist Praying Wheel,' by William
Simpson.”

Lady Meadowcroft took it from her and
turned the pages over with a languid air.
“ Looks awfully dull ! ” she observed, with
a faint smile, at last, returning it.

“ It’s charming,” Hilda retorted, glancing
at one of the illustrations. “ It explains so
much. It shows one why one turns round
one’s chair at cards for luck : and why,
when a church is consecrated, the bishop
walks three times about it sunwise.”

“ Our Bishop is a dreadfully prosy old
gentleman,” Lady Meadowcroft answered,
gliding off at a tangent on a personality, as
is the wont of her kind : “ he had, oh, such
a dreadful quarrel with my father over the
rules of the St. Alphege Schools at Milling¬
ton.”

“ Indeed,” Hilda answered, turning once
more to her book. Lady Meadowcroft
looked annoyed. It would never have

occurred to her that within a few weeks she
was to owe her life to that very abstruse
work, and what Hilda had read in it.

That afternoon,
as we watched the
flying fish from the
ship’s side, Hilda
said to me abruptly,
“ My chaperon is
an extremely
nervous woman.”

“ Nervous about
what?”

“About disease,
chiefly. She has
the temperament
that dreads infec¬
tion — and there¬
fore catches it.”

“ Why do you
think so?”

“ Haven’t you
noticed that she
often doubles her
thumb under her
fingers — folds her
fist across it—so—
especially when
anybody talks about
anything alarming?
If the conversation
happens to turn on
jungle fever, or any subject like that, down
goes her thumb instantly, and she clasps her
fist over it with a convulsive squeeze. At
the same time, too, her face twitches. I
know what that trick means. She’s horribly
afraid of tropical diseases, though she never
says so.”

“And you attach importance to her fear?”

“ Of course. I count upon it as probably
our chief means of catching and fixing her.”

“ As how? ”

She shook her head and quizzed me.
“Wait and see. You are a doctor; I, a
trained nurse. Before twenty-four hours, I
foresee she will ask us. She is sure to ask
us now she has learned that you are Lady
Tepping’s nephew, and that I am acquainted
with several of the Best People.”

That evening, about ten o’clock, Sir Ivor
strolled up to me in the smoking-room with
- affected unconcern. He laid his hand on
my arm and drew me aside mysteriously.
The ship’s doctor was there, playing a quiet
game of poker with a few of the passengers.
“ I beg your pardon, Dr. Cumberledge,”
he began, in an undertone, “ could you
come outside with me a minute? Lady

“miss wade is your COUSIN, I SUPPOSE?’

5°4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ I FORESEE SHE WILL ASK US.

Meadowcroft has sent me up to you with
a message.”

I followed him on to the open deck. “It
is quite impossible, my dear sir,” I said,
shaking my head austerely, for I divined his
errand. “ I can’t go to see Lady Meadow¬
croft. Medical etiquette, you knowthe
constant and salutary rule of the profession!”

“ Why not ? ” he asked, astonished.

“ The ship carries a surgeon,” I replied, in
my most precise tone. “ He is a duly quali¬
fied gentleman, very able at his profession,
and he ought to inspire your wife with con¬
fidence. I regard this vessel as Dr. Boyell’s
practice, and all on board it as virtually his
patients.”

Sir Ivor’s face fell. “ But Lady Meadow¬
croft is not at all well,” he answered, looking
piteous ; “ and—she can’t endure the ship’s
doctor. Such a common man, you know !
His loud voice disturbs her. You must have
noticed that my wife is a lady of exception¬
ally delicate nervous organization.” Lie
hesitated, beamed on me, and played his
trump card. “She dislikes being attended
by owt but a gentleman.”

“If a gentleman is also a medical man,”
I answered, '“ his sense of duty towards his

brother practitioners would, of course, pre¬
vent him from interfering in their proper
sphere, or putting upon them the unmerited
slight of letting them see him preferred
before them.”

“Then you positively refuse?” he
asked, wistfully, drawing back. I could
see he stood in a certain dread of that
imperious little woman.

1 conceded a point. “ I will go down
in twenty minutes,” I admitted, look¬
ing grave; “ not just now, lest I
annoy my colleague — and I will
glance at Lady Meadowcroft in an
unprofessional way. If I think her
case demands treatment I will tell
Dr. Boyell.” And I returned
to the smoking-room and took
up a novel.

Twenty minutes later I
knocked at the door of the
lady’s private cabin, with my
best bedside manner in full play.
As I suspected, she was nervous
—nothing more—my mere smile
reassured her. I observed that
she held her thumb fast,
doubled under in her fist, all
the time I was questioning her,
as Hilda had said; and I also
noticed that the fingers closed
over it convulsively at first, but gradually
relaxed as my voice restored confidence.
She thanked me profusely, and was really
grateful.

On deck next day she was very communi¬
cative. They were going to make the regular
tour first, she said, but were to go on to the
Tibetan frontier at the end, where Sir Ivor
had a contract to construct a railway, in a
very wild region. Tigers? Natives? Oh,
she didn’t mind either of them: but she was
told that that district—what did they call
it? the Terai, or something—was terribly
unwholesome. Fever was what-you-may-call-
it there—yes, “endemic”—that was the word:
“oh, thank you, Dr. Cumberledge.” She hated
the very name of fever. “Now you, Miss
Wade, I suppose,” with an awestruck smile,
“are not in the least afraid of it? ’

Hilda looked up at her calmly. “ Not in
the least,” she answered. “ I have nursed
hundreds of cases.”

“ Oh, my, how dreadful ! And never
caught it ? ”

“ Never. I am not afraid, you see.”

“ I wish I wasn’t! Hundreds of cases !
It makes one ill to think of it! ... . And
all successfully ? ”

HILDA WADE .

505

“Almost all of them.”

“You don’t tell your patients stories when
they’re ill about your other cases who died,
do you ? ” Lady Meadowcroft went on with
a quick little shudder.

Hilda’s face by this time was genuinely
sympathetic. “ Oh, never ! ” she answered,
with truth. “ That would be very bad
nursing ! One’s object in treating a case is
to make one’s patient well; so one naturally
avoids any sort of subject that might distress
or alarm them.”

“You really mean it?” Her face was
pleading.

“ Why, of course. I try to make my
patients my friends : I talk to them cheerfully:
I amuse them and distract them : I get them
away, as far as I can, from themselves and
their symptoms.”

“ Oh, what a lovely person to have about
one when one’s ill ! ” the languid lady ex¬
claimed, ecstatically. “ I should like to send
for you if I wanted nursing ! But there—it’s
always so, of course, with a real lady; com¬
mon nurses frighten one so. I wish I could
always have a lady to nurse me ! ”

“A person who sympathizes—that is the
really important thing,” Hilda answered, in
her quiet voice. “ One must find out first
one’s patient’s temperament. You are
nervous, I can see.” She laid one hand on
her new friend’s arm : “ You need to be
kept amused and engaged when you are ill:
what you require most is — insight — and
sympathy.”

The little fist doubled up again: the
vacant face grew positively sweet. “ That’s
just it! You have hit it! How clever
you are! I want all that. I suppose,
Miss Wade, you never go out for private
nursing ? ”

“Never,” Hilda answered. “You see,
Lady Meadowcroft, I don’t nurse for a liveli¬
hood. I have means of my own : I took up
this work as an occupation and a sphere in
life. I haven’t done anything yet but
hospital nursing.”

Lady Meadowcroft drew a slight sigh.
“ What a pity ! ” she murmured, slowly. “ It
does seem hard that your sympathies should
all be thrown away, so to speak, on a horrid
lot of wretched poor people, instead of
being spent on your own equals—who would
so greatly appreciate them.”

“ I think I can venture to say the poor
appreciate them, too,” Hilda answered, brid¬
ling up a little—for there was nothing she
hated so much as class-prejudices. “ Besides,
they need sympathy more : they have fewer

Vol. xviii.—64.

comforts. I should not care to give up
attending my poor people for the sake of the
idle rich.”

The set phraseology of the country rectory
recurred to Lady Meadowcroft—“ our poorer
brethren,” and so forth. “ Oh, of course,”
she answered, with the mechanical acquies¬
cence such women always give to moral
platitudes. “ One must do one’s best for
the poor, I know—for conscience’ sake and
all that : it’s our duty, and we all try hard to
do it. But they’re so terribly ungrateful!
Don’t you think so ? Do you know, Miss
Wade, in my father’s parish-”

Hilda cut her short with a sunny smile—
half contemptuous toleration, half genuine
pity. “We are all ungrateful,” she said,
“ but the poor, I think, the least so. I’m
sure the gratitude I’ve often had from my
poor women at St. Nathaniel’s has made me
sometimes feel really ashamed of myself. I
had done so little—and they thanked me so
much for it.”

“ Which only shows,” Lady Meadowcroft
broke in, “ that one ought always to have a
lady to nurse one.”

“ Qa marche! ” Hilda said to me, with, a
quiet smile, a few minutes after, when her
ladyship had disappeared in her fluffy robe
down the companion-ladder.

“Yes, fa marche ,” I answered. “In an
hour or two you will have succeeded in
landing your chaperon. And what is most
amusing, landed her, too, Hilda, just by
being yourself—letting her see frankly the
actual truth of what you think and feel about
her and about everyone ! ”

“ I could not do otherwise,” Hilda
answered, growing grave. “ I must be
myself, or die for it. My method of angling
consists in showing myself just as I am.
You call me an actress, but I am not really
one: I am only a woman who can use her
personality for her own purposes. If I go
with Lady Meadowcroft, it will be a mutual
advantage: I shall really sympathize with
her, for I can see the poor thing is devoured
with nervousness.”

“ But do you think you will be able to
stand her ? ” I asked.

“ Oh, dear, yes. She’s not a bad little
thing, au foud, when you get to know her.
It is society that has spoilt her. She would
have made a nice, helpful, motherly body if
she’d married the curate.”

As we neared Bombay conversation
grew gradually more and more Indian ; it
always does under similar circumstances. A
sea voyage is half retrospect, half prospect:

5°6

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

it has no personal identity. You leave
Liverpool for New York at the English stand¬
point, and are full of what you did in London
or Manchester: half-way over you begin to
discuss American Custom-houses and New
York hotels : by the time you reach Sandy
Hook, the talk is all of quick trains west and
the shortest route from Philadelphia to New
Orleans. You grow by slow stages into the
new attitude : at Malta you are still regretting
Europe : after Aden, your mind dwells most
on the hire of punkah-wallahs and the pro¬
verbial toughness of the dak - bungalow
chicken.

“How’s the plague at Bombay now?” an
inquisitive passenger inquired of the captain
at dinner our last night out. “ Getting any
better ? ”

Lady Meadowcroft’s thumb dived between
her fingers again. “ What, is there plague in
Bombay ? ” she asked, innocently, in her
nervous fashion.

“ Plague in Bombay ! ” the captain burst
out, his burly voice resounding down the
saloon. “Why, bless your soul, ma’am,
where else would you expect it ? Plague in
Bombay ! It’s been there these five years.
Better? Not quite. Going ahead like mad.
They’re dying by thousands.”

“ A microbe, I believe, Dr. Boy ell,” the
inquisitive passenger
observed deferentially, with
due respect for medical
science.

“Yes,” the ship’s doctor
answered, helping himself
to an olive. “ Forty million
microbes to each square
inch of the Bombay atmo¬
sphere.”

“ And we are going to
Bombay ! ” Lady Meadow-
croft exclaimed, aghast.

“ You must have known
there was plague there, my
dear,” Sir Ivor put in,
soothingly, with a depreca¬
ting glance. “ It’s been in
all the papers. But only
the natives get it.”

The thumb uncovered
itself a little. “ Oh, only
the natives ! ” Lady Meadow-
croft echoed, relieved, as if a few
thousand Plindus more or less
would hardly be missed among the
blessings of British rule in India.
“You know, Ivor, I never read
those dreadful things in the papers.

/ read the Society news, and Our Social
Diary, and columns that are headed
‘ Mainly About People.’ I don’t care for
anything but the Morning Post and the

World and Truth. I hate horrors.

But it’s a blessing to think it’s only the
natives.”

“ Plenty of Europeans, too, bless your
heart,” the captain thundered out, unfeel¬
ingly. “ Why, last time I was in port, a
nurse died at the hospital.”

“ Oh, only a nurse-” Lady Meadow-

croft began, and then coloured up deeply
with a side glance at Hilda.

“And lots beside nurses,” the captain
continued, positively delighted at the terror
he was inspiring. “ Puckka Englishmen and
Englishwomen. Bad business, this plague,
Dr. Cumberledge ! Catches particularly
those who are most afraid of it.”

“ But it’s only in Bombay?” Lady Meadow-
croft cried, clutching at the last straw. I
could see she was registering a mental deter¬
mination to go straight up country the
moment she landed.

“Not k bit of it ! ” the captain
answered, with provoking cheerfulness.
“ Rampaging about like a roaring lion all
over India ! ”

Lady Meadowcroft’s thumb must have

“ MY WIFE HAS DELIVERED HER ULTIMATUM.”

HILDA WADE.

S°7

suffered severely. The nails dug into it as if
it were someone else’s.

Half an hour later, as we were on deck in
the cool of the evening, the thing was settled.
“ My wife,” Sir Ivor said, coming up to us
with a serious face, “ has delivered her
ultimatum. Positively her ultimatum. I’ve
had a mort o’ trouble with her, and now
she’s settled. Either , she goes back from
Bombay by the return steamer; or else —you
and Miss Wade must name your own terms
to accompany us on our tour in case of
emergencies.” He glanced wistfully at Hilda.
“ Do you think you can help us ? ”

Hilda made no hypocritical pretence of
hanging back. Her nature
was transparent. “If you
wish it, yes,” she answered,
shaking hands upon the
bargain. “ I only want to
go about and see India ;

I can see it quite as well
with Lady Meadowcroft
as without her—and even
better. It is unpleasant
for a woman to travel
unattached. I require a
chaperon, and am glad to
find one. I will join your
party, paying my own
hotel and travelling ex¬
penses, and considering
myself as engaged in case
your wife should need
my services. For that,
you can pay me, if you
like, some nominal retain¬
ing fee—five pounds or
anything. The money is
immaterial to me: I like
to be useful, and I sym¬
pathize with nerves; but
it may make your wife feel
she is really keeping a
hold over me if we put
the arrangement on a
business basis. As a matter of fact, whatever
sum she chooses to pay, I shall hand it over
at once to the Bombay Plague Hospital.”

Sir Ivor looked relieved. “Thank you
ever so much,” he said, wringing her hand
warmly. “ I thowt you were a brick, and
now I know it. My wife says your face in¬
spires confidence, and your voice sympathy.
She must have you with her. And you, Dr.
Cumberledge ? ”

“I follow Miss Wade’s lead,” I answered,
in my most solemn tone, with an impressive
bow. “ I too am travelling for instruction
and amusement only : and if it would give
Lady Meadowcroft a greater sense of security
to have a duly qualified practitioner in her
suite, I shall be glad on the same terms to
swell your party. I will pay my own way :
and I will allow you to name any nominal
sum you please for your claim on my medi¬
cal attendance, if necessary. I hope and
believe, however, that our presence will so
far reassure our prospective patient as to
make our post in both cases a sinecure.”

Three minutes later Lady Meadowcroft

LADY MEADOWCROFT RUSHED ON DECK.”

rushed on deck and flung her arms im¬
pulsively round Hilda. “ You dear, good
girl,” she cried ; “ how sweet and kind of
you ! I really couldn't have landed if you
hadn’t promised to come with us. And Dr.
Cumberledge, too ! So nice and friendly of
you both. But there, it is so much pleasanter
to deal with ladies and gentlemen ! ”

So Hilda won her point, and what was
best, won it fairly.

A Peep into “Punch."

By J. Holt Schooling.

^ ThePr ^P rtetors ,°f “Punch " have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch's famous pages.]

Part XI.—1895 T0 1898.

A Ruling Passion.-

------- -- -Mr. Meenister MacGlucky (of the Free Kirk>

after having given way more than usual to an expression “ a wee thin?
stro ”Z"— despairingly). “ Oh ! Aye ! Ah, w-e-el ! I’ll hae ta gie’t up ! ”
Mr. Elder MacNab. “ Wha-al, Man, gie up Gowf? ”

Mr. Meenister MacGlucky. “ Nae, nae ! die up the Meenistry ! ”

I.—BY REGINALD CLEAVER, 1895.

HA-AT, Man, gie up Gowf ? ” ex¬
claims Elder MacNab in Mr. Reginald

Cleaver’s very clever drawing, No. i,

when the despairing “Meenister” of

the Scotch Free Kirk finds that golf
tries his patience beyond the limit of verbal

expression proper to his calling : “ Nae, nae ! Gie
up the Meenistry ! ” says the exasperated Mr.
Meenister MacGlucky, who, as we see from the
many cuts in the turf, is evidently in the “agri¬
cultural ” state of the game.

How thoroughly some of us can sympathize

‘ArKy on ‘Orseback. — t Arry (in extremities). “ Well, gi’ me a ‘ Bike 7 ”

2.— 1?V W. J. HODGSON, 1895.

with Mr. Meenister MacGlucky in
his dilemma. His Scotch dourness
won’t let him be beaten by that
aggravating little white ball which
he has missed with his driver
about six times running, and his
Scotch conscientiousness tells him
that the expressions “ a wee thing
strong ” which have just been
forced out of his mouth go very
badly indeed with his ministerial
calling. Has anyone — even an
English bishop — been able to
suppress wholly the words “a wee

thing strong ” that seem to be
the natural relief given to a golf-
player when his most careful
endeavours to drive the ball result
so disastrously as in this picture ?
If so, I should like to see that
person, or that English bishop—
he must be something outside the
usual course of Nature, something
uncanny, fantastic, extra-human.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH,.

509

publication, some years ago, of his
well-known “Zig-Zags at the Zoo”
in this Magazine.

4.—BY J. A. SHEPHERD, 1895.

The spirited drawing No. 2 is by Mr. W. J.
Hodgson, and the amusing and quite natural
joke in No. 3 is by George du Maurier, whose
thirty - six years’ work for Punch came to an end
in the year 1896.

Mr. J. A. Shepherd’s original and very clever
work is well known to readers of this Magazine,
and in No. 4 there is one of the many good

6.—BY PHIL MAY, 1895.

Pictures 5 and 6 are by Mr.

Phil May; and the Tenniel car¬
toon in No. 7 illustrates the downfall,
in the General Election of July, 1895,
of Sir William Plarcourt and the Liberal

“ Yus. I’m a Beggar to Climb !

5. —BY PHIL MAY,

1895.

things contributed to Punch by this most
amusing artist. His effects, got as they
are by the deft use of a few lines which
give so much character to his work, proclaim
Mr. Shepherd an artist of no small talent.
By the way, Mr. Shepherd was invited by
Mr. Burnand to draw for Pinich after the

THE SPILL!

Jack and Jill went up a Hill
To fetch a Pail of Water,

Jack fell down and Broke his
Crown,

And Jill came Tumbling after.
7.—BY TENNIEL \ JULY 27, 1895.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

5 10

A Sketch from Life. —Chorus (slow music). “We’re a
rare old—fair old—rickety, rackety Crew ! ”

8.—BY PHIL MAY, 1895.

Party, when Sir William went to fetch a
pail of water in his bucket so disastrously
labelled “ Local Veto,” a measure that set
the whole publican interest of the country
dead against Sir William and the Liberal
Party.

In No. 8 we
are treated to
another of Mr.

Phil May’s bril¬
liant drawings
of life and
character as seen
by the man in
the street.

Nos. 9 and io
are by George
du Maurier.

No. 9 is very
funny, while No.

10 illustrates,
aptly enough,
the pressure of
work brought to
our bishops by the present conflict of opinions
in affairs of the Church. No. n is a beautiful little

True Humility. —Right Reverend Host. “ I'm afraid you’ve got a bad
Egg, Mr. Jones ! ”

The Curate. “ Oh no, my Lord, I assure
you ! Parts of it are excellent!”

9.—BY DU MAURIER, 1895.

Scene from a Subma¬
rine Pantomime.— Tan¬
talising Position of a Sus¬
ceptible Diver.

11.—by w. ALISON
PHILIPS, 1895.

bit of work by
Mr. W. Alison
Philips, some¬
what away from
Mr. Punch’s
usual lines, but
well worth inclu¬
sion here.

Two more of
Mr. Phil May’s

Our Overworked Bishops. —The Rectors IVife. “ Have you heard
from the Bishop, dear, about the Alterations you proposed to make in the
Services? ”

The Rector. “ Yes ; I have just got a Postcard from his little Boy. This
is it:—‘ The Palace , Barchester .—Papa says you mustn’t.* ”

10.—by du maurier,* 1896.

“Daddy’s Waistcoat!” —
(Sketched from Life in Drury
Lane.) 12 .— by phil may, 1895.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH

5 11

drawings are shown in Nos.'12 and 13.
“Daddy’s Waistcoat” is quite a gem.

Mr. Leonard Raven-Hill is another
comparatively “ new ” Punch -artist who
has done fine work since his first con¬
tribution to Punch in 1896. No. 14 is
one of Mr. Raven-Hill’s early drawings.

The cartoon in No. 15, by Sir John
Tenniel, dated February 29, 1896, refers

Street Serio (singing). “ Er—yew will think hov me and
Love me has in dies hov long ago-o-o ! ”

13. —BY PHIL MAY, 1896.

“MONEY NO OBJECT!"

Vulca*. "THIS'LL RUN INTO. MONEY MA-AMI”

bMTtK»u. " NEVER MIND AHOUT THAT AS LONG AS I CON’TIKCE TO RULE THE WAVES) "

15.— BY TENNIEL; FEBRUARY 29, 1896.

principle embodied in the adage, “To
secure Peace, be prepared for War.”

There are two delightful Phil Mays in Nos.
16 and 17. The “Johnny” in No. 16 who
wants to arrange an over-draught with the
Manager at Messrs. R-thsch-ld’s, calmly asks
the Manager, “ Ah !—how much have you

to the Naval Works Bill of that time, which
involved a cost of many millions. Here
again the Government acted on the wise

Things are not Always what they Seem.

His Honour. “ H’m ! Will you
kindly raise your Veil ? I find it ex¬
tremely difficult to—h’m— hear anyone
distinctly with those thick Veils-”

Er — er — thank you !
Silence ! I will not have
this Court turned into a Place
of Amusement! ”

14.— BY L. RAVEN-HILL, 1896.

Johnny ('who has to face a bad Monday , to Alanagcr
at Alcssrs. R-thsch-ld f s). ** Ah ! I—want to—ah !—see
you about an Over-draught.”

Manager. “ How much do you require ? ”

Johnny. “ Ah !—how much have you got?"

16.— BY PHIL MAY, 1896.

512

THE S TEA NT MAGAZINE.

The work of this talented artist in Social
Pictorial Satire extended from i860 to 1896 ;
it was of the greatest value to Punch , and

'Bus Conductor. “ Emmersmith ! Emmersmith ! ’Ere ye are !
Emmersmith ! ” ,

’ Liza. Ann. “ Oo er yer callin’ EmmerSmith! Sorcy ound !

17.—BY 1 »HIL MAY, 1896.

got ? ” And, in No. 17, the “ Sorcy ’ound ! ”
of the irate ’Liza Ann who has misunder¬
stood the yell of the conductor of the
Hammersmith ’bus is really delicious. How
splendidly natural and vivid this drawing is !

No. 18 is the last picture by George du
Maurier that was published in Punch before
his sadly premature death on October 8,
1896, at the age of sixty-two. There was one
other drawing by du Maurier published after
his death, in Punch!s Almanack for 1897, but
the one now shown is the last that was
published in the ordinary pages of Punch.

L* of Booking-Office. “ There is no First Class by this Train, Sir.”
y. “ Then wet are we going ter do, Bill ? ”

19.— BY PHIL MAY, 1896.

it received full and well-merited recognition
from the public.

Phil May’s drawing in No. 19 reminds ~ne
of a good story about Albert Chevalier a few
years ago when he was singing his coster
songs in London in, of course, full coster

Two Sides to a Question. —“Oh, Flora, let us be Man
and Wife. You at least understand me—the only Woman who
ever did ! ”

“ Oh, yes ; I understand jvw well enough, Sir Algernon. But
how about your ever being able to understand me ?

18.— by du maurier ; September 26, 1896. The last drawing
published before the artist's death.on October 8 , iSg 6 .

He. “ How would you like to own a—er—a little Puppy?* 1
She. “ Oh, Mr. Softly, this is so sudden '. ”

20.— BY BERNARD PARTRIDGE, 1896.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH”

5i3

dress. Chevalier
had promised to
sing a coster song
at a benefit per¬
formance in a
variety theatre in
the suburbs.
After he had done
an early song at
one of the Lon¬
don theatres, he
drove off to
Charing Cross
Station, still made
up as coster, and
going to the book¬
ing-office asked
for a “ first-class
return to Ham¬
mersmith.” It
happened that a
real coster was
standing just be¬
hind Chevalier at
the booking-office,

Arms: Quarterly ; 1st, a pyrotechnic carnival displayed proper; 2nd, three
tropical cocoa-nuts statant sable (three shies a penny;; 3rd, an ancient British
barrow, supposed to be charged with body of Queen Boadicba ; 4th. an arry
issuant from three bars blatant on a field dotty. Crest: An ass’s head re¬
gardant reproachful, probably charged on the body with a juggins rampant.
Supporters: Dexter, an amet plumed and garnished somethink like, I toil
yer; sinister, a coster arrayed pearly to the runes, charged with a concertina
all proper. Second motto • A regular beno.

[“ It has been decided that arms shall be devised for Hampstead.”—JDi
Paper.]

One of Mr. E. T. Reed’s famous “ Ready-Made Coats-(of-Arms)
or, Giving ’em Fits !” 21.— December, 12, 1896.

1894, and whose
work is always
thoroughly good,
is represented in
No. 22 by a very
amusing joke
most excellently
rendered in black
and white. An¬
other funny joke
is seen in No.
23, by Mr. Bernard
Partridge ; the
baby is angry
with Tommy be¬
cause Tommy
tried to make the
baby smile by
the insertion of
his mother’s
Glove-stretcher
into the baby’s
mouth !

Mr. Raven-Hill
gives us a funny
drawing in No. 24.
The “ nice refined-
looking little Boy ” who “ has a
mouth fit for a Cherub” when he
is getting . the sixpence from the old
lady, is suddenly changed, five

The Substitute.— The Rectors Wife. “Oh, Mrs. Noggins, I should
really try to break your Parrot of his habit of swearing in that awful
way ! ”

The Widow Noggins. “Well, 'm, I finds it such a comfort to ’ear ’im.
Makes it seem more like as if there was a Man about the ’Ouse again.”

22.— BY A. S. BOYD, 1896.

and when this real coster heard his supposed
“ pal’s ” request he was for a moment pretty con¬
siderably startled. However, the real coster, with
the ready wit of his class, at once came up to
the scratch and ejaculated to the booking-clerk,

“ Blimey—give me a Pullman to Whitechapel!”

No. 20 is by Mr. Bernard Partridge, and No. 21
is one of Mr. E. T. Reed’s very witty series, now
happily published in book-form, entitled
“ Ready-Made Coats-(of-Arms); or, Giving
’em Fits ! ”

Mr. A. S. Boyd, who joined Punch in

Vol. xviii.— 65 .

‘ Tommy, what on earth

Ungentle Persuasion.— Mother.
is Baby crying for ? ”

Tommy. “ He’s angry with me, Mamma, because I was
trying to make him smile with your Glove-stretcher.”

23.— BY BERNARD PARTRIDGE, 1897.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

5 T 4

seconds later,
when he has got
the sixpence,
into the little
gutter-snipe
who nearly
splits his face
as he yells to
a friend with
that piercing
tooth-whistle
which, as a
boy, I never
could manage,

“ S-s-s-s ! ! Bil-
lee! The old
Gabs give me a Tanner! ”

No. 25 is by Mr. G. H. Jalland, and in

with the cabbie,
who is deterred
by the “ Some¬
th i n g inside”
his cab—so elo¬
quently pointed
to by the cab¬
bie’s right hand
—from doing
justice to his
own command
of the Queen’s
English. This is
by Mr. Raven-
Hill.

There is a
good piece of work by Mr. A. S. Boyd
in No. 28, and an amusing bit of

Old Lady. “ Dear me, what a nice refined-
looking little Boy. Why, Jane, he has a Mouth
fit for a Cherub ; I really must give him Six¬
pence.” [Does so.

24.—BY L. RAVEN-HILL, 1897,

The Cherub {five seconds
later). “ S-s-s-s !! Billee !
the old Gal’s give me a
Tanner ! ”

A Sad F act.— Impudent Choir-boy {to our Clear, who is
“ teaching himself "). t( Here endeth the First Lesson !

25.—BY G. H. JALLAND, 1897.

“ I 'ear this ’ere Patti ain’t 'arf bad !
26.—BY PHIL MAY, 1897.

No. 26 Mr. Phil May has illustrated what is
probably one of his own observations of the
street-Arab
when he makes
the urchin say
to a friend, as
they pass the
big board an¬
il o u n c i n g a
Patti-concert at
the Albert Hall,

“ I ’ear this ’ere
Patti ain’t ’arf
bad ! ”

The ’bus-driver
in No. 27 has
all the best of
the argument

Irate Cabbie.

“ cackle ” underneath it. No. 29 is by Mr.
Bernard Partridge, and No. 30 is one of a

series of very
humorous draw¬
ings by Mr. Phil
May entitled
“Songs and
their Singers,”
the motif 'of these
clever drawings
being the con¬
trast between
the title of the
song and the
personal appear-
ance of the
singer. Many of
these contrasts

‘ Oh, if I ’adn’t got Something inside, I'd Talk to you !
27.—BY L. RAVEN-HILL, 1897.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

5>

5*5

Tom Tit ” without a smile at the
humour of the bare idea.

Mr. E. T. Reed gives, in No. 31,
a pictorial forecast of the Cyclist
Scorcher. The small words on
the Notice - board are : “ Moun¬
taineers are requested not to
molest the creatures who frequent
these heights. They are quite
harmless.”

Nothing seems to come amiss
to Mr. Phil May. In No. 32 he

Altogether Satisfactory.— Aunt Fanny. “I do like these
Watering-places. The Bathing Costume is so sensible ! ”

Hilda. “ Oh, yes, Auntie ! And so becoming ! ”

28.—BY A. S. BOYD, 1897.

are very funny indeed, and one of the
best of them is that now shown, where
a lank and lugubrious gentleman with a
great brain capacity is singing the light and
dainty little ditty, “ The Gay Tom Tit.”
This is rendered still more funny to those
who recognise the original of Mr. Phil
May’s singer, for this is a first-rate portrait
of a distinguished historian and member of
Parliament, with whom one cannot connect,
even in thought, the singing of “The Gay

How We Live Now. — Prim Old Gentleman. “ My dear
young Lady, it is hardly possible for me to explain to you the
nature of this—Cause Cdlebre, without enter'ng into details.”

Very Modern Young Lady. “My dear Man, what do you
take me for? Why, / read the Paper every Morn ng ! ”

29.—BY BERNARD PARTRIDGE, 1897.

draws a pretty woman and a prize bulldog
as v r ell as he draws the bits of life he

Awful Fate of the Cyclist Scorcher ! (About a.d. 1950).
— Driven at last by a long-suffering Public from all the Haunts
of Men, his Limbs adapted to one means of locomotion only, he
is compelled to Hop about as best he can in Inaccessible Moun¬
tain Retreats ! 31.—by e. t. reed, 1897.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

5i6

picks out of the London streets and slums,
and he gives to them the same quality of
life and actuality.

Mr. Lewis Baumer’s drawing in No. 33 is
good. Look at the young woman’s face as
she hears her ingenuous little sister tell poor
Mr. Green, “ Why, thafs what the Party was
for ! !” when Mr. Green has just told the dear

Blasee.— “ Now I’m going to read you a pretty Story, Dear
—all about the Garden of Eden ! ”

^ “Oh, Mummy, please, not that one. I’m so tired of that
Story of the Adamses ! ”

34.— BY BERNARD PARTRIDGE, 1897.

the angler by the lunatic, and the lunatic’s
logical invitation to the angler to “ Come
inside ” the Dottyville Lunatic Asylum,
are really delicious—although the logic of

Mrs. Mashem. “ Bull-bull and I have been sitting for our
Photographs as ‘ Beauty and the Beast ’ ! ”

Lord Lorens (a bit of a Fancier). “ Yes ; he certainly is a
Beauty, isn’t he?” 32.— by phjl may, 1897.

little girl that her sister promised to marry him “ last
night.” A most uncomfortable position for both
Mr. Green and his fiancee .

No. 34 is by Bernard Partridge, and in No. 35,
by Phil May, the short, crisp cross-examination of

Mr. Green. “ Now I’m going to tell you something, Ethel. Do you
know that Last Night, at your Party, your Sister promised to Marry me?
I hope you’ll forgive me for taking her away ! ”

Ethel. “ Forgive you, Mr. Green ! Of course I will. Why, that's what
the Party was for! /” 33.— by lewis baumer, 1898.

Lunatic (suddenly popping his head over wall).
“ What are you doing there?*’

Brown. “ Fishing.’

Lunatic. “ Caught anything ? ’*

Brown. “ No.”

Lunatic. “ How long have you been there ? "
Brown. “ Six hours.”

Lunatic. “ Come inside J ”

35.— BY PHIL MAY, 1897.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH."

5*7

the invitation seems to have taken
the angler “aback.”

Mr. Everard Hopkins is clever
with his drawing in No. 36 of the
deceitful cadging woman who is
coaching her son “ Allbert ” as to
his pose when he goes into “ the

Train up a Chii.d, etc. — Mrs. Hunt (a populcu* and
prosperous pauper). “ Now, Allbert, what’ll yer sy, when I

t 11 • M t f /v L r it 1 T * * **

tike yer into the Kind Lidy’s Drorin’ Room?”
Albert (a proficient pupil). “ Oh ! all right,

— ^ - r .. f — - 0 .._, . know—put on

beautiful lorst Look, and sy, ‘ Oh ! Muvver, is this ’eaven?’”
36.—BY EVERARD HOPKINS, 1898.

“ Operator" (desperately , after half an hours fruitless endeavour to
make a successful “ Picture" from unpromising' Sitter). “Suppose,
Madam, we try a Pose with just the least suggestion of— er— Sauciness ? ”

38.— BY BERNARD PARTRIDGE, 1898.

The Misunderstanding in No. 37 is by Mr.
Arthur Hopkins, and the pictorial suggestion in
No. 38 to “ try a Pose with just the least suggestion
of—er— Sauciness ” is by Mr. Bernard Partridge.
Just look at the lady-sitter to whom a saucy pose
is suggested as a last resource by the hopeless
photographer !

When Mr. Phil May saw the ’Arry and ’Arriet in
No. 39 he probably agreed with ’Arriet’s
opinion, which, however, only came to
her after “seeing theirselves” in this
concave distorting mirror.

The naval joke in No. 40 is by Mr.
Raven-Hill; and in No. 41 we have a

Kind Lidy’s Drorin’ Room.” But Albert is
up in his business, and he quite knows how
to put on that “ beautiful lorst Look, and sy,
‘ Oh ! Muvver, is this ’eaven ? ’ ”

Misunderstood !— Mrs. Van de Leur. “ By the way, Mr. Fairfax, if

any of my Son’s old Boots would be of use to you-”

Mr. Fairfax (interrupting). “ Really, Madam ! The Clergy are under¬
paid, but we can-”

[jRises to take his leave. But Mrs. Van de Lcurioas only thinking of
the Ragged School .]

37. —BY ARTHUR HOPKINS, 1898.

“ I say, ’Arry, don’t we look Frights?”
39.—BY PHIL MAY, 1898.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

5 l8

Irascible Lieutenant (down engine-room tube).
Blithering Idiot at the
end of this Tube ? ”

Voice from Engine-
room. “Not at this end,

Sir! ”

40.— BY L. RAVEN-HILL,

very funny
drawing by Mr.
E. T. Reed of
“The Coster
Guards.” This
exceedingly
clever drawing
has been re¬
duced from a
full page of
Punch , but even
in its present
small size you

* Is there a

can see very well the faces of these cockney
costers, who make such good fighting-men.
The officer who marches in front of the men,
the other who is bawling a command (with
his hand to his mouth), the eight men, and
the coster-donkey, are all up to Mr. E. T.
Reed’s own standard of real, spirited, and
unforced humour—and that means a good
deal.

Perhaps this present peep into Punch ,
covering the years 1895-1898, surpasses all
the previous peeps as regards the humour
and the variety of its joke-pictures and the
excellence of their drawing. One of the

jokes which
seems to me
irresistibly
funny is that in
No. 42 by Mr.
R a v e n - H i 11 .
No. 43 is by
the same artist.

The “Jo Jo”
Expanding
Chair in No. 44
is one of a
series by Mr.
George R. Hal-
kett, who has
here very clev¬
erly worked
Mr. Joseph
Chamberlain’s
face into the
back of the
chair.

‘The Coster Guards” (Queen’s Own East End Regiment). Why
Not?—[“ Inquire of any recruiting sergeant, and he will tell you a young
Cockney makes the best material for a soldier. ... 1 ake the Coster class y
generally born in London, and it will be difficult to match such men elsewhere

for work and lung power. —Volunteer
ttr?* Surgeon , “ Daily MailSeptem-

** &J *® ss *z. her 7.] 41. — BY E. T. REED, 1898.

'Artiet (as a bee alights on her hand). “ My word,’Arry,
wot a pretty Fly 1 ” (Sting.) “ Crikey ! ain’t ’is Feet ot !

42. — BY L. RAVEN-HILL, 1898.

Clergyman. “Augustus, wilt thou take this Woman-

Bride (late of Remnant and Co.'s Ribbon Department).
1 LADY 43.— BY L. RAVEN-HILL, 1898.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH

5*9

A FIXTURE.

SEATS OF THE MIGHTY.—II.

The “ Jo Jo ” Expanding Chair.

As worshipped in the savage dependencies of the
Empire. A very elegant chair, constructed on screws
(patent monopoly). Can also go higher. Now at the
Colonial Office. [From the collection of the Marquis
of Salisbury.]

44.— BY GEORGE R. HALKETT, 1898.

_ QUIT !—PRO QUO? _

J. B. “ Go away ! Go away !! ”

French Organ Grinder. “ Eh? What you give me if I go?”
/. B. “I’ll give you something if you don’t! ! ”

45*—SIR JOHN TENNIEL’s FAMOUS “ FASHODA-CARTOON ” J
OCTOBER 22, 1898.

ine lenniei m iNo. 45 is the
iamous Fashoda-cartoon of October
22, 1898, which caused an immense
sensation. It is perhaps a little
“ robust,” but we must remember
that when this cartoon was drawn
the whole country was smarting
with a sense of having been tricked and
“ pin - pricked ” at a most inopportune
moment. Not that I am concerned to
make any apology for this cartoon—[nor am
I indeed in any
way entitled to
do so] — which,
at the date of its
publication, was
simply a true ex¬
pression of the
nation's feeling.

But Mr. Punch
has voiced the
nation's feeling
for close on sixty
years, and he did

it again when Sir John Tenniel drew, at
the age of seventy-eight , the splendid cartoon
in No. 46, in which John Bull, with a
wink in his left eye, sits down in his

Egyptian dress to
attend in his own
resolute way to
his own business
in Egypt. Cer¬
tainly “ A Fix¬
ture": to be
allowed for and
reckoned in the
aiccount, by any¬
one who may
want to take over
the property.

46. —BY TENNIEL ; NOVEMBER 19, 1898.

[lb be concluded .]

Special Working Instructions.

A Station-Master’s Story.

By Victor L. Whiteci-iurch.

REALLY believe,” said the
station-master, “that the
majority of the travelling
public imagine that the sum
total of my duties consists in
wearing a cap with a gold
band round it, and strutting about the plat¬
forms starting trains and answering questions,
many of which would puzzle the general
manager of the line himself.

“ Now, look here,” he went on, pointing
to the heterogeneous mass of documents
lying on the table of the office, and taking
them up one by one as he enumerated them.
“This is the sort of thing—from early morn¬
ing till dewy eve, and often starry midnight
—a complaint from some old lady saying
she’s left her umbrella either in the waiting-
room, or on the book-stall, or in a train she
travelled in yesterday (she doesn’t say which),
and will I tell
her where it is
and send it on
at once. A
notice from the
district super¬
intendent asking
for full details
why the 12.53
was delayed
here yesterday.

Instructions for
submitting plans
for ventilating
the cloak-room.

Pamphlet of
new fog - sig-
nall i n g ar¬
rangements,
requiring a
complete
alteration
of posting
the men.

A claim
f rom a
local
brewer demand¬
ing compen¬
sation for beer

arriving short (it’s marvellous how beer
casks are always being staved in — acci¬
dentally — on our night goods trains).
Instructions for working three ‘ specials ’—
excursions—to-morrow morning, and so on.
It’s never finished, and sometimes I’m sick
of it.”

“ This is rather interesting,” I remarked,
taking the last paper he had mentioned from
his hand and glancing at it. “ How wonder¬
fully every detail is arranged, down to the
names of the guards and the time of passing
every little signal cabin ! ”

“ Those working instructions for the
‘specials’? Yes, they have to be set down
pretty accurately. You see, we have to work
them as far as possible without interfering
with the ordinary traffic, and that means a
lot of detail.”

It certainly did. On the printed form was por¬
trayed the running of the
trains in question, the num¬
ber of coaches of which
they were to be com¬
posed, the class of
engines to draw them,
the stops for taking in
water, the shunt¬
ing into “ refuge
sidings” en route
to allow of the
passage of cer-
tain express
trains — every¬
thing was put
down most care¬
fully.

“ I’m not sure
that I ought to
allow you to
handle that,”
went on the
station - master,
with a laugh.
“ You know, it’s
private infor¬
mation, ‘ For
the Company’s
servants only,’
as you see.”

it’s private information.

SPECIAL WORKING INSTRUCTIONS.

5 21

“ Well, I’ll give it up at once—though I
don’t see what harm it could do for me to
know a little more than the outside public
about these excursion trains.”

“No; as you say, there’s no particular
harm in anyone seeing these papers. But,”
he added, musingly, “ sometimes we receive
certain working instructions that might prove
very dangerous if outsiders were to get hold
of them.”

“ How so ? ” I asked.

The station-master took a key from his
pocket, unlocked a drawer, and produced a
crumpled and torn paper.

“ This is a paper of working instructions
for a special train,” he said, “which nearly
caused a most frightful catastrophe, and
which got me that nasty scar you may have
noticed over my left eye.”

I took the paper. It was headed :—

“ Specially urgent and private.” “ Instruc¬
tions for working through down special train
from London to Porthaven on March 7th,
189—.”

I looked at my companion inquiringly.

“I see you want to know all about it,” he
said; “ so as it’s a slack half hour, and I can
get through my correspondence afterwards,
I don’t mind telling you.”

Then he related the following startling
experience :—

“ I suppose that some of our chief railway
officials could, if they chose, throw many a
light upon the political history of Europe. I
mean that often visits of the utmost import¬
ance take place between the Ambassadors of
different countries, aye, and between those
who are higher than Ambassadors—visits that
are kept jealously secret and guarded, but
upon which hang sometimes the great fates
of diplomacy—of war and peace. It is
here that the railway companies are often
requisitioned to provide swift and secure
means of transit. Many a special train
has traversed the length and breadth of
England, for instance, the identity of whose
passengers was only known to a few
officials who made arrangements for the
journey, and who could be absolutely trusted
in the matter. Often it has been the work
of a master railway mind to run such trains
at the precise time needed, a work of great
anxiety when perhaps the traffic superinten¬
dent knows an international problem is
trembling in the balance, and the solution
rests upon the speed with which a diplomatic
journey is accomplished. Then, although it
is true we do not, happily, have to take the
immense precautions which are observed

Vol. xviii.—66

when the Czar travels in Russia, still it is
often necessary to arrange as strictly for the
safe transit of an important personage as for
his speed. For, indeed, those who move
in the highest circles have enemies always,
including the times when they travel.

“ When 1 received the circular of instruc¬
tions which you now hold in your hand, I
guessed, from the caution and secrecy to be
observed, that some person of great import¬
ance was about to pass over the line. Who
this exalted personage was it matters not;
except, perhaps, you might probably call to
mind that in the year 189— a certain great
Sovereign of Eastern Europe was paying a
private visit to the Queen—a visit which, so
it is said, formed the basis of a subsequent
diplomatic treaty.

“ I was at the time the station-master of
Millbridge, a small station on our main line
some forty or fifty miles from the London
terminus. It was a lonely spot at best,
especially at night, for no passenger trains
stopped there after eight o’clock, though
there were plenty of through expresses. The
station staff was a very small one, as you
will readily imagine.

“ The circular in question was delivered to
me on the evening of March 6th, inclosed
with a letter from the superintendent of the
line enjoining me to observe the very strictest
caution and secrecy in carrying out its in¬
structions. The instructions were, briefly,
these. A special train was to leave. London
at 10.30 p.m. and was to run to Porthaven.
Not only were all pains to be taken to see
that she ran to time, but certain precautions,
very much like those observed when the
Queen travels, were to be put in operation.
Twenty minutes before the special’s ‘time’
each block was to be clear, and patrols—
chosen in each case from the platelayers of
the district—were to be placed along the
line at stated intervals two hours before the
passing of the train; which, by the way, was
timed to pass Millbridge at 11.23 P- m -

“ I recognised that somebody of the
greatest importance was travelling to Port¬
haven, which is, as you know, a seaport town
from which many vessels sail to the Baltic.
The next morning I proceeded to carry out
instructions. I arranged with the ganger of
the district for the placing of the platelayers.
I caused the signals, etc., to be carefully in¬
spected ; in fact, I did all that was necessary
and sent up a report to town by a late after¬
noon train.

“ Of course I intended to be on the watch
to see such an important special through,

5 22

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

and I detailed my head porter to be on duty
with me at n p.m. I must also tell you
that I had given orders to my signal-man, in
accordance with the instructions, that a down
goods train which was due at 10.45 should
be shunted into a siding till the special had
passed.

“ About half-past nine that evening I was
seated in my office, making up my accounts.
I have told you that the station was a lonely
one. My own house was the nearest, and
that was a couple of hundred yards away.
My office, which opened on to the platform,
was, of course, very quiet at that hour. In
fact, I was the only person on the station, the
signal-man on duty in the cabin just off the
platform being the nearest man. There were
no more stopping trains that night. The
booking clerk and porters had gone home,
and, as I have said, the head porter was not
to come on duty till eleven.

“ I was feeling a certain sense of satisfaction
over my arrangements
for the ‘special,’ know¬
ing that the men were
properly posted and
that everything was
clear, when, without a
word of warning, my
door was suddenly
thrown open, and two
men, with masks on
their faces, entered.

“ ‘ Good evening,’
said one of them,
abruptly. ‘ You’re
the station-master? ’

“‘Yes,’ said I,
in astonishment.

“ ‘ Well, we’ve come
on a little matter ot
business, and if you’re
quiet we won’t hurt
you, though we shall
have to take strong
measures.’

“ ‘ What on earth
do you want? ’ I began.

“ ‘ First of all we

“ ‘ Give up that paper ! ’

“ ‘ I won’t ! ’ I shouted, springing to my
feet—‘Help! help!’

“ ‘ Quiet, you fool ! ’ said the man who had
not yet spoken, aiming a blow at me with a
heavy stick. It caught me just over the
left eye and fairly stunned me for a few
minutes.

“ When I came to I found myself gagged,
my arms bound behind me, and one of the
ruffians finishing binding my feet- together.
The other was eagerly rummaging my pocket-
book.

“ ‘ Here it is,’ he exclaimed.

“ ‘ Good ! ’ said the other, as he tied the
last knot. ‘ Now let us hear all about it.’

“ ‘ Here we are,’ said his companion, as he
consulted the paper. ‘Head-lights on engine a
white one over a green one—’umph, we must
bear that in mind. Leaves London 1030—
passes through here at 11.23—passes “Ash
signal-cabin” at 11.28, and Frambourne 11.36.’

“ ‘ Ah, well,
the bridge is
about midway
between Ash
cabin and
Fram bourne,
eh?’

want to see your in¬
structions about a
special train that’s to
run down from London to-night.’

“ ‘You’re not going to see anything of the
kind,’ I cried, attempting to rush through
the door and give an alarm.

“But they were too quick for me. In a
moment they had tripped me up and sent me
sprawling on my back,

QUIET, YOU KOOL ! ”

“ ‘Yes—so she’ll pass there about 11.33.’

“ ‘ Good. What’s the time now ? ’

“ I could see the other man first take out
his watch and then look at the clock in my
office.

“ ‘ Why, I’m over five minutes slow,’ he
$aid; ‘it’s three minutes past ten by this

SPECIAL WORKING INSTRUCTIONS.

5 2 3

clock. I’ll set my watch by it, and then
we’ll be off.’

“ Really his watch was right. For many
years I have been in the habit of keeping
my office clock five minutes in advance.

“ 4 As for you, Mr. Station-master,’ he
exclaimed a moment later, as they both
turned to depart, 4 1 fancy you’ll have to
keep quiet for a while. Good-night, and
pleasant dreams ! ’

“ So saying he turned out my lamp, and I
heard them locking the door on the outside
after they had left me. I tell you I was
pretty uncomfortable. Not only was I lying
bound hand and foot, unable to speak, and
suffering from the cut on my face, but I
realized that something dreadful was going to
happen to the special train— whcit, I could not
guess. Then I remembered how particular
the instructions had been, the secrecy, the
unusual precautions, and the urgent way in
which it had been laid down that the train
should not be one minute delayed in any
way.

“ I began to suffer agonies. What had
they meant by the bridge? Were they going
to wreck the train ? The latter seemed
impossible in view of the patrols. There
was only one bridge between Ash cabin and
Frambourne, and that was over the line
where a road crossed it. Close under this
bridge a platelayer had been
stationed, I knew. It was a
mystery.

“ And then as regarded my¬
self. When should I get free?

The head porter would come on
the platform about eleven. He
would try the door
and find it locked. I
should be unable to
answer him. He would
think I had gone up
the line, home —what
would he think ? I
struggled in my rage,
but it was useless.

“ So the time went
by. It seemed hours—

I heard the goods train
come in. 4 Tap, tap ! ’

The head porter was
knocking at the door.

444 Are you there,
sir ?’

44 No answer. He
shook the door.

44 4 That’s a rum go,’

I heard him exclaim,

as his steps retreated. Then my clock
struck eleven.

44 1 rolled over on the floor with a final
effort, and managed to get my feet against
the leg of the table. Why had I not thought
of it before ? I was wearing elastic-side
boots. Hurrah ! I wrenched one off by the
heel, then the other— then , with a supreme
effort, I wedged a coil of rope against the
table leg and tugged—lugged till I pulled
the skin off my heel, but the coil slipped
slowly over my foot. That loosened the rope
—kick, kick—in a few minutes I had kicked
myself free. My hands were still bound,
but I could use my feet, and I did. I banged
against the door with them with all my might
in the hopes of attracting attention from out¬
side. And I did.

4 4 4 Are you inside, sir ? ’ It was the head
porter’s voice.

4 4 4 Bang—thud ’—was all I could answer.

44 4 All right, sir, I don’t know what’s up,
but I’ll smash the door in, so look out! ’

44 In half a minute he was at work with
a platelayer’s crowbar. The door came
crashing in. A stream of light from his
lantern fell upon me. He took in the situa¬
tion at a glance, whipped out a knife and cut
the cords that bound my arms, and the hand¬
kerchief which the blackguards had stuffed
in my mouth.

c: HE TOOK IN THP SITUATION AT A GLANCE,’

5 2 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

44 4 For Heaven’s sake, what's the time ? ’ was
my first cry, heedless of his questions.

“ He flashed the lantern on the clock. A
quarter past eleven ! Ten minutes past by
the fight time. In thirteen minutes the
special was due ! What followed was an in¬
spiration. The head porter thought me mad
for a few minutes, and I could not even now
fully explain why I acted as I did. I only
felt that at all costs I must send a counterfeit
special on first.

“ 4 Rush to the signal cabin and keep back
the special till I come. Don’t stand there
staring like a fool, Gordon. Quick—don’t
let him take off the home signal ! ’

“ Then, scrambling across the lines and
points, I hurried towards the engine of the
goods train that was waiting in the siding.

44 4 Driver—driver ! ’ I cried.

“ ‘ Yes, sir.’

44 4 Put on fresh head-lights; you’ve got one
white one, get a green lamp lighted. Do
you hear ? And put the white one over it.
Quick, now! ’

“ 4 What’s the matter, sir ? ’ said the
astonished driver.

44 4 Never mind—only—are you prepared
to carry out orders at once ? ’

44 4 What are they, sir ? ’

44 4 Uncouple your engine, then back into
No. 2 siding, take on the three empty
passenger coaches there, and run on to
Frambourne with them without a moment’s
delay, at your highest speed.’

4 4 4 All right, sir,’ said the driver, producing
the head-light. 4 Uncouple her, J'im,’ he
added to the fireman.

44 1 was off like a shot to the signal box to
direct the slight shunting operation involved.
It was wonderfully quick work. At exactly
eighteen minutes past eleven the improvised
train steamed out of the siding on to the
down line. She was five minutes before the-
special. The signal-man saw something un¬
usual was the matter, and forbore from
asking questions, simply sending the 4 make
ready ’ signal to Ash cabin, and receiving
the usual replies. There was a telephone
to Ash, and I seized hold of it and gave
some directions.

4 4 4 1 suspect danger on the line between
you and Frambourne,’ I said, ‘and have
sent on a pilot train in front of special.
Get ready to receive special directly she
has passed, but hold up the special till you
hear from Frambourne that all is clear.
Tell Frambourne to shunt pilot train im¬
mediately on arrival.’

“ 4 AH right, sir ! ’ came the reply.

44 At the same moment there was an
ominous whistling in the distance.

44 ‘She wants the signal taken off,’ said the
signal-man, referring to the special.

44 4 She’ll have to wait, then.’

44 The head - lights appeared, slackening
down beyond the home-signal. Then came
the message from Ash cabin : 4 Line clear.’

44 Crash ! the lever was pulled, the special
came on, gathering speed as she passed.
There was a locomotive inspector on the
foot - plate of the engine, and I heard
him shout: 4 You’ll have to answer for
this ! ’

44 Then came a period of suspense, minute
after minute passed—then, at last, the 4 line
clear ’ signal from the block ahead. The
special had'passed Ash cabin. Several more
minutes—then a ring up on the telephone.

4 Pilot train has reached Frambourne, but
there’s something up. Line clear, and have
sent on special.’

44 Another pause, and then a telegraphic
message from Frambourne : 4 Your action
highly commendable. You have saved
special. Engine of pilot train returning on
up line for goods train. Driver will give
information.’

“You may be sure we waited in a
tension of excitement until that engine
arrived, travelling tender first. It was some
time before it did so, and when it came it
carried a. detective and an extra driver, for it
appears old Goodson had been too much
overcome to take his engine in hand. He
came into the little office, and told me the
following extraordinary story

44 4 When you sent me on with them three
empty passenger coaches,’ he said, 4 1 was
dazed like. I never even stopped to pick up
the brakesman. Then I begun to think
it out. I knew by the head-lights you
wanted me to pretend I was the special, and,
thinks I, there’s danger ahead, that’s it. So
1 kep’ a sharp look-out, not knowin’ what
might be on the line, though I knew ’twas
well guarded. It was fairish dark, too, and
I couldn’t see far ahead.

“‘Well, we passed Ash all right, and was
bowlin’ along for all the world like a racin’
train, when I see as I comes up to it the
outline of a couple o’ men standin’ on the
top of a bridge. It was all so sudden like
that I can’t tell exactly what happened, but
Joe, my fireman, sings out, as we passes
under the bridge, 44 Halloa,” and I see summat
failin’ on top o’ the train as I turns round to
look. Then there were a couple o’ awful
explosions, and a splinter o’ wood copped

SPECIAL WORKING INSTRUCTIONS .

me on the head. “ Go on,” ses Joe, as I put
my hand on the regulator, “ Go on,” ’e ses,
“ the bloomin’ train ain’t quite smashed up—
she’ll run all right.” So we ran on to Fram-
bourne, and there we finds that two carriages
were shivered about frightful. Lor’ bless us,

525

“Yes, it was true, I had saved the train
and its Royal—well, er—its important occu¬
pant. I was ill with brain fever for weeks
afterwards, but when I recovered I heard that
the wretches had never been caught. They
had evidently driven in a dog-cart from my

THERE WERE A COUPLE O* AWFUL EXPLOSIONS."

sir, if there’d been anyone in ’em they’d ha’
been killed for certain. They was a mass o’
splinters runnin’ on frames, that’s what they
was. You see what they’d done ? ’

“ ‘ Dropped explosives on the train from
the bridge ? ’ I gasped.

“ 4 Aye—they thought we was the special.
Ah, that was a sharp bit o’ work o’ yours,
sir.’

“ £ And the special ? ’

“ ‘ Oh, she come through all right, nearly
five minutes late. They won’t know what
happened till she gets to Porthaven. But
you saved her, sir.’

station to the bridge, and, owing to setting
their watch to my clock and the changed
head-lights on the goods engine, had imagined
the ‘ special ’ was running to time, and had
dropped two dynamite bombs on to the tops
of the empty coaches as they passed beneath
the bridge. The torn paper of working in¬
structions was found on the bridge, and, as
you see, I have it now. The other results of
that night were promotion to this junction,
and a beautiful diamond scarf-pin that was
sent me from-—well, er—Russia. Yes,
passengers sometimes tip even the station-
master ! ”

Illustrated Interviews.

LXVIL—THE LORD BISHOP OF LONDON.

By Rudolph de Cordova.

(With Photographs specially taken for this Article.)

RELATES are born as well
as made. The Right Rev.
Dr. Mandell Creighton, the
Bishop of London, might safely
be put into the former cate¬
gory. He was born to go into
the Church. Once in, it was as inevitable that
he should obtain distinction as that, in the
other walk of life in which he elected that
his footsteps should go, he should achieve
a foremost place—namely, as a historian.

I have in mind an afternoon a little time ago
when together we walked up and down the lawn
at the Palace, Fulham, whither I was graciously
bidden for the purpose of this interview.

“ What do you want to know ? ” said
his Lordship, as we
stepped on to the
grass.

“ Everything,” I re¬
plied, comprehensively.

His Lordship smiled.

He is a bishop with
a sense of humour, a
great sense of humour,
which is a saving
clause in everybody,
most of all in a bishop.

This, however, is a per¬
sonal impression, and
has nothing to do with
the interview. “ Every¬
th ing,” I repeated,
emphatically; “and, to
begin at the beginning,
tell me something of
your boyhood.”

“ There is very little
to tell,” replied his
Lordship. “ As you
probably know, I was
born in Carlisle in
1843, an d I was edu¬
cated at the Durham
Grammar School, after
which I went to Mer¬
ton College, Oxford,
where in due time I
became a Fellow and
then a tutor, and I
began to think that I
was destined to spend
my life as a tutor at
Oxford,”

“Your school days,” I interrupted: “was
there nothing in them of interest ? ”

“No, nothing,” answered the Bishop,
“ except that at school I learned a great deal
from the impressions of the place. The school
buildings lay high on the opposite bank of
the river to the Cathedral, which was always
before our eyes, with its beautiful suggestive¬
ness. We went to service there on Sundays,
and the music was a great source of artistic
education. My head master, Dr. Holden,
who is still alive, was a classical scholar to
the finger-tips, and his conversation was as
stimulating as his teaching. I botanized a
great deal, and as a consequence, though by
no means a solitary boy, I got into rambling

THE RIGHT REV. DR. MANDELL CREIGHTON, THE BISHOP OF LONDON,
From a Photo, by George Newnea , Limited,

ILLUSTRATED LNTERVIEWS.

5 2 7

From a Photo, by] the bishop’s palace, fulham. [Geo. Newnes, Ltd.

about alone, and to this, in part, is due the
habit I have always kept up of taking long
walks. Indeed, as a boy I had a real
delight in walking, and to-day I am perfectly
happy if I can get two hours’ tramping a
day, a difficult thing with the busy life that
one is forced to lead.”

“ But your school friends,” I queried;
“ are there none of them with whom you
have kept up an intercourse all your life ? ”

“ School is hardly the place for making
lasting friendships,” replied his Lordship ; “ it
is one’s college friends whom one is more
likely to keep during one’s life, although, of
course, school friends may become college
friends, and in that way keep up the old
relations. At college, among other men I
met Andrew Lang, who was at Balliol: he
was a great reader, and got a first class in
classics; Saintsbury, Professor of Rhetoric and
English Literature at the University of Edin¬
burgh ; Mr. Registrar Hood ; the Bishop of
Colombo; Dr. Wilson, the late Warden of
Keble College ; T. H. Ward and his wife,
Mrs. Plumphry Ward, whom I knew as a girl
when she was living at Oxford ; as well as J )r.
Woods, who has just resigned the Presidency
of Trinity College.”

“ Did you go in to any great extent for
athletics at Oxford ? ”

“ I rowed for four years in my college
boat, but I never got my Blue ; nor did I
ever play cricket or football, though I did
go in for the latter when I was at school*
The reason, perhaps, that I never played

cricket was the all-unconscious one that my
eyes were of a very different focus—a fact I
was destined to discover in a very dramatic
fashion.

“ I was lunching one Sunday with a friend,
and a German oculist was one of the com¬
pany. Suddenly, in the middle of lunch, I
found him looking intently at my eyes.
Presently he jumped up. ‘ Come to the
window,’ he said; ‘ come to the window.’
I went to the window. He looked at my
eyes closely, and said, ‘The sooner you go
to see an oculist the better,’ and he explained
what was the matter with me. The difference
in my eyes must have been marked, for
those were early days in the scientific study
of the eyes, which has since developed to
such an extent, yet he could distinguish it
without the use of instruments. I took his
advice and went to an oculist in Finsbury
Square. He gave me the spectacles which
I now use, and brought both my eyes to
work together, a fact which incidentally
explained to me how it was that 1 used
always to read with one eye closed, and that
I used often to see double.

“ Of course it was impossible for me to
play cricket with such eyes, and so I de¬
veloped walking as my exercise. I used to
take a train and go somewhere, and walk
through the villages, see the churches, study
the architecture, and speculate on the con¬
ditions of life which must have been the
outcome of these surroundings. This is a
way of looking at things which adds greatly

528

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

to the pleasure of walking, and I would
strongly advise everyone to cultivate this
habit. At college I, of course, read classics.
Merton was then a very small college indeed,
with a total of about fifty when I was an
undergraduate. It grew later on when I
became a tutor. Even then, however, it was
a very cosmopolitan place, made up of all
sorts of men, with all sorts of tastes. There
were rich men, poor men, reading men, idle
men, all meeting on terms of mutual respect
and with perfect frankness.”

“ What was the condition of life in Oxford
at that time?”

“The Tractarian wave, which had pre¬
viously been paramount in the University,
had given way to a wave of liberal thought,

and with a great taste in the selection of
their pictures.

. “ It was while I was a college tutor that I

took orders. Then came the crisis of my
life, when quite unexpectedly a country living
was offered to me. I was thirty-two at the
time, and I had to decide whether I would
stay at Oxford, where T was very happy
indeed, or go away from the University.

“ I felt, however, it was my duty to be a
parish priest, and so I went as vicar to
Embleton, in Northumberland. Another
motive for my accepting the living was that
I had then mapped out in my head the
history of the Papacy which I wanted to
write. I came to the conclusion that I
should have more chance of writing it in the

From a Photo, by] the bishop’s palace at FULHAM—from the grounds. [Geo. Neivnes, Ltd.

which was dominant although a trifle thin,
and was in its turn to be widened out into
the study of philosophy. There was still,
however, a great deal of interest in matters
ecclesiastical, but much more interest in
philosophy. It was a time when Mill’s
influence was high, and our discussions
chiefly related to his liberalism and his
philosophy.

“Side by side with that movement was
the aesthetic movement, which has produced
so great an effect in these later days, and of
which Pater may be taken as one of the
foremost examples and leaders. Form and
style in art under his leadership, and other
men’s, had already begun to influence the
lives of the undergraduates, and they showed
this in the way they decorated their rooms,
not in crazy or outre fashion, as in the days
of the dominance of the so-called aesthetic
cult, but with a proper regard for refinement,

quiet seclusion of a country vicarage than I
could at Oxford.

“At Embleton I spent ten years, and I
have no hesitation in saying that they were
the ten happiest years of my life. There I
got to know people, and to know English
people : two things,” said his Lordship, with
a laugh, “ which one does not learn at a
University. At Embleton I took a good
deal of interest in local business, and
became chairman of the Board of Guardians
and Sanitary Authority and School Attend¬
ance Committee; and I learnt a great deal
about local government and things of that
kind, which are useful preparation for ad¬
ministrative work. I assure you there is a
great deal of that required by a bishop, for
if he does not know the end of things to
take up he will get on very slowly indeed.
Most people, for instance, would be aston¬
ished to learn the amount of work that is

ILL USTRA TED INTERVIEWS.

5 2 9

From a Photo. hy\

THE PORTEUS LIBRARY.

[Geo. Neumes , Ltd.

required to be got through in the Diocese of
London. A man should know what can and
cannot be done, and the more legal ability
he has, the better.”

“Then it would be an advantage for a
bishop to be a lawyer ? ” I interrupted

“ Certainly, he will want all the law he can
possibly get. Every kind of knowledge is a
valuable thing for a bishop. The fault of
the clergy is that they are too thin-skinned.
To have to rub shoulders with people and
face facts as they are is an invaluable thing
for them. I remember once meeting a
clergyman who seemed to me ideal in tire
way in which he moved about among men, so
one day I asked him how he managed it. ‘ I
spent four years as a cowboy,’ he replied,
‘and that teaches you a good deal of human
nature.’ In Northumberland my neighbours
were Lord Grey on one side and Sir George
Grey on the other. They were both old at
the time I went there, and had retired from
public life. From the ripe political experience
of the latter, who was in my parish, and from
his knowledge of affairs I learnt a great deal
which has been of inestimable service to me
in later life. While I was in Northumberland
the Diocese of Durham was divided, and the
Bishopric of Northumberland was formed, in
connection with which work I had a good
deal to do.”

“ What caused you to leave Embleton ? ”

Vol. xviii.—67

“A new professorship had just been formed
at Cambridge—a chair of ecclesiastical his¬
tory. That was my particular subject, and I
had reached a period in my book when I
was getting stuck in Northumberland for the
want of access to libraries. 1 applied for the
post and was accepted, and in that way I
went to Cambridge.”

“ What first turned your attention to
history ? ” I asked, for, as everybody knows,
among modern historians the name of Dr.
Creighton takes a very high place indeed, as
it is now nearly a quarter of a century since
his first book on the subject, a Roman history
primer, was published.

“ Simply that I was wanted for historical
teaching when I became a tutor,” replied the
Bishop. “ At first it was ancient history,
then modern, which was just beginning to be
studied.”

“ What induced you to take up the history
of the Papacy ? ”

“ My interest tended largely to ecclesiastical
history, and finding there were no books in
English which dealt with the feud preced¬
ing the Reformation, I was led to take it up.”

“ Then the Papacy was undertaken largely
as a labour of love ? ”

“ Entirely,” said the Bishop. “ It isn’t
interesting,” and he laughed heartily as he
added, “ and I didn’t try to write it so as to
make it interesting. I cannot say,” he went

53o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

on, with the same bright smile playing over
his face, “ why anybody should read it unless
he wants to know about the matters contained
in it. I certainly did not try to write it for
any particular public, but simply to steep my¬
self in the events of the time and record
them as plainly as possible.”

“How did you go to work?” I queried,
getting more and more interested.

“ At first I projected a long preparation,
but while I was engaged in that, I received
from the widow of an old gentleman, whom
I had come across, a box containing all his
papers. I knew he had been projecting a
historical work, and I looked through his
papers with interest, but I could find in them
only the materials for one article in a
magazine. I was full of horror at the possi¬
bility of ending in the same way, so I began
to write at once, putting together completely
what I wished to say. Then, as I went on,
I kept altering what I had previously written.

“ From time to time I came to London to
the British Museum Library, the Record
Office, and other libraries in search of infor¬
mation, and I kept perpetually re-writing in
the light of increased knowledge. I don’t
know that anybody else ever wrote in that
particular way, but that was the way in which
the history of the Papacy was done. Two
volumes were written while I was at
Northumberland, two while I was professor
at Cambridge, and the fifth was finished at
Peterborough. I had thoughts of getting on
further, but these disappeared when I became
Bishop of London.

“ Do you mean that the book will never
be finished?” I asked, with something akin
to amazement in my voice.

“The book will never be finished,” the
Bishop replied, quietly, “ so far as its getting
further is concerned. I now have my nose
to the grindstone, and as I had reached a
place where I might stop, I laid down my
pen for good—so far as it relates to the history
of the Papacy.”

“ But your history of Queen Elizabeth ? ”

“ That was quite a different thing,” returned
his Lordship. Even his voice showed it. It
had in it a ring and a suggestion of lightness
which possibly he did not recognise, although
it was very marked indeed to me. “ When
I was at Cambridge I lectured on the reign
of Queen Elizabeth, and when I was asked
to write a life of Queen Elizabeth, by Messrs.
Bassod and Valladon, for their illustrated
life, I simply sat down and wrote it straight
off, without any references at all. That has
the advantage of being a little book on a big-

subject, which is not complicated, for I only
desired to bring out the broad lines, and
this I kept before me all the time.”

“ How long did it take?”

“ It was the work of my leisure moments
when I was at Peterborough, and I suppose
it took something like three or four months.”

“ What are your working habits?” I said,
endeavouring to raise the veil behind which
the worker hides himself from the public
gaze.

“ I don’t dictate ; I write myself with
my own hand, and with a pen, not a
pencil. The morning and afternoon are
my best times. I never have worked
late, and I always try to go to bed early,
as I want a good deal of sleep. I prefer
eight hours, but I take what I can get.
I never work before breakfast, but I find
that I work best on very light food. A cup
of tea, an egg, and a slice of toast is my meal
when I am writing hard, for I think, when
one has much to do, the less one eats the
better. My big meal at these times is dinner,
when my work for the day is over. Another
point which is, perhaps, important is that
work rarely worries me. 1 dismiss it from
my mind when I have done with it, although
of course there are some problems which one
keeps in the pigeon-holes of one’s brain to
think about when one has time.”

In the work of every worker there must
assuredly be someone who has more or less
influenced him, so my next question was,
“ Who has influenced you most in your life ? ”

“ Caird, my tutor at Oxford,” replied the
Bishop, unhesitatingly, “ with his views on
philosophy. That was the most valuable
thing I learnt during my University career.
Later on in life Lord Acton, with whom I
got into correspondence after the publication
of the first volume of my Papacy, influenced
me greatly. His large views of the princi¬
ples to be followed in judging the past taught
me a good deal. Among writers Rancke
holds a foremost place in his influence over
me, from the thoroughness of his method,
and his view of what might be called histori¬
cal causation. Browning, too, has influenced
me as he has influenced everybody else.
The thing which especially appeals to me in
his work is his philosophical view of motives
as embodied in character. Everybody who
writes history must try to grasp character
as much as possible.”

“That is why history-as taught at school
is invariably so uninteresting to the school¬
boy that it is made up of matters rather
than of men.”

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

53i

“ Precisely,” and the Bishop smiled ; “ his¬
torical writing seems to me to require many
of the qualities which are necessary for the
making of a good novelist. How can one
begin to write about a man until one knows
his character, and that character must be
consistent first of all? You want to know
everything which can throw light on that
character, and therefore arises the necessity
of studying whatever has been written on the
subject.”

“ Will you take up the story of your life
from the time you went to Cambridge until
now ? ”

“ Certainly, though there is not very

wanted to go on with my book. I have
always thought, however, that if a man is in
service he must go where he is told to go.
Accordingly, to Peterborough I went, and I
may say that I didn’t find the work so
uncongenial as I had supposed it would be.

“ When Archbishop Benson died and the
Bishop of London was made Archbishop of
Canterbury I was sent here, and here I came.
I do not think that there is another place so
hard-worked as the Bishopric of London. It
practically includes all Middlesex, with a
population of four million souls. It is the
largest of all the sees so far as population is
concerned, but the smallest in area. This

From a Photo, by]

THE HALL—FORMERLY THE CHAPEL.

[Geo. Neumes, Ltd.

much to tell. In 1885 Mr. Gladstone
offered me a canonry at Worcester. At
that time I was Dixie Professor of
Ecclesiastical History in the University of
Cambridge, which position I held for seven
years. I accepted the canonry, where I
spent half the year, the other half being at
Cambridge, and as I had plenty to do at
both places my life was pretty busy between
them. In 1890 Lord Salisbury requested
me to transfer myself from the canonry of
Worcester to Windsor, but before I had gone
there he offered me the Bishopric of Peter¬
borough. This was seriously against my
will. There was nothing 1 wanted to be less
than a bishop. I was happy as I was, and I

latter fact is one of the factors which make it
so very hard, for other bishops go on tour
and stay away, while most of my business
engagements are in London, and I have to
get back at night. Often for weeks together
I do not have a single evening at home, and
that I find a very trying thing.”

“There is a popular impression that a
bishop’s life is not a very hard-worked one.”

“ I know there is,” said the Bishop, laugh¬
ing. “Unfortunately my experience does
not bear out the popular idea. Last year,
for instance, I kept a record of certain of
my duties, and I found that my speeches,
sermons, and addresses amounted to two
hundred and eighty-eight during the course

53 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

From a Photo, by] the present chapel. [Geo. Nelimes, Ltd.

of the twelvemonth. Taking out the time
for a holiday, they average nearly one a day.
Then, again, my letters average sixty a day,
or nearly twenty thousand a year, and they
have to be read and answered. As for com¬
mittees, they are simply endless. I have no
idea how many I sat on last year. I have
one every week at the Ecclesiastical Com¬
mission, no session of which lasts less than
three hours, and I am on such other com¬
mittees as the Queen Anne’s Bounty lind the
Committee of the British Museum ; I am a
trustee of the National Portrait Gallery,
which, however, is an amusement rather
than a work, from its historical interest; a
Governor of the Charterhouse by reason of
my position as Bishop of London ; I am
on the Council of Marlborough College; a
Governor of Selwyn College, Cambridge; I
am on the council of King’s College, and so
on. In addition, I have to attend the meet¬
ings of the various diocesan societies, the
Bishop of London’s Fund, and others; and
this year I have been sitting on the London
University Commission.

“ These, however, are only part of my
public appearances, which are always going
on, and recently I have had a great deal to
do with the Peace Congress and the crusade
against the Sunday papers. Then I have
four ordinations in the year, and the number
of candidates for these is very large. Yet
each candidate must be seen by me and their

examinations super¬
vised, while they all
come here and
spend a few days
with me before
their ordination.
As soon as one
ordination is
over I have to
begin to see the
candidates for the
next, so that my
work in this re¬
spect can never be
said to be finished.
The amount of
diocesan business
to be done in the
year is very large,
and the confiden¬
tial relationship
in which I stand
with a large num¬
ber of people who
are constantly ask¬
ing for advice de¬
mands a large amount of thought.”

“ How do you find time to prepare your
speeches and addresses ? ”

“ I don’t; I rarely have time to prepare
them as carefully as I could wish, and
very frequently they are made up in the
carriage when I am going to some place.
On this point I will make a confession to
you. There is nothing more bewildering
to anybody who has to make many ad¬
dresses than the way in which some attract
attention and others do not. It seems to be
quite an arbitrary proceeding. The other day,
for instance, I was asked to give away the
prizes at the Philological School in the Mary-
lebone Road. I had been very busy, so I
went there with an open mind.

“ I said to the head master when I arrived :
£ Is there anything you would particularly
like me to speak about ? ’

“ He replied : ‘ The value of literary
interest in education seems to me to be worth
emphasizing.’

“ So on the spur of the moment I developed
that idea. I thought there were no reporters
there, but only a few boys and their parents.
Yet I was surprised to find myself not only
reported but commented on. It frequently
happens like that, but frequently also the
other way : when one is speaking of things
that one would like reported, in order that
one’s ideas might be spread, no reporter is
there. There is another point, too, in con-

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

533

nection with one’s speeches which is curious,
and which continually happens. This is, a
condensed report is given, which takes an
isolated sentence out of its context, and so
misrepresents one’s meaning. Indeed, those
are the things that are most commented
upon.

“ I remember a speech I delivered in the
House of Lords a little while ago, when I
said that I had forbidden a clergyman to give
in his parish devotional books not written by
members of his own Communion. I then
said, parenthetically, that this was the only
form in which I could give a general direction,
yet it was open to the objection that it might
exclude a work written by a pious Noncon¬
formist, which might be entirely free from
exception. The report in the Times news¬
paper ran, ‘ What would be said if books
were distributed written by Nonconformists ? ’
Another journal, following this report,
actually had a leading article on my sar¬
casm ! Whereas my meaning simply was to
point out the difficulties of framing general
rules which were applicable to all cases. Of
course it continually happens that a separate
sentence of one’s utterances is being com¬
mented on. I should say that if you wish
to avoid misrepresentation it is well to speak
in very long sentences, with many paren¬
theses, and never to say anything without
qualifications.”

“ Popular impression credits bishops with
being very rich men ? ”

“ I know it does,” the Bishop replied,
“ but I never was in debt till I became
Bishop of London. As I got up in the
world I found increasing difficulties in keep
ing out of debt, but now I am hopelessly
involved ”—this with a delightful laugh, and
his Lordship went on : “A bishop is the
merest distributing agent of the salary he
receives.”

“Wasn’t it Archbishop Tait who said that
he never was a poor man until he became
Archbishop of Canterbury ? ”

“ Yes,” replied his Lordship ; “ and you
remember the famous conundrum about
Archbishop Langley ? ‘ Why was he like

Homer?’ and the answer, ‘Because he lost
so much by translation.’

“ There is one advantage which a bishop’s
life has, however, and that is that from time
to time it enables one to do some simple
kindly actions to many people ”—[In a
mental parenthesis I included this interview]
—and his Lordship added : “ The longer one
lives the more one feels that the possibility of
doing that is all you can get out of life.”

Everybody remembers that the Bishop of
London represented the English Church at
the Coronation of the Czar, so I asked his
Lordship what his impressions were on the
subject.

“I learnt more from going to Russia
than from anything else that has hap¬
pened to me. I have two things to be
thankful for for getting me out of ruts.
There is a great temptation to us to be
absorbed in the particular interests of our
own life, so that we shrink from changing
them. I, however, was sent to the United
States when I was at Cambridge to represent
my college at the celebration of the two
hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the
founding of Harvard by John Harvard, who
was a Fellow of Emmanuel College. That
taught me a good deal about America which
I am very glad to have learnt.

“Then I was sent to Russia by the late
Archbishop of Canterbury in the same way.
I went in entire ignorance of Russian affairs,
and was immensely impressed by coming in
contact with Slavonic civilization. I learnt
what an important element it was in the
future of the world. I had always supposed
before, as most Englishmen do who are
ignorant of the subject, that Russian civiliza¬
tion was Western civilization retarded. But
I found it was something quite different, and
would develop in future upon its own lines.
The whole aspect of Russia and the temper
of its people are unlike those of the West,
and its capacity for assimilating Oriental
nations and adapting itself more readily
to their requirements impressed me very
much. I certainly came to the conclu¬
sion that greater sympathy between the
two peoples was most desirable. As far as
the popular side of the show went, I think
our Jubilee procession was a finer exhibition
than that connected with the coronation,
but the coronation was a thing quite by
itself.”

Everyone knows the interest which the
Bishop of London takes in the temperance
movement, so I asked him how long he had
been a teetotaler and what induced him to
become one.

“ I am not a teetotaler,” replied his Lord-
ship, “ and I never have been except for
short periods together. I maintain, how¬
ever, very strongly that people should not
take alcohol, as I believe that the less
people drink the better it is, and the
expenditure which could be saved on an
article that people can do very well without
would be considerable. I find it difficult,

534

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

however, for people to change their habits
when they are leading a busy life, and
personally I have never been able to find
it easy to change my habits. In the temper¬
ance movement, however, there are two im¬
portant things to consider. One is the
suppression of drunkenness, and the other is
the suppression of drink. All people ought
to combine for the former of these purposes,
which is, after all, the- great end in view in the
matter. I think that the Church of England
Temperance Society has done more than any
other society in the way of educating public
opinion on this point, because it is willing to

Then we passed to the subject of the
theatre, for the Church and the Stage are
coming closer and closer in their relation to
each other.

“ I think the drama is an admirable form
of popular teaching as well as amusement,”
said the Bishop. “ I do not often go to the
theatre myself, however, for personally I
prefer good plays, by which I mean plays
which have a literary merit in them, and
these are not numerous. Most modern plays
do not lay themselves out for literature, but
in this respect they are only like a good deal
of modern literature which deserts the broad

From a Photo, by \ the bishop’s farm. [Geo. Ketones, Lid.

pursue that end by all possible means in its
power.”

During the course of our talk the Bishop
had lighted and smoked a cigarette, so I
concluded he did not hold any adverse
opinions on smoking. I broached the subject,
and with a laugh, which showed his intense
human sympathy and his exquisite sense of
humour, he said, “ I think that tobacco is a
very bad habit, which I would advise nobody
to cultivate. I find, however, that as I am of
a nervous temperament, smoking soothes me,
and in addition it helps one side of my work.
It promotes more intimate conversation
between men, and intimate conversation
reveals character. I do not smoke, however,
or very rarely, when I am actually writing,
because then I am actively doing something,
and the period of contemplation which it
aids is past.”

line of human interest and character, and
goes in for small situations. More than the
drama, however, music interests me.”

“ What sort of music ? ” I inquired.
“ Ecclesiastical ? ”

“ I draw no line between ecclesiastical and
non-ecclesiastical music,” said the Bishop,
breaking in, “ the only difference I make in
music is between good and bad, though
I confess I like the old better than the
modern.”

“ How does music affect you ? ” I asked.
“ Does it stimulate you emotionally, or help
you to work better and quicker ? ”

“ Music does not affect me either intellec¬
tually or emotionally, only pleasurably. I
think that every art ought to keep within its
own realms, and music is concerned with
pleasing combinations of sound. If it
attempts to regulate this either emotionally

ILLUSTRATED INTER VIE WS.

535

or intellectually, I think it is leaving its
proper province. I like all art to be large,
clear, and simple, and I object to complica¬
tions.”

“ That is the reason why you took up
historical literature, which is probably the
most complicated of all writing ? ”

“ Precisely,” said the Bishop, laughing;
“ but, you see, one is always trying to get rid
of the complications, and make it all simple
and clear.”

A man’s play is always as characteristic as
a man’s work, so I thought that for the
benefit of the readers of The Strand
Magazine I 'would pry into the other side of
the Bishop’s life, and I asked a question
about relaxing pursuits.

“ My holiday is taken travelling. That
habit was acquired when I was a young man
at college, and I found it a great stimulus to
my knowledge of history, as by my travels I
also got my knowledge of art. At first I
travelled in Germany, and I think that no¬
where can a man learn so much of the mean¬
ing of sculpture as at Munich. After
Germany I went to Italy, where from the very
first I got an interest in Italian literature and
Italian history. Since then it has been my
habit to travel in Italy, and I still go there.

“ At first, of course, I went to all the big
places, and to a certain extent I could
regulate my travels in a way which is impos¬
sible now, for I cannot choose my time for
holiday-making, and must go when every¬
body else is going—in August and Sep¬
tember. This is a great inconvenience to
me, because I must go in the hot months,
and I cannot go to the South of Italy.
Besides, the fact of my having to live in
London among so many people makes me
want to take my holiday where I can be as
alone as possible, and especially where there
are no English people. The consequence
is, I hide myself in little Italian villages
in the north of the country, and especially
places where people, as a rule, do not go
at all.”

“ What do you do during your holiday ? ”

“ I simply prowl about the hills and lie
out of doors as much as possible, and do
absolutely nothing. I find that when the
time for my holiday comes I need to lay up
a store of health for the next year’s work,
and that I am totally unfit for doing any
serious work beyond what is absolutely
necessary.”

“ Then you do not do any of your own
literary work during your holiday?”

“ Working is almost entirely out of the
question, and research is impossible, while
during the year the work of the see is so
enormous that I not only have no margin of
time, but absolutely a minus quantity.”

“ But you have visited other countries
besides Germany and Italy ? ”

“ Oh, yes. I have been to Spain, Algeria,
and Dalmatia, as well as to Russia and
America. I have never, however, been able
to go to Palestine or Egypt, and I fear that
they are likely to be closed books to me, for
I cannot get away in the winter, and it is im¬
possible to go to them in the summer. From
my travels I have always felt that I have learnt
much from the different ways of looking at
things, which is the most valuable possession
one can have. The capacity for looking at
things from the outside, and comparing
English ways and fashions with those of
other people, is a most valuable source of
education which should be cultivated by
everyone. By travelling I learnt my foreign
languages, for I never liked to go abroad
without knowing something of the language,
so as to be able to talk to the people and
discover from them their ways and methods
of looking at things.”

Some curious stories have been told of the
Bishop of London’s sense of humour. One
of these is to the effect that on one occasion
he was staying with some friends who
possessed a haunted room. This they put
him into, and next morning on his appearance
at breakfast, his hostess asked him if he had
seen the ghost. “ Oh, yes,” he replied, “ he
came, but I asked him for a subscription for
the restoration of Peterborough Cathedral,
and he vanished immediately.”

I referred to this story. The Bishop
laughed. “ I am afraid there is no truth
whatever in it,” he said. “ Stories are always
floating about the world, and are always
passed from one individual to another. That
one is a regular Joe Miller. My predecessor
in the See of Peterborough was a well-known
wit, and so many stories gathered round him
which were not true of him. When I became
Bishop of Peterborough they were attached
to me with as much truth, and I am afraid,
so far as I am personally concerned, that the
readers of The Strand Magazine must go
without any funny stories.”

Whether this was a subtle hint or not, I
took it and my hat, and departed from
Fulham, with its quiet garden, to get back
to the rush and turmoil of the Strand and its
neighbourhood.

A Master of Craft.

By W. W. Jacobs.

XIII.

N happy ignorance that the
late master of the Foam
had secured a suite of rooms
at the Blue Posts Hotel,
the late mate returned to
London by train with a view
of getting into communication with him as
soon as possible. The delay occasioned by
his visit to Bittlesea was not regretted; Mr.
Fraser senior having at considerable trouble
and expense arranged for him to take
over the Swallow at the end of the week.

Owing to this rise in his
fortune he was in fairly good
spirits, despite the slur upon

“ The mate’s down below, sir,” said Mr.
William Green in reply to Fraser. “ I shall
be pleased to fetch him.”

He walked aft and returned shortly,
followed by Ben, who, standing stiffly before
his predecessor, listened calmly to his
eager inquiry about his letter.

“ No, there’s been nothing for you,” he
said, slowly. He had dropped the letter
overboard as the simplest way of avoiding
unpleasantness. “ Was you expecting one ? ”
Fraser, gazing blankly at him, made
no reply, being indeed staggered by the
thoroughness with which he
imagined the wily Flower
was playing his part.

'“THE mate’s DOWN BEI.OW, SIR,’ SAID MR. WILLIAM GREEN.”

his character, as he made his way down to
the wharf. The hands had knocked off work
for the day, and the crew of the schooner
having finished their tea were sprawling
in the bows smoking in such attitudes of
unstudied grace as best suited the contours
of their figures. Joe looked up as he
approached, and removing his pipe murmured
something inaudible to his comrades.

“ He’s going to be lost his full six months,
that’s evident,” he thought, in consternation.
“He must have seen the way I should be
affected ; it would serve him right to
tell the whole thing right away to Captain
Barber.”

“ If anything does come I’ll send it on to
you,” said Ben, who had been watching him
closely.

Copyright, 1899, by W. W. Jacobs, in the United States of America.

A MASTER OF CRAFT

53 7

“ Thanks/’ said Fraser, pondering, and
walked away with his eyes on the ground.
He called in at the office as he.passed it;
the staff had gone, but the letter-rack which
stood on the dusty, littered mantelpiece was
empty, and he went into the street again.

His programme for the evening thus sud¬
denly arrested, he walked slowly up Tower
Hill into the Minories, wondering what to do
with himself. Something masquerading as a
conscience told him severely that he ought
to keep his promise to the errant Flower
and go and visit Poppy; conscience without
any masquerading at all told him he was a
humbug, and disclaimed the responsibility.
In the meantime he walked slowly in the
direction of Poplar, and having at length
made up a mind which had been indulging
in civil war all the way, turned up Liston
Street and knocked at the Wheelers’ door.

A murmur of voices from the sitting-room
stopped instantly. A double knock was a
rare occurrence on that door, and was usually
the prelude to the sudden disappearance of
the fairer portion of the family, while a small
boy was told off to answer it, under dire
penalties if he officiated too soon.

This evening, however, the ladies had
made their toilet, and the door was opened
after a delay merely sufficient to enable them
to try and guess the identity of the guest
before the revelation. Poppy Tyrell opened
it, and turned upon him eyes which showed
the faintest trace of surprise.

“ Good evening,” said Fraser, holding out
his hand.

“ Good evening,” said the girl.

“ Fine weather we’re having,” said the
embarrassed ex-mate, “for June,” he added,
in justification of the remark.

Miss Tyrell assented gravely, and stood
there waiting.

It is probable that two members at least
of the family would have been gratified by
the disappearance of the caller then and
there, but that Mr. Wheeler, a man of great
density and no tact whatever, came bustling
out into the passage, and having shaken
hands in a hearty fashion, told him to put
his hat on a nail and come in.

“No news of the cap’n, I suppose?” he
asked, solemnly, after Fraser was comfortably
seated.

“ Not a word,” was the reply.

The dock-foreman sighed and shook his
head as he reflected on the instability of
human affairs. “ There’s no certainty about
anything,” he said, slowly. “Only yesterday
I was walking down the Commercial Road,

Vol. xviii.—68.

and I slipped orf the curb into the road
before you could say Jack Robinson.”

“Nearly run over?” queried Fraser.

Mr. Wheeler shook his head. “ No,” he
said, quietly.

“ Well, what of it? ” inquired his son.

“ It might just as well have been the edge
of the dock as the curb ; that’s what I mean,”
said Mr. Wheeler, with a gravity befitting his
narrow escape.

“ I’m alwis telling you not to walk on the
edge, father,” said his wife, uneasily.

The dock-foreman smiled faintly. “Booty
must be done,” he said, in a firm voice. “ I’m
quite prepared, my life’s insured, and I’m on
the club, and some o’ the children are getting
big now, that’s a comfort.”

A feeling of depression settled on all
present, and Augustus Wheeler, aged eight,
having gleaned from the conversation that his
sire had received instructions, which he
intended promptly to obey, to fall into the
dock forthwith, suddenly opened his mouth
and gave vent to his affection and despair
in a howl so terrible that the ornaments on
the mantlepiece shook with it.

“ Don’t scold ’im,” said the dock-foreman,
tenderly, as Mrs. Wheeler’s thin, shrill voice
entered into angry competition with the
howl; “ never mind, Gussie, my boy, never
mind.”

This gentleness had no effect, Gussie con¬
tinuing to roar with much ardour, but watch¬
ing out of the corner of one tear-suffused
eye the efforts of his eldest sister to find her
pocket

“ Hold your noise and I’ll give you a
ha’penny,” she said, tartly.

Gussie caught his breath with a sob, but
kept steam up, having on some similar
occasions been treated with more diplomacy
than honesty. But to-day he got the half¬
penny, together with a penny from the visitor,
and, having sold his concern in his father for
three halfpence, gloated triumphantly in a
corner over his envious peers.

“ Death,” said Mr. Wheeler, slowly, after
silence had been restored, “ is always sudden.
The most sudden death I knew ’appened to
a man who’d been dying for seven years.
Nobody seemed to J be able to believe he’d
gone at last.”

“ It’s a good job he wasn’t married,” said
Mrs. Wheeler, raising herself on her elbow;
“ sailors ’ave no right to marry at all. If I
thought that one o’ my gals was goin’ to
marry a sailor, I don’t know what I shouldn’t
do. Something steady on shore is the
thing.”

538

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“I don’t know,” said the tactless Mr.
Wheeler. “ I think if I was a gal I should
like to marry a sailor; there’s something
romantic about them. I often wish I’d been
a sailor.”

“ Then you wouldn’t ’ave ’ad me,” said
the lady from the sofa, grimly.

Mr. Wheeler sighed, but whether at the
thought of what he might have lost or what
he had gained, cannot be safely determined.
Still in a morbid mood,
he relapsed into silence,
leaving Fraser to glance
anxiously to where Poppy,
pale and pretty, sat listen¬
ing to the clumsy overtures
of Mr. Bob Wheeler.

“ I might ’ave ’ad two
or three sailors if I’d
liked,” continued Mrs.

Wheeler, musingly, “ but
I wouldn’t.”

Fraser mur¬
mured his ad¬
miration at her
firmness.

“ There was
Tom Rogers, ’e
was the first,”
said Mrs.

Wheeler; “ you
remember ’im,
father?”

“ Chap with
bow legs and a
squint, wasn’t
he ? ” said the
dock - foreman,
anxious to
please.

“ I never saw
’im squint,” said
his wife, sharply.

“Then there
was Robert
Moore—he was
number two, I
think.”

“ ’Ad a wife
a’ready,” said

Mr. Wheeler, turning to the visitor;
a bright lot, ’e was.”

“ I don’t know what they saw in me, I’m
sure,” said Mrs. Wheeler, with a little modest
laugh ; “it wasn’t my good looks, I’m sure.”

“ You ’ad something better than good
looks, my dear,” said the dock - foreman,
affectionately, “something what’s wore better.”

Mrs. Wheeler turned on the sofa, and

detecting Gussie in the act of using his mouth
as a money-box, upbraided him shrilly and
sent him into a corner. She then brought
sundry charges of omission and commission
against the other children, until the air was
thick with denials and explanations, in the
midst of which Fraser turned towards Poppy.

“ I want to have a few minutes’ talk with
you, Miss Tyrell,” he said, nervously.

The girl looked up at him. “ Yes,” she
said, gravely.

“I mean
alone,” con¬
tinued the
other, marvel¬
ling at his hardi-
hood; “it’s
private.”

He lowered
his voice from
a shout to its
normal tone as
Emma Wheeler
in self-defence
opened the door
and drove the
small fry out.

“ I’ve not got
my rooms now,”
said the girl,
quietly.

“Well, my
dear-,” be¬

gan the dock-
foreman.

“Don’t inter¬
fere, father,”
said Mrs.
Wheeler, some¬
what sharply.
“I’m sure Mr.
Fraser needn’t
mind saying
anything before
us. It’s nothing
he’s ashamed
of, I’m sure.”

“Certainly
not,” said Fraser,
sternly, “but
it’s quite private for all that. Will you put
your hat on and come out a little way, Miss
Tyrell ? ”

“That I’m sure she won’t,” said the
energetic Mrs. Wheeler. “She’s that par¬
ticular she won’t even go out with Bob, and
they’re like brother and sister almost. Will
she, Bob ? ”

Mr. Bob Wheeler received the appeal

A MASTER OF CRAFT

539

somewhat sullenly, and in a low voice re¬
quested his parent not to talk so much.
Fraser watching Poppy closely saw with some
satisfaction a tinge of colour in her cheek,
and what in any other person he would have
considered a very obstinate appearance about
her shapely chin.

“ I’ll get my hat on if you’ll wait a minute,”
she said, quietly.

She rose and went upstairs, and Fraser
with a cheerful glance at Mrs. Wheeler
entered into conversation with her husband
about overside work in the docks, until the
door was pushed open a little to reveal Miss
Tyrell ready for walking.

They walked on for some little time in
silence. The sun had set, and even in the
close streets of Poplar the evening air was
cool and refreshing. When this fact had
thoroughly impressed itself on Mr. Fraser’s
mind he communicated it to Miss Tyrell.

“ It’s very pleasant,” she answered, briefly.

fact, and stepping out into the road to avoid
spoiling a small maiden’s next move at “ hop¬
scotch,” returned to the pavement to listen
to a somewhat lengthy dissertation upon the
game in question.

“What did you want to say to me?” she
asked at length, turning and regarding him.

“ In the first place,” said Fraser, “ I wanted
to tell you that, though nothing has been
heard of Captain Flower, I feel certain in
my own mind that he has not been drowned.”

Miss Tyrell shook her head slowly.

“ Then I ought to tell you that I have left
the Foam” continued the other. “I think
that there is some idea that I knocked Flower
overboard to get his place.”

The girl turned quickly, and her face
flushed. “ How absurd,” she said, indig¬
nantly, and her manner softened.

“Thank you,” said Fraser. “ If you don’t
believe it, I don’t care what anybody else
thinks.”

“ WHAT A TREMENDOUS LOT OF CHILDREN THERE ARE ABOUT HERE.”

“ What was it you wanted to talk to me
about ?”

“About a lot of things,” said Fraser.
“What a tremendous lot of children there
are about here.”

Miss Tyrell coldly admitted an obvious

Miss Tyrell, looking straight in front of
her, stole a glance at this easily-satisfied
young man from the corner of her eye. “ I
should never expect to hear of you doing
anything wicked,” she said. Fraser thanked
her again, warmly. “ Or venturesome,”

540

THE STEAND MAGAZINE,

added Miss Tyrell, thoughtfully. “ You’re
not the kind.”

They walked on in silence ; indignant
silence on the part of the ex-mate.

“ Then you are out of a berth ? ” said
Poppy, not unkindly.

Fraser shook his head and
explained. “ And I told my
father about you,” he added,
nervously. “ He knew Flower
very well, and he told me to say
that he would be very pleased
and proud if you would come
down and stay with him at
Bittlesea for a time.”

“ No, thank you,” said Miss
Tyrell.

“ The air would do you good,”
persisted Fraser; “ you could

come down by train or come
down with me on the Sivalloiv
next week.”

Miss Tyrell repeated her re¬
fusal. “ I must stay in London,
and get something else to do,”
she said, quietly.

“ What do you think of
doing ? ” inquired Fraser.

“Anything I can get,” was the
reply.

“And in the meantime-”

he began, nervously.

“In the meantime I’m living
on the Wheelers,” said the girl,
pressing her lips together; “that
was what you were going to say,
wasn’t it ? ”

good-bye. Her face softened as she shook
hands, and in the depths of her dark eyes as
they met his he fancied that he saw a little
kindness. Then the door opened, and,
before he could renew his invitation, closed
behind her as rapidly
as Mr. Bob Wheeler
could perform the
feat.

XIV.

When the tide is up
and the sun shining
Seabridge has attrac¬

HE FANCIED THAT HE SAW A LITTLE KINDNESS.

“ I was not going to say any¬
thing of the kind,” said Fraser, warmly. “ I
was not thinking of it.”

“ Well, it’s true,” said Poppy, defiantly.

“ It isn’t true,” said Fraser, “ because you
will pay them back.”

“ Shall we turn back ? ” said the girl.

Fraser turned and walked beside her, and,
glancing furtively at the pale, proud face,
wondered how to proceed.

“ I should be delighted if you would come
to Bittlesea,” he said, earnestly, “and I’m
sure if Flower should ever turn up again he
would say it was the best thing you could
have done.”

“Thank you, but I prefer to stay here,”
was the reply, “and I don’t wish to be
ungrateful, but I wish that people would not
trouble me with their charity.”

She walked on in silence, with her face
averted, until they reached Liston Street,
and, stopping at the door, turned to bid him

tions which make the absence of visitors
something of a marvel to the inhabitants.
A wandering artist or two, locally known
as “painter-chaps,” certainly visit it, but
as they usually select subjects for their
canvases of which the progressive party
of the town are heartily ashamed, they are
regarded as spies rather than visitors, and
are tolerated rather than welcomed. To a
citizen who has for a score of years regretted
the decay of his town, the spectacle of a
stranger gloating over its ruins and perpetua¬
ting them on canvas is calculated to excite
strong doubts as to his mental capacity and
his fitness to be at large.

On a summer’s evening, when the tide is
out and the high ground the other side of
the river is assuming undefinable shadows,
the little town has other charms to the
meditative man. Such life as there is is
confined to the taverns and the two or three

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

54i

“they are regarded as spies.”

narrow little streets which comprise the town.
The tree-planted walk by the river is almost
deserted, and the last light of the dying day
is reflected in the pools and mud left by the
tide.

Captain Nibletts, slowly pacing along and
smoking his pipe in the serenity of the even¬
ing, felt these things dimly. His gaze
wandered from a shadowy barge crawling
along in mid-cnannel to the cheery red blind
of the Boatman’s Arms, and then to the
road in search of Captain Barber, for whom
he had been inquiring since the morning. A
stout lady stricken in years sat on a seat over¬
looking the river, and the mariner, with a
courteous salutation, besought her assistance.

“ I’ve been looking for him myself,” said
Mrs. Banks, breathlessly, “and now my
Elizabeth’s nowhere to be found. She’s been
out since two o’clock this afternoon.”

Nibletts pointed up the road with his pipe.
“ I see her only ten minutes ago with young
Gibson,” he said, slowly.

“ Which way was they going ?” demanded
the old lady, rising.

“ I don’t know,” said Nibletts. “ I don’t
think they knew either, an’ what’s more, I
don’t think they cared.”

The old lady resumed her seat, and,
folding her hands in her lap, gazed in a
troubled fashion across the river, until the
figure of another woman coming along
the walk brought her back to everyday
affairs.

“ Why, it’s Mrs. Church,” said Nibletts.
“He’s nowhere to be found,” he shouted,
before she reached them.

“ He ? ” said the widow, slowly. “ Who ? ”

“ Cap’n Barber,” replied the mariner.

“Oh, indeed,” she said, politely. “Good
evening, Mrs. Banks.”

Mrs. Banks returned the courtesy. “ It
looks as though Cap’n Barber has run away,”
she said, with attempted jocularity.

Mrs. Church smiled a superior smile.
“ He is not far off,” she said, quietly.

“Resting, I suppose,” said Mrs. Banks,
with intent.

Mrs. Church took higher ground. “Of
course this sad affair has upset him terribly,”
she said, gravely. “ His is a faithful nature,
and he can’t forget. How is Miss Banks
bearing up ? ”

Mrs. Banks, looking up suspiciously, said,
“ Wonderful, considering,” and relapsed into
silence until such time as her foe should
give her an opening. Mrs. Church took a
seat by her side, and Nibletts, with a feeling
of something strained in the atmosphere for
which he could not account, resumed his
walk.

He was nearly up to Captain Barber’s
house when he saw a figure come out of the
lane by the side, and after glancing furtively
in all directions make silently for the door.
The watching Nibletts quickening his pace
reached it at almost the same moment.

“ Mrs. Banks is looking for you,” he said,
as he followed him into the parlour.

Captain Barber turned on him a weary eye,
but made no reply.

“ And Mrs. Church, too; at least, I think
so,” continued the other.

“Cap’n Nibletts,” said the old man, slowly,
“ I ’ope you’ll never live long enough to be
run arter in the way I’m run arter.”

The astonished mariner murmured humbly
that he didn’t think it was at all likely, and

542

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

also that Mrs. Nibletts would probably have
a word or two to say in the matter.

“ From the moment I get up to the
moment I get to bed, I’m run arter,” con¬
tinued the hapless Barber. “ Mrs. Church
won’t let me go out of ’er sight if she can
help it, and Mrs. Banks is as bad as she is.
While they was saying nice things to each
other this morning in a nasty way, I managed
to slip out.”

“ Well, why not get rid o’ Mrs. Church ? ’’
said the simple Nibletts.

“ Rid o’ Mrs. Church ! ” repeated Captain
Barber, aghast; “ why don’t you get rid o’
your face, Nibletts?” he asked, by way of
comparison merely.

“ Because I don’t want to,” replied the
other, flushing.

“ Because you can't” said Captain Barber,
emphatically. “And no more can’t I get rid
of ’er. You see, I ’appened to take a little
notice of ’er.”

“ Oh, well,” said the other, and sighed and
shook his head discouragingly.

“ I took a little notice of ’er,” repeated
Captain Barber, “and then to
spare ’er feelings I ’ad to sort
o’ let ’er know that I could never
marry for Fred’s sake, d’ye see?

Then on top of all that poor
Fred goes and gets drownded.”

“ But have you promised to
marry her?” asked Nibletts, with
a cunning look.

“ Of course I’ve not,” re¬
joined Captain Barber, testily;

“but when you know as much
about wimmen as I do, you’ll
know that that’s got nothing to
do with it. It gets took for
granted. Mrs. Church’s whole
manner to me now is that of a
engaged young person. If she
was sitting here now she’d put
’er hand on top o’ mine.”

“Not before me ? ” said
Nibletts, in a shocked voice.

“Before the Prince of Wales and
all the Royal Family,” replied
Captain Barber, with conviction.

“ You’ve no idea how silly and
awkward it makes me feel.”

“ Here she comes,” said Nibletts, in a low
voice, “ and Mrs. Banks and her daughter,
too.”

Captain Barber coughed and, sitting up¬
right, strove to look unconcerned as the three
ladies came into the room and expressed
their pleasure at seeing him.

“ I couldn’t think what ’ud happened to
you,” said Mrs. Banks, as she sank panting
into a chair, and, unfastening her bonnet-
strings, sat regarding him with her hands on
her knees.

“ I knew he was all right,” said Mrs.
Church, folding her hands and regarding him
with her head on one side; “ if anything
happened to him I should know if he was a
hundred miles away.”

She sat down by Captain Barber, and
laying her hand upon his, pressed it
affectionately. The captain, a picture of
misery, exchanged a significant glance with
Nibletts, and emitted an involuntary
groan.

“ Don’t take on so,” said Mrs. Banks,
compassionately. “ Do you know, I’ve
got a feeling that poor Fred has been
saved ! ”

“ That’s my feeling, too,” said Captain
Barber, in a firm voice.

“It’s very likely,” said Captain Nibletts,
slowly.

“ What’s easier than for him to have been

picked up by a passing vessel, and carried
off goodness knows where ? ” inquired Mrs.
Banks, with a glance evenly distributed
between her daughter and the house¬
keeper.

“ I heard of a man once who fell over¬
board,” said Captain Nibletts, softly, “and

A PICTURE OF MISERY.”

A MASTER OF CRAFT

543

he turned up safe and sound twenty years
arter.”

“ Married man ? ” inquired Miss Banks,
softly.

“ He was, 5 ’ said the captain, with the
doggedness of a witness under cross-exami¬
nation.

Mrs. Church turned her eyes upwards.
“Fancy the joyful meeting of husband and
wife,” she said, sentimentally.

“ She died just two days afore he turned
up,” said Captain Nibbetts, simply.

There was a frigid silence during which
the three ladies, sinking for a time their
differences, eyed him with every sign of
strong disapprobation, Mrs. Banks giving
vent to a sniff which disparaged the whole
race of man.

“As for men who fall overboard and get
picked up and turn up months afterwards,”
continued the faithful Nibletts, “why, every
sailorman knows scores of ’em.”

“ I’ve knowed seven,” said Captain Barber,
with the exactness of untruth. “They didn’t
seem to think much of it; didn’t seem to
think it anything unusual, I mean.”

“ It ain’t,” said Nibletts, stoutly.

The room relapsed into silence, and
Captain Nibletts, finding Mrs. Church’s gaze
somewhat trying, got up to admire a beautiful
oil painting on glass in a black frame which
hung over the mantelpiece, and, after a few,
encomiums on his host’s taste, bade him
good-bye.

“ I’m coming with you,” said Barber, rising ;
“ I’ve got some business to talk about.”

“ What, out again,” said Mrs. Church,
tenderly “ after being on your poor feet all
day?”

Captain Barber murmured something in¬
audible in reply, and taking his hat from the
sideboard went out with Nibletts. For a
time they trudged along in silence until the
latter, who wanted to go to his own home,
ventured to ask where they were going.

“ All places are alike to me,” replied the
old man, dismally. “ I only want to get
away, that’s all. She an’ Mrs. Banks are
sure to ’ave a turn and try and drag me
into it.”

He clasped his hands behind his back,
and, pausing at a turn of the road, looked
down upon the little quay below. Out in the
river two or three small craft rode at anchor,
while a babble of cheerful voices from a
distant boat only served to emphasize the
stillness of the evening.

“ Looks quiet,” said Captain Nibletts, after
watching him for some time.

“ I’m thinking of my nevy,” said Captain
Barber, slowly. “ I remember me an’ my
sister bringing ’im up here when he was three
year old, and I ’ad to carry him all the way
back. He put his arms round my neck, and
I can smell peppermint-ball now.”

Captain Nibletts, who did not quite follow
him, attributed the outrage to a young couple
who had just passed.

“ I’m all alone now,” continued Captain
Barber, unheeding, “ but I don’t want to
marry. Why not? ’Cos I’m too old, and
because it’s like beginning where other people
leave off.”

“Well, make up your mind and tell her
so,” said the other.

“ It wouldn’t be any good,” said Barber,
dolefully.

“ Tell her to-night,” said Nibletts. “ Come
into the Thorn and have a glass, just so as
to warm you up to it, and then get it over.”

Captain Barber made no reply, but turning
round led the way slowly back to the inn,
and after acknowledging the respectful
salutations of the crew of the schooner who
were in the bar by ordering the landlady to
fill their pots again, led the way into the
parlour and began to charge himself for the
interview.

That he did not underestimate the diffi¬
culties of the ordeal was evident by the ex¬
tent of his orders, and Captain Nibletts noted
with satisfaction as the evening wore on that
the old man’s spirits were improving con¬
siderably. Twice he sent out instructions
to the bar to have the men’s mugs replen¬
ished, a proceeding which led to Mr. William
Green being sent by the grateful crew to ex¬
press their feelings in a neat little speech.

“ A very nice-spoken young feller,” said
Captain Barber, approvingly.

He had some more whisky, and at the
sounds of a step-dance on the brick floor of
the adjoining tap-room, took up his glass and,
followed by Nibletts, watched the proceed¬
ings from the doorway. Mr. William Green,
who worshipped wealth and position, sidled
up to him and with much deference discussed
the dancing.

He made such a favourable impression
that Captain Barber, who was in a semi¬
maudlin mood, took him by the arm to the
now deserted parlour, and ensconcing him in
a corner, told him all his troubles and warned
him of the pitfalls which beset the feet of
good-looking bachelors. Mr. Green was
sympathy itself, and for some time sat
silently evolving various schemes for the
deliverance of his patron.

544

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“a neat little speech.

Captain Nibletts returning to the parlour
a little later found them in close consulta¬
tion. A ray of hope illuminated the some¬
what heavy features of the old man, and,
catching sight of the captain, he beckoned
him to his side.

“ Me an’ this young man have thought of
something,” he said, in a voice rendered
husky with excitement.

Nibletts waited.

“ He’s goin’ to call at my place,” con¬
tinued the other, “and tell Mrs. Church
that I’ve been took unwell at the Cauli¬
flower, at Mapleden, and want to see her,
and he’s to bring her there at once. Arter
they’ve started I go in and get to bed, and
earthquakes wouldn’t wake me, let alone a
knock at the door. D’ye see ? ”

“ What good’s that goin’ to do ? ” inquired
the astonished listener.

“ Next day,” said Barber, in thrilling tones,
as he placed his forefinger on the other’s arm,
“ I refuse to believe her story. Green, here,
denies of it too, and ses ’e saw her at the
gate and asked her to go for a walk with him.”

Captain Nibletts fingered his beard. “ It
don’t seem to be the sort of trick to play on
a woman,” he expostulated, weakly, “ an’ it’s
four miles to Mapleden. What’s she goin’
to do ? ”

“That’s ’er look-out,” observed Captain
Barber, with much composure; “all I know
is she won’t wake me. I daresay she’ll come
on to your place. Wimmen wot sets their
caps at men wot don’t want ’em set at ’em

must put up with the
consequences.”

“You give me half
an hour, sir,” said
Mr. Green, impress¬
ively, “and then you
can come on as soon
as you like. You’ll
find the coast clear
by then.”

He bit off the end
of the cigar presented
by Captain Barber,
and, thanking him
effusively as he struck
a match for him,
quitted the inn. The
two captains waited
restlessly for the time
specified, and then,
finishing their drinks,
went outside, and,
standing in the light
which streamed from
the windows and doorway of the Thorn,
gazed at the dark road beyond.

“ It looks all right,” said Barber, shaking
hands. “Good-night.”

“Good luck,” said Nibletts.

The other, not without a little trepidation,
walked towards his house, and opening the
door, after a little difficulty, stood safely
inside. The house was quiet and in
darkness, except for the lamp which stood
on the parlour-table, and after a moment’s
survey he proceeded to shut up for the
night.

As a rule he was careless about such
matters, but to-night no gaoler saw to his
bolts and bars more carefully than he did.
He returned to the parlour, having made
all secure, and lighting his pipe for a few
final whiffs before retiring, winked at himself
solemnly in the glass. Then fearful that the
housekeeper might return sooner than was
expected, he blew out the lamp and smoked
in the dark.

He knocked out his pipe at last, and
walked slowly and ponderously upstairs. He
grinned again as he passed the door of the
housekeeper’s room, and then, with a catch in
his breath, clutched heavily at the banisters
as a soft female voice bade him “ Good¬
night.”

Captain Barber, surprised beyond all
measure, was unable to speak.

“ I thought you’d got lost again,” said the
voice, playfully. “ Good-night.”

“ Good - night,” rejoined the other, in

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

545

hollow tones. “ Mrs. Banks stay long ? ” he
inquired, pausing at his door.

“ She went just about half an hour before
you came in,” replied the housekeeper.
“ Elizabeth went soon after you did, but her
mother stopped on. She went very suddenly
when she did go, and was very mysterious
about it. Not that I want to know her
business.”

“ Mysterious ? ” faltered the captain.

“ Some young man came to the door,”
continued the innocent woman, “and they
were talking in a low voice. I don’t know
who it was, because Mrs. Banks let me see
quite plainly that she didn’t want me to know.

unwonted noise downstairs, and lay in
amazement listening to a hum of excited
voices below. Knuckles rapped on his door
and the voice of Mrs. Church, much agitated,
requested him to rise and attire himself.

He was out of bed at that and looking
from the window. A small group of children
stood in the road outside the house, while
Joe and the cook with their arms on the
fence were staring hard at his parlour-window,
occasionally varying the proceedings by a
little conversation with the people next door,
who were standing in their front garden. In
a state of considerable agitation he hurriedly
dressed himself and went downstairs.

“joe and the cook were staring hard at his

PARLOUR-WINDOW.’

Then she just called out ‘ Good-night,’ and
went off as fast as you please.”

Captain Barber supported himself for a
moment by the handle of his door, and then
in a dazed way blundered into his room. He
was a good-hearted man in a way, and
pushing open the little casement he thrust
out his head and sighed with genuine feeling
as he thought of his poor old friend plodding
slowly to Mapleden. Incidentally he felt a
little bit sorry for Mr. William Green.

He was awaked next morning after a

somewhat restless night by the sounds of an
Vol, xviii,—09.

His sitting-room was full. Mrs. Banks,
looking very tired, was sitting in the arm-chair
taking smelling-salts at intervals, and staring
fiercely at Mr. William Green,, who was
huddled in a corner smiling sheepishly behind
Captain Nibletts and Ben.

“What’s all this?” demanded Captain
Barber, in a trembling voice, as his eye met
Mr. Green’s.

Several of Mrs. Banks’s relatives began
speaking at once, assisted by some of the
neighbours. The substance of their remarks
was that a man, whose polite tongue hid the

546

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

falseness of his heart, had lured Mrs. Banks
for a four-mile walk to Mapleden late the
preceding night under the pretence that
Captain Barber, who was evidently hale and
hearty, was lying ill at the Cauliflower. They
demanded his immediate dismissal from the
ship and his exemplary punishment by the
law.

“ What ’ave you got to say to this ? ”
demanded Captain Barber of the villain, in
tones of righteous indignation tempered by
fear.

“It isn’t true, sir, ” said Mr. Green,
respectfully. “ I didn’t say anything of the
kind.”

“ Wot did you say, then ? ” inquired Captain
Barber, in a voice which the company thought
far too mild for the occasion.

“ She was standing at the door as I
passed,” said Mr. Green, nervously, “and I
asked her to go for a walk with me.”

“ Lawk-a-mussy me ! ” screamed the horri¬
fied Mrs. Banks.

“We went for a nice little stroll,” con¬
tinued the graceless Mr. Green, “and then I
s’pose she found it was later than she
thought, and she began to make a fuss.”

“ Me, at my time o’ life ? ” demanded the
indignant Mrs. Banks of the audience.

“ You did make a fuss,” said Mr. Green.

“ O’ course I made a fuss when I found
out how I had been deceived. You were
here when he came, Mrs. Church, weren’t
you ? ”

“ I would rather not say anything about
it,” said the housekeeper, freezingly.

“I insist upon your speaking,” said the
old lady, getting very red in the face.

“ Well, I don’t know much about it,” said
the housekeeper, looking round appealingly.
“ I heard you speaking to somebody at the
door in a low voice.”

“ It wasn’t a low voice,” interrupted Mrs.
Banks, sharply.

“Well, I couldn’t hear what you were say¬
ing, and then when you went outside and I
asked you whether you were going home you
said £ yes,’ didn’t you ? ”

“Are you sure she said she was going

home ? ” said Mrs. Banks’s brother-in-law, in
an awful voice, as the old lady sank back in
her chair.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Church, with a fine show
of reluctance.

There was a dead silence, during which
they all heard the smelling-salts drop.

“ If this man said Captain Barber was
ill at Mapleden, why didn’t you tell me?”
continued Mrs. Church, in a mildly aggrieved
voice. “ I think if anybody ought to have
known it should have been me.”

“ It’s all a fuss about nothing,” said Mr.
Green, brazenly. “She stayed out a bit too
late, and then wanted to put it all on to me.”

A good Samaritan picked up the smelling-
salts and held them to the victim’s nose,
while her scandalized relatives discussed the
situation in hurried whispers. The brother-
in-law eyed her with bewildered disapproval,
and in the disjointed accents peculiar to
surprise was heard to make use of the words
“ friskiness ” and “ gallivanting ” and “ old
enough to know better.”

Her relatives’ remarks, however, caused
Mrs. .Banks comparatively little pain. Her
attention was fully taken up by the house¬
keeper, in whose satisfied smile she saw a per¬
fect recognition of the reasons for her action
of the previous evening. She got up from her
chair, and with a stateliness which her brother-
in-law thought somewhat misplaced, took
her daughter’s arm, and slowly left the room,
her departure being the signal for a general
break-up. By twos and threes the company
drifted slowly up the road in her wake, while
Captain Barber, going in the other direction,
accompanied Captain Nibletts and party as
far as the schooner, in order that he might
have the opportunity of saying a few well-
chosen words to Mr. Green on the subject
of precipitancy.

“ If it ’adn’t been for me tipping ’im the
wink, so as to let him know what line ’e was
to go on when I came down, where should
I ’ave been ? ” he demanded of Captain
Nibletts.

And that astonished mariner, with a help¬
less shake of his head, gave it up.

{To be continued.)

Animal Actualities.

Note. —These articles consist oj a series of perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal life , illustrated
by Mr. /. A. Shepherd , an artist long a favourite with readers of The Strand Magazine. While
the stories themselves are matters of fact , it must be understood that the artist treats the subject
with freedom and fancy , more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere representation
of the occurrence .

XVI.

EARS ago Mrs. Lipscomb had a
dog—a bitch, to be exact — of
Pomeranian breed, or something
very near it, and of an original
and eccentric sagacity. Its fore¬
most personal characteristics, however, were
an intense hatred of all cats—with an excep¬
tion—and a constant industry in catching

a regard testified to by more than one quaint
proof. But these facts—Fan’s hatred of cats
as a species and her one exception—make
the more curious her behaviour when first
she became a mother, and revelled in a
large basketful of pups and maternal pride.
This was at Nutfield Marsh, near Redhill,
where Mrs. Lipscomb was then living.

MATERNAL JEALOUSY.

and exterminating the species. The exception
was in favour of Mrs. Lipscomb’s own cat,
the housemate of Fan (the dog’s name was
Fan), and, although it was no doubt originally
dictated by common prudence and fear of
punishment, in time there grew up evidence
of a real regard for the cat on Fan’s part—

For a fortnight Fan’s pride and delight
received no check, and she frankly admitted
herself the most important and triumphant
creature in the world. Then a cloud came.
First it took the shape of a comfortably
padded basket, not far from that devoted to
Fan and her family; then it developed into

FORCIBLE EVICTION,

548

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

USURPED POSSESSION.

another family—the cat’s ! Yes, without a
doubt, there was the cat with a litter of
kittens, as fortunate as Fan herself, as proud
and triumphant! Fan’s feelings were hurt.
This would never do. Should another
creature—a mere cat, too—be allowed also
to have a family ? Never ! Fan arose in
virtuous indignation, and annexed the kittens

for their part, were well content, and sucked
away hungrily, while the pups lamented un¬
heeded. Till at last the poor cat gave up
hope and turned hej attention to Fan’s
basket. Here was a litter, of a sort, and a
hungry one. She would make the best of a
bad job. So she followed the example that
Fan had set, climbed in among the puppies,

UNAVOIDABLE SOLUTION.

herself. She stalked across to that other
basket, bundled her presumptuous rival
out, and curled herself up to feed the
kittens.

The cat stood for a while, wistful but
timid, hoping for an opportunity to return to
her charge. But, no. Fan had got the new
litter, and she meant to keep it. The kittens,

and soon their clamour was quieted, and
their noses buried in the cat’s warm fur.
And so it went till both pups and kittens
could begin life for themselves. Fan turned
out into the world a well-nurtured family of
kittens, and the cat could point with proper
pride to an excellently brought-up row of
Pomeranian puppies.

MUTUAL satisfaction,

Stories of the Sanctuary Club .

By L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace. Told by Paul Cato.

Y.—“ A HANDFUL OF ASHES.”

ORT having been honourably
acquitted of any share in the
murder of poor Charles Ridley,
the course of events at the
Club resumed its normal
routine. Kort himself was
full of energy and devotion to the pro¬
fession which he had adopted. In spite
of my strong prejudice against him I could
not but admit that he was more or less
both Chetwynd’s and my own right hand.
Being a younger man he had been educated
in a newer school of medical thought, and
was more daring in his experiments for the
cure of patients than either of us. Never¬
theless, the late events had been the reverse
of beneficial to the welfare of the Club.
More than one member sent in his resigna¬
tion—new members appeared at long inter¬
vals upon the scene, and there were
occasions when I felt both grave
and depressed with regard to our
future.

“ When once there is the
slightest element of distrust started
about a Club like ours its death-
note is sounded,” remarked Chet-
wynd to me one morning.

“ It is, however, a fine pro¬
perty, and if we cared to
sell we could easily get a
purchaser. By the way, has
Kort said anything to you
yet with regard to our new
member ? ”

“ Our new member ? ” I
said. “ It is good news in
these gloomy times to hear
of a new member. What
of him ? ”

Chetwynd went to his
table, pulled open a drawer,
and handed me a letter.

“ That came this morning,”
he said; “ it happened to
be addressed to me, so I opened it.”

I took the letter from its envelope
and read the following words

“ Tower House, Inchampton, Surrey.

“ Dear Sir, —I am anxious to avail my¬
self of the advantages offered by your Club,
and shall be glad if you will kindly send me
particulars with prospectus. I make my
application to you at the instance of Mr. Kort.
“ Yours faithfully, Harold Beauchamp.”

“ Why didn’t Kort mention the matter to
me ? ” I asked.

“ I cannot say. He spoke to me about it
yesterday; he is anxious that Beauchamp
should be admitted as soon as possible.
The poor fellow seems to be very ill—a bad
form of ataxic paraplegia. Ah ! there is
Kort just passing the window.” Chetwynd
hurried to the open window. “ Come in,
Kort, won’t you?” he said, “and satisfy
Cato with regard to the advisability of
receiving Beauchamp as a member.”

Kort dropped the cigarette which he was
smoking, and entered through the open
French window.

“ Beauchamp would make a desirable
member,” he said at once, “and in admitting
him we secure another member as well, no
less a person than his uncle, the well-known
Mr. Sutherland. You remember, do you not,
what a pile he made
on the Stock Ex¬
change not two years
back ? ”

I TOOK THE LETTER FROM ITS ENVELOPE.”

Chetwynd crossed towards the door.

“ I am going out,” he said. “ I will leave
you two to discuss the matter. Write by to¬
day’s post, Cato, and send the necessary
prospectus to Beauchamp.” He closed the
door behind him.

Kort went across to the mantelpiece, lit a

55°

THE STB AND MAGAZINE,.

fresh cigarette, and offered me one, which I
declined.

“ Has it not struck you lately, Cato, that
things have gone somewhat badly ? ” was his
next remark.

“ Can you be surprised ? ” I answered ;
“ the tragedies that have occurred here are
not likely to improve the status of the place.
You, however, seem to be moderately com¬
plaisant over the matter.”

“ I am and I am not,” was his answer.
His voice dropped, he stood silent, then he
said, rousing himself :—

“ I have noticed, Cato, in your manner for
some time the patent fact that you dislike
me. I think I know your reason. It is this.
Ever since I came to the Club I seem to you
to be the herald of disaster. I see it myself,
and I cannot tell you how distressed I am,
for I need not say how truly I have the real
interests of the Sanctuary Club at heart. I
am glad to have the opportunity of saying
this to you now, and at the same time to
deplore the occurrence of those two most
unfortunate affairs—I allude to the tragic
death of poor Banpfylde and the no less
terrible suicide of my old friend Charles
Ridley. It has really
seemed as if fate
were against us in
these matters, but
you must remember
that from the very
nature of things a
place like the Sanc¬
tuary Club lays itself
open to occurrences
scarcely ordinary.

The members are
abnormal, both men¬
tally and physically.”

“ I suppose that is
so,” I replied, “ but
I am glad you see
the coincidence.

Until you became
our partner, Kort,
we were in a flourish¬
ing condition. I don’t
want to blame you,
although at times I
frankly admit that I
have suspected you.

Now, what about
Beauchamp ? ”

*' He is a nice
fellow, very ill, needs
careful attendance,
and there is nothing

at all mysterious about him,” was Kort’s
answer.

“ Very well, I will write to him to-day.”

I wrote to Beauchamp, inclosed the pro¬
spectus of the Club, and said we should be
glad to admit him as a member.

He arrived in the course of a few days,
and being unable to walk was wheeled into
the Club in a chair. He was a young-looking
man, but must have been over thirty years of
age. His face was thin and very pale, his
hair receded from his forehead, and was
already slightly grey round the temples.
Death was plainly written on his face. He
was accompanied by a tall, stout, elderly man,
who was introduced to us both as Beau¬
champ’s uncle, the well-known Mr. Suther¬
land, of Stock Exchange fame. Sutherland
had a somewhat hard cast of face, light, wide-
open grey eyes, and a quick, keen, alert
manner. The invalid, on the contrary,
was very dreamy, and appeared not to take
the slightest interest in his new surround¬
ings. His chair was presently lifted up by
his attendants, and he was conveyed to the
rooms reserved for him.

On that very same day, and before we

' hi; was wheeled into the club in a chair.

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

S5i

doctors had assembled for our consultation
over Beauchamp, I was in my private
sitting-room when I heard the handle of the
door softly turn and a light footfall sound
on the floor. I turned my head in some
surprise, for patients were not in the habit of
entering my room without first knocking.
Then I started to my feet.

“Mrs. Kort! ” I exclaimed, “ what can I
do for you ? ”

She was slightly out of breath, and her
blue eyes looked brighter than usual. There
was a vivid spot of colour on each cheek, and
I noticed that she had grown painfully thin.

“ I am glad you are better, 55 I continued ;
“ welcome down amongst us once more.
Why, you are almost a stranger; it is quite
six weeks since I have had the pleasure of
seeing you about the house. 55

“ If you keep such an accurate memory
with regard to my movements, 55 she answered,
slowly, “ why are you not more careful of my
health ? 55

“ I careful of your health ? 55 I exclaimed.
“But, my dear madam, I have not the charge
of your health ; your husband treats you him¬
self. 55

“ My husband ! Then that accounts, 55 she
said, slowly. She laid her slim hand on the
top of a chair which stood near. “ I told
Horace several times lately that I particularly
wished to be placed under your medical treat¬
ment, Dr. Cato. He replied that he was quite
willing that it should be so, and said that
he would himself ask you to visit me. When
you did not come I sent my maid Susan for
you several times, but I invariably had an
answer back to say you would be with me as
soon as possible ; but you never came, never.
Last night I dreamt that you wished to come,
but were kept back by force, by strong means,
so at danger to myself I have now come to ask
you for the real explanation of your non-
appearance. Yes, that is why I have come. 55
As she uttered the last few words she paused,
and that queer vagueness came into her
voice which I had always noticed abouf her
when I met her anywhere except in the
Davos suite.

“ What was I saying ? 55 she asked me, in a
piteous tone.

“ Many and strange things, 55 was my reply.
“ You wanted me to visit you, and I never
came. You spoke of danger to yourself;
pray go on, I am much interested. 55

“ But I cannot recall any of those wcrds.
Where am I ? What is wrong ? 55 She
looked wildly round her.

“ Sit down, 55 I said. I forced her into a

seat, took her hand, and felt her pulse. The
pulse was fluttering and uneven; I noticed
also that the pulses in her temples were
throbbing perceptibly.

“ It is only what always happens, 55 she said,

faintly, “ when I—when I- 55 She stopped

and drew herself up with a look of affright.
“ What can be wrong ? 55 she exclaimed.
“ What have I come to see you about ? 55

“ In order to consult me about your
health, 55 I said, soothingly.

“ Yes, yes, 55 she said—-she was evidently
making a frantic effort to retain her fast-
fleeting memory.

“ It is going, going, 55 she said, feebly ; “ this

is always the case when I have-oh, I

cannot remember anything more. 55

“Never mind, 55 I said, “you will be all
right in your own rooms. I will promise
faithfully to visit you there within an hour;
you had better go back at once. 55

“To my own rooms—where are they? 55

“ In the Davos suite of rooms in the
Sanctuary Club. Go, my dear madam, you
surely must remember. 55

“ The Davos suite of rooms in the Sanctuary
Club ? 55 she said. She looked round her
with a vacant expression. “ Where is the
Sanctuary Club ? Where are the Davos
rooms ? Are we not in Vienna ? 55

“ No, no; we are in England, and you are
in the Sanctuary Club. 55

“We are not in England, we are in Vienna.
I tell you I won’t stay here, I won’t. I hate
this dreadful, dreadful place; it was here

—it was here- 55 she grasped me by

the arm, terror filling her eyes. There was
nothing for it but for me to take her back to
her own rooms. I drew her hand through
my arm, led her gently upstairs, down the
corridor which led to the Davos suite, and
then, opening the door of the outer apart¬
ment, which was also kept at a high altitude,
took her through to her rooms. The moment
she entered the vestibule she became quieter,
her nervousness vanished, the perplexity left
her face, memory was evidently returning;
she withdrew her hand from my arm.

“You are better? 55 I said.

“I am well, 55 she replied, “or at least
almost well. Dr. Cato, I have something
most important to say to you. I want to
consult you. Let us say, for the sake of
expediency, that it is on the subject of my
health. In one sense, too, that is true, but
there is something you must know, something
you must know at once. Will you stay and
hear it now, or will you come later on ? 55

I thought of the consultation which was

55*

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

pending with regard to Beauchamp, told her
that I could not stay now, but would be back
within an hour.

“ Very well,” she answered, sadly ; “ I am
sorry you have to go, but I will faithfully
expect you at the end of that time.”

“ You may as c uredly do so,” was my
answer. I left the room.

She went as far as the door of her own
apartment, and stood looking after me. The
sadness and pathos.of her attitude would be
difficult to describe. I heard someone speak
to her in a harsh tone from within—doubt¬
less the disagreeable maid. She entered her
rooms at once and shut the door.

A very few moments later we three doctors
met in consultation over our new patient,
Harold Beauchamp. His strange complaint
had made great strides, and was evidently in
the last stage. As we made our examination I
noticed that Kort seemed unusually deferen¬
tial, and had cast aside his ordinary some¬
what overbearing and self-assertive airs. He
yielded at once to Chetwynd’s and my
diagnosis, and asked what treatment we
should recommend.

“ Perfect rest, for one thing,” said Chet-
wynd; “and as to drugs, there is only one in
my opinion worth trying, and that is uranium
nitrate. It has had a great reputation lately
in similar cases, and I certainly advocate it
from what I have seen of its effects. It
ought to be given in good doses, say five
grains three times a day, but we must care¬
fully watch the results.”

“ I know the name in the Pharmacopoeia,
but have never yet prescribed it,” I said.

“ It is fairly new,” replied Chetwynd.
" Do you agree with this treatment, Kort ? ”
he continued.

“ Yes,” said Kort.-

We said a few more words, and a daily
routine was marked out for the sick man,
which would include as much amusement
and fresh air as he had strength for. It was
arranged that Mr. Sutherland, who seemed
devoted to his nephew, should be his constant
companion, and at present no special nurse
was required. I then went away and,
without saying a word to Chetwynd, went up
at once to Mrs. Kort’s rooms. I went
through the ante-room and knocked at the
door of her private sitting-room. The
moment I did so it was opened by the
maid.

“ I have called to see Mrs. Kort,” I said ;
“is she within ? ”

“ My mistress cannot see you, sir — she is
lying down.”

“ But she expects me,” I said. “ Plave the
goodness to say that I am waiting.”

The woman withdrew, evidently with great
unwillingness. She came back in a moment.

“ My mistress is very sorry-” she began.

“ No, I am not sorry,” was the queer and
almost reckless echo within the room. “I
wish to see Dr. Cato—show him in, Susan,
immediately.”

The maid’s dull, freckled complexion
assumed a tinge of pink. She slowly with¬
drew from her position in front of the door
and allowed me to enter.

“ You can go, Susan,” said her mistress.

I looked at Mrs. Kort in some- astonish¬
ment. As a rule she walked with a slight
stoop, as though her feebleness was so great
that she could scarcely support the weight of
her slim and willowy figure. She resembled
at these times a lily with a broken stem.
Now she was absolutely upright, her head
well thrown back, her eyes intensely bright.
She looked not only beautiful, but also in
perfect health. Susan gave her an amazed
glance. She then slowly, with manifest un¬
willingness, left the room. When she got as
far as the door she turned and faced Mrs.
Kort.

“ You will suffer for this, madam,” she said.

Mrs. Kort did not even glance in her
direction.

“ Go,” she repeated. The woman went,
shutting the door behind her.

“ You are afraid of that woman ? ” I said.

“ I am,” she answered. “ I am afraid of
everyone in this house with the exception of
yourself and Dr. Chetwynd.”

“ Believe me, Mrs. Kort,” I said, “ that if
necessary we will protect you. You say you
wish to consult me medically. I can scarcely
take up your case without letting your
husband know, but a patient is undoubtedly
at liberty to choose her own physician.”

“ I told Horace,” she answered, “ that I
particularly wished you to treat me, and he
replied that he was quite willing that you
should do so.”

“ Sit down, then, and tell me your symp¬
toms at once.”

She seated herself on the edge of a chair,
clasping and unclasping her thin hands.

“ Mine are not ordinary symptoms, and
mine is not an ordinary story,” she began.
“ To understand my symptoms you must
know my story, and it is—oh, God S it is a
?nost tewible one 1 I tell it you at the risk of
my life, but I would rather do so than allow
things to go on as they have been going on
lately. You remember Mr. Ridley ? ”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUE.

553

“ Mr. Charles Ridley ? ” I said.

“ Yes; the man who was supposed to
have died by his own hands.”

I nodded. I felt my heart beat faster.

“ I can throw light on that matter,” she
began ; “ I can also tell you something about
myself. You wonder—I am sure you
wonder—why I am well in these rooms, and
why I am ill, miserable, almost imbecile, out
of them. You wonder, do you not ? ”

“ I have wondered very much,” I replied.

“ Well, I am prepared to give you the
reason. I can stand this misery no longer.
I would rather my wretched life came to an
end. I will tell you and Dr. Chetwynd all.
Can you both come up here to-night, and
can you-”

The words had scarcely passed her lips
before the door of the room was thrown
briskly open, and Kort entered. I shall
never forget the curious effect of his presence
on his wretched wife. She had been bend¬
ing towards me talking earnestly, but now
she seemed to stiffen, as though lead were
poured through her veins, the words froze on
her lips, she gave a nervous laugh, and
said : “ Do you want me, Horace ? ”

Vol. xviii.—70

“I want Cato,” was
his reply. He spoke
cheerfully, but I noticed
that his dark eyes
flashed a lightning
glance from one of us
to the other.

“ I wish to consult
with you immediately,
Cato. I am sorry,
Isobel, to interrupt your
tete-a-tete , but it is
impossible to help
matters.”

u Your wife wishes to
place herself under my
care for a time,” I said,
rising as I spoke. “She
tells me that she has
alluded to the subject
to you, and that you
have made no objec¬
tion. In nervous cases
like hers a change of
treatment often has the
most beneficial result.”

“You have no objec¬
tion, Horace ; you said
so,” was Mrs. Kort’s
remark.

“ I should like to
see her in consulation
with Chetwynd,” were my next words, “and
to go very carefully into her symptoms.”

“ I make no objection,” said Kort, with a
shrug of his shoulders, “ but at the first con¬
sultation it will be necessary for me to be
present; you can then prescribe exactly what
treatment you like, Cato ; but come now at
once. There is a marked change for the worse
in poor Seafield, and I do not think he will
last out the day.”

Kort alluded to one of our consumptive
patients who had long been in a dying con
dition.

I rose slowly.

“ With regard to Mrs. Kort, shall we
arrange for a consultation this evening ? ” I
said.

She was standing now at one of the
windows. I saw her glance out into the lovely
grounds, but I doubt if she saw anything;
her face was the colour of death.

“ Shall we consult over your wife this
evening ? ” I repeated.

“ As you please,” he answered.

“ Oh, thank you, Horace,” she exclaimed,
a ring of joy in her voice; “ and you will
come, Dr. Cato, you will be sure to come ? ”

554

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

She darted past Kort and seized both my
hands.

“You will not fail me? ” she said.

“ Assuredly no,” I answered.

“ Whatever you hear ? ” she continued.

“ Whatever I hear,” I said. I left the
room, Kort following me immediately.

That evening, therefore, Kort, Chetwynd,
and I saw her together in her bedroom. But
I was circumvented after all. She was sitting
up in bed looking listless and uninterested
in everything. When we came in she
scarcely noticed us, replied vaguely to all my
questions, and watched her husband’s face as
though she would read the answers he wished
her to give in his countenance. In the end
we came away, Chetwynd fully convinced
that the wretched girl was a confirmed lunatic
and full of pity for Kort, whom he considered
a most indulgent and self-sacrificing husband.

“ My hope is,” said Kort, after our con¬
sultation had come to an end, “ that a long
residence in the Davos suite, joined to
absolute quiet and freedom from excitement,
may gradually combat the worst symptoms
from which my poor wife suffers. But, Cato,”

he added, “you must be cruel to be kind,
and should she break out of her restraint and
come to visit you, you must treat her wild
words as you would those of any other person
who is not responsible for her actions.”

I held my tongue. Appearances were all
in favour of Kort’s statement, but I could
not forget Ridley’s words,
and I wondered what had
taken place at Vienna
five terrible years ago.

Meanwhile, our new
patient, Beauchamp, was
going on fairly well. He
was uncomplaining, cheer¬
ful, never alluding to his
sufferings, satisfied with
any small attentions which
were paid to him, and,
in short, as amiable a
patient as we had ever
admitted to the shelter of
the Sanctuary Club. He
came downstairs most
evenings, and soon made
himself a favourite with
the other members. He
was an accomplished
musician, and often sat
for hours at the piano
playing a dreamy sort of
music, and which he
somewhat shyly informed
us he had composed him¬
self.

The custom of the firm
was that after a careful
consultation each patient
was put under the special
care of one doctor alone.
Beauchamp, by his own and his uncle’s
desire, was attended entirely by Kort. This
seemed natural enough, as Kort had been
the one to introduce him to the Club, and
Sutherland told me on one occasion that he
knew Kort personally for several years.
Sutherland himself after the first day or two
turned out an agreeable member of our little
community. He could tell good stories,
could raise the laugh even at his own expense,
and had a certain dry humour which, although
somewhat caustic, also made him a rather
brilliant member of society. He was devoted
to his nephew, and although at first I had
not been favourably impressed by him, when
I saw him with poor Beauchamp, attending
to his smallest whim, solicitous, more than
solicitous, for his comfort, I took myself to
task for my undue suspicions.

‘“YOU WILL NOT KAIL ME? ' SHE SAID.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

555

“ What is the matter with me ? ” I thought.
“ Can all this be the effect that queer man
Kort has over me ? I wish, I do wish, I
could induce Chetwynd to see the fellow
through my glasses.”

Some weeks after Beauchamp’s admission
I happened to go into the library one even¬
ing. I found the invalid there alone. He was
listlessly turning the pages of an illustrated
paper. As I entered he looked at me with
tired eyes.

“ How are you to-day ? ” I asked.

He forced himself to give a cheerful
smile.

“ I am afraid I am no better,” he an¬
swered. “ I do not seem to benefit from
the treatment. Is there any chance for me,
Dr. Cato ? ”

“ I hope so,” I answered, somewhat
vaguely. Then I continued : “You must
remember the old proverb, ‘ While there is
life there is hope.’ ”

He shrugged his shoulders as if he disliked
my stereotyped answer.

“That medicine, for
instance, does me no
good,” he said again ;

“ I don’t seem actually
to lose much ground,
but then, on the other
hand, I don’t gain any.”

He sighed heavily and
lay back in the deep
chair in which he was
seated. I went and
stood by the fire. Now
and then I glanced at
him. He had all the
marked symptoms of
his distressing com¬
plaint—it was making
rapid progress, although
there was no reason
to apprehend imme¬
diate danger. As I
watched him the sick
man once again raised
his soft, brown eyes to
my face.

“ I wish to ask you
a frank question,” he
said. “ I am quite
aware that I am not
your patient, but I
believe you will tell
me the truth. How
long have I to live ? ”

“ That I cannot pos¬
sibly say,” was my

answer. “ I will be as frank as you desire.
Tiresome and worrying as you find your life,
your malady is not in itself fatal. You may
have many years yet before you. I have
even known cases like yours go on to old age.”

“That would be a very melancholy state
of things,” he said, slowly. He paused
again. “Now I will tell you,” he continued,
“why I asked that question. Two mornings
ago I happened to overhear a conversation
between Mr. Kort and my uncle. I did not
catch everything they said, but 1 knew that
they were discussing me and my symptoms,
and I caught the words—‘ laryngeal spasm.’
What did they mean by that expression ?
What is laryngeal spasm ? ”

“ Nothing to alarm you,” I said. “ Do
not svorry yourself about things of that sort.
Try and get some hobby to amuse yourself
with.”

I hurried off to find Chetwynd. These things
were getting on my nerves—I scarcely knew
what to do or what to think. When I entered

WIIAT DID THEY MEAN BY THAT EXPRESSION?”

556

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

my friend’s consulting-room I found to my
disappointment that he was out, and would
not be in until the evening. About eight
o’clock that same evening I met him. He
told me immediately that Beauchamp was
dead. As had been expected, a sudden
spasm of the glottis had ended the scene.

While he was talking Kort entered.

“Yes,” he said, “it is all over with our
poor young friend. I am sorry for Suther¬
land, he is much distressed. By the way, he
wishes to have the body removed to his own
house in Surrey, preparatory to the funeral at
Woking.”

“ Why at Woking?” I asked.

“ Because Beauchamp left directions in his
will that he was to be
cremated. I will under¬
take the matter, and of
course sign the death
certificate, as I was with
him at the last.”

Neither Chetwynd nor
I had anything to say
with regard to this, and
Kort immediately left
the room. The next
morning the body of
poor Beauchamp was re¬
moved from the Sanc¬
tuary Club, and I tried
to banish his memory
from my mind. This
was not difficult, for at
that time I had a great
deal of work which occu¬
pied me. Several mem¬
bers were at last coming
to the Club, and I had
every hope that we were
on the eve of another
period of prosperity.

Kort was absent for
a few days after poor
Beauchamp’s death, and
it occurred to me that
now would be the time
to visit Mrs. Kort and get her to tell me
what that secret was which lay heavy on
her heart.

I cannot understand now why I did not
avail myself of this opportunity, but excess of
work certainly called off my attention into
other channels, and in spite of myself I now
and then inclined to Chetwynd’s belief that
the poor girl was really insane.

Beauchamp died in November, and it was,
I remember well, on the 13th of the following
December, about eleven o’clock in the morn¬

ing, that the next scene in this queer drama
took place. Chetwynd and I were together
in my room when a servant entered with a
card, saying that a gentleman was waiting to
see me at once. I took up the card and
read the following name :—

“ Mr. Walter O’Brien,

“ Home and Colonial Assurance Company,

“ Royal Exchange Buildings, E.C.”

“ Show Mr. O’Brien in,” I said to the
servant. Then I turned to Chetwynd. “We
may as well see him,” I said, “ but I
conclude he is merely one of the usual tout¬
ing insurance agents.”

The next instant a middle-aged man, well
dressed, entered the room. He stood for a
moment looking from
one of us to the other.

“ I am Dr. Cato,” I
said. “ You expressed a
wish to see me; will
you take a chair ? ”

He bowed and dropped
into the nearest seat.

“I have called, Dr.
Cato,” he began, “ as
you see by my card, on
behalf of the Home and
Colonial Assurance Com¬
pany, of which I happen
to be the manager. I
am anxious to have a
conversation with you
on a matter of the greatest
importance, and I must
ask you to oblige me
with a private interview.”

“ I have no secrets
from my partner, Dr.
Chetwynd,” I replied ;
“ you can speak quite
freely in his presence.”

Mr. O’Brien looked
uneasy, but presently,
with a slight bow to
Chetwynd, he began :—
“ My inquiries are in
connection with the late Mr. Harold
Beauchamp, who died here last month, and
upon whose life our company have issued a
policy of fifty thousand pounds. An applica¬
tion has been made by Mr. Beauchamp’s
uncle, Mr. Sutherland, of Ray Park, Surrey,
through his solicitors, for the money. Mr.
Beauchamp left, we understand, a will in
which Mr. Sutherland is his sole heir.
Now, certain rumours with relation to Mr.
Sutherland’s past, with which, gentlemen, I
need hardly trouble you, have made us delay

STORIES of the sanctuary club.

557

in paying the insurance, and we are bound to
make every investigation. I understand that
Mr. Beauchamp died in this house. Are you
two doctors certain that he died of natural
causes ? ”

“ Mr. Harold Beauchamp died of laryn¬
geal spasm following ataxic paraplegia,” I
answered, quickly. “ But as our other
partner, Mr. Kort, was attending him, I will
ask him to come here at once.”

I rose and rang the bell, and told the
servant to ask Mr. Kort to come to see me
without delay. In a very few moments he
entered the room. I introduced him to Mr.
O’Brien, and told him the object of O’Brien’s
visit. He looked quietly at the manager of
the insurance company, and did not speak
for a moment.

“ You suspect Mr. Harold Beauchamp of
not having died of natural causes?” he said
then, slowly.

“ Hardly that,” answered Mr. O’Brien,
“ so much as w T e desire to be absolutely
certain that his death was due to natural
causes before paying such a large sum of
money to his uncle.”

“ I presume you saw my certificate of
death?” continued Kort; “ and if you did
you know the cause of death that I
assigned.”

“We saw the certificate, of course, Mr.
Kort, and I need hardly say that we do not
for a moment doubt the genuineness of the
paper; but what we want to know is this :
would it have been possible to administer
any poison which would simulate such a
cause of death ? ”

“Certainly not,” answered Kort. “I was
with Beauchamp when he died—it was a
perfectly natural process. May I ask why
you suspect foul play ? ”

“ For two reasons—the first relates to Mr.
Sutherland’s private affairs; the second to
the fact of the rapid cremation of the
body.”

“ The cremation was in accordance with
the dead man’s will, which, of course,
you are at liberty to read,” was Kort’s
reply.

“ I am aware of that,” said Mr. O’Brien,
now speaking a little testily; “ nevertheless,
the cremation makes any analysis impossible
—therefore I have come here to-day to make
these inquiries.”

“ You have your answer from Mr. Kort,”
I said.

“You are prepared to swear to the
impossibility of foul play?” he continued,
turning to Kort.

“ I am.”

“Very well. I thank you, gentlemen.
That is all.” He rose, and with an expression
of evident dissatisfaction and perplexity, took
up his hat and left the room.

“This is a queer business,” said Kort,
turning to me. “ Did you, Cato, happen to
know that Beauchamp’s life was so heavily
insured ? ”

“ I had no idea of such a thing,” was my
reply; “ but, of course, the suggestion of
poisoning is absurd.”

“ Oh, quite,” he replied, and after a few
more words he left us.

“ Another queer affair,” I said to Chetwynd,
in a desponding tone. “ What is the doom
which hangs over us? The Club cannot
long go on with such tragedies and suspicions
filling the very air.”

Chetwynd made no reply for a moment.

“ Too queer,” he said at last; “ these
cannot be mere coincidences. Cato, I do not
know what you will think of me, but I am at
last inclined to share your fears.”

“About Mrs. Kort? About poor Charles
Ridley? About-”

“ About everything.”

I had never seen my friend look more
grave than he did at this moment.

“ I must think the matter out,” he said.
“ I will come and see you again when I have
formed a more definite conclusion. At
present all is hazy, and yet, and yet—things
are queer, too queer, too queer.” He left
the room. As he did so I noticed that
strange look in his eyes which they always
wore when he was absorbed in a deep
problem.

It was not until the afternoon of that same
day that I saw him again. He entered my
consulting-room and turned the key in the
lock.

“Why do you do that?” I asked.

“ Because I have something to say, and
we must not be disturbed. Listen. Whether
right or wrong, I have discarded the idea of
Mrs. Kort’s insanity. There are several
matters which much disturb me. Kort will
ruin this Club, and us also, if we are not
careful, but we must be wary and sure of our
facts. Now, I have something else to tell
you.”

“What?” I inquired.

“ It has to do with poor Beauchamp. It
may be quite a wild idea, but here it is. I
went to the dispensary just now in order to
look at the bottle containing the uranium
nitrate, the drug which, you remember, Beau¬
champ was taking. I cannot, of course, say

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

553

how much of the medicine was used for him,
because Kort made it up from the crystals in
the bottle, but it struck me that as the bottle
was nearly full when Beauchamp came, it
looks uncommonly low now.”

“ Good heavens ! ” I cried, “ do you mean
that you suspect that the poor fellow may
have been given too big a dose of it by
Sutherland ? ”

“It is possible that Sutherland got hold of
the bottle, for I think Kort trusted him
absolutely. From O’Brien’s remark there is
something odd with regard to Sutherland’s
past life, and he alone, so far as we can tell,
is benefited by the death of his nephew.
One thing at least is certain—if such a dose
were given to Beauchamp it would certainly
kill him.”

“ Since you do not know the amount that
was originally in the bottle, I do not see what
use there is in saying anything about it,” I
replied, gloomily.

Chetwynd paced up and down the room
quickly.

“ You can prove nothing,” I continued;
“ the body has been cremated, and, therefore,
all trace of poisoning gone.”

“ Has it ? ” he muttered. His steps
quickened. Suddenly he stopped and turned
to me.

“ Do you know that uranium nitrate is a
non-volatizable metal?” he said, fixing his
eyes on my face, and pronouncing each word
slowly.

I stared back at him in astonishment, not
seeing at first what his meaning was. Then
I sprang to my feet.

“What!” I cried, “you mean that it
would be still in the ashes ? ”

“ Yes, I mean that. If my suspicion that
Beauchamp’s death was caused by an exces¬
sive dose of uranium nitrate is correct, a
careful quantitative analysis of the ashes
might reveal some interesting evidence.”

“ By Jove! Chetwynd, that is an idea.
Yes, it would certainly be the case. What
do you mean to do ? ”

“ I shall sift this matter thoroughly. I
have been slow in my suspicions, but now
that they are aroused I promise you I will
not let the grass grow under my feet. I
mean to go immediately to town to see
O’Brien. Come, let us go together.”

Five minutes later we were rapidly driving
towards the City.

“ You know,” said Chetwynd, as we drove
along, “ that recent experiments have abund¬
antly proved that a metal can be isolated
from ashes when not volatilized by cremation,

and certainly uranium would not be. Silver,
copper, and many other metals would act in
the same way, but the great point in this case
will be the fact that uranium is such a rare
metal that no counsel for the defence could
possibly uphold a plea of its accidentally
having found access to the ashes.”

“I see,” I replied, with enthusiasm; “yes,
if any very large quantity is found in the
ashes our case will be proved.”

“ Our case ? ” he said, glancing at me.

“ Yes,” I replied, “ for my private impres¬
sion is that Kort has a hand in this matter.

I cannot help suspecting the man. I believe
there is an evil influence over our house, and
the sooner the man who exercises this terrible
power is exposed the better.”

“ But Kort does not benefit in the least,”
said Chetwynd, in a gloomy tone.

“ Nevertheless, the two men were in
league,” was my answer.

We arrived at the office of the insurance
company, and were at once shown into the
manager’s private room. His amazement
when Chetwynd disclosed his idea was
beyond description.

“Really,” he cried, “it is scarcely credible.
One would have thought that cremation, at
any rate, would have destroyed for ever all
evidence of poisoning if a suspicion of such
were to exist.”

“ In the case of uranium nitrate such
would not be the case,” replied Chetwynd.

O’Brien turned suddenly to me.

“ Do you, Dr. Cato, corroborate Dr. Chet-
wynd’s statement ? ” he asked.

“ Certainly I do,” I answered. “ My
friend is one of the first analytical chemists
in London.”

“Very well,” he replied, snatching up his
hat, “ I shall act on this immediately. Can
I rely on you to make this analysis if I obtain
possession of the ashes ? ” he added to Chet¬
wynd.

“ Certainly, but it will be a police affair,
of course, and the Government analyst,
Russell, would have to do it; but as he
happens to be a great friend of mine, I
daresay he will allow me to help him if you
mention the special details.”

He hurried off, and we returned to the
Club, deciding that it would be wisest not
to mention anything about the matter to
Kort.

The insurance company and the Home
Office evidently wasted no time, for at six
o’clock on the following evening a letter
was brought to Chetwynd by special mes¬
senger.

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

559

“ Here you are, you see,” he said, handing
it across to me. I read as follows :—

“ Somerset House, W.C.

“Dear Chetwynd, —The Home and
Colonial Assurance Company have acted on
your advice—an ingenious idea certainly, and
worthy of you. They have just received the
necessary authority from the Home Office,
and Beauchamp’s ashes will be here at eleven
o’clock to-morrow morning. If there is any¬
thing in this, a more formal analysis will
doubtless be necessary, but in the first
instance I should greatly value your assist¬
ance and advice. Can you be with me
sharp at the hour I have mentioned ?

“ Yours very truly,

“Maurice Russell.”

“You will go, of course?” I said, handing
it back to him.

“ Certainly,” he replied, “ and you had
better come too, Cato. Russell knows your
name, and will have no objection to your
being present.”

At ten o’clock the following morning
Chetwynd and I left the Club together. The
mission before us absorbed every thought.
Surely there never was a more unique one—
the analysis of the ashes of a cremated man,
on the result of which the
most astounding issues
might hang.

We reached Somerset
House punctually at eleven
o’clock, where Russell re¬
ceived us. Chetwynd intro¬
duced me, and asked if I
might be present at the
analysis.

“ Certainly, Dr. Cato,”
he replied. “ I know of
you by reputation, and
am glad to make your
acquaintance. Come over
to the laboratory now, and
we will discuss the matter
thoroughly.” As he spoke,

Russell crossed the room,
opened the door, and led
us down a passage into a
splendidly-fitted laboratory
on the same floor. As he
closed the door of this
room he spoke.

“Before we
begin,” he said, “ in
an analysis of such
great importance
we should clearly
decide on our line

of action. The substance we have to deal
with is limited in amount, so we cannot
afford to make mistakes. My idea is
this. Whatever salt of uranium was admin¬
istered, we shall now from the ashes doubtless
find it in the form of oxide Us Os. I pro¬
pose to filter this out as a soluble nitrate,
reduce it down to the dioxide, and then
assume the oxygen required which would
bring it up to the trioxide with permanganate
of potassium.”

“ Exactly,” replied Chetwynd, “ that is the
process I should myself suggest.”

“ Very well. Shall we each analyze a
portion and then compare results? But I
must first find out if the ashes have arrived.
They were to be brought up by a man
from Woking: the messenger ought to be
here now.”

Russell had just pressed the bell to inquire
about the ashes, when there was a knock at
the door, and a man entered carrying a black
bag.

“Are you the messenger from Woking?”
asked Russell.

“ Yes sir,” answered the man.

“ Have you got the ashes ? ”

“Yes, sir.” The man opened the bag and

“the man opened the bag.”

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

560

produced a metal cinerary urn. On the out¬
side was engraved the name, “ Harold Walter
Beauchamp.”

“ This is the certificate, sir, from the
manager,” he said, handing a paper as he
spoke to Russell.

“ Very well; that will do.”

The man retired, and Chetwynd and
Russell began their investigations, while I
watched them both with breathless interest.

Chetwynd was the first to remove the lid
of the urn. He took a small quantity of the
ashes on a spatula and made a solution of
the nitrate.

“Now for the ferrocyanide of potassium,”
he said to me; “ we should get in any case a
brown precipitate.” He added the reagent
to the test-tube, and instantly a dense pre¬
cipitate fell.

He uttered a cry.

“Absolutely loaded with it,” he said, in a
whisper.

I continued to watch him as with deft
hands he drew the mystery that surrounded
Beauchamp’s death from the incinerated
remains of his own body. It was a strange
and wonderful piece of detection !

Meanwhile Russell in a distant part of
the laboratory was making another careful
analysis. At the end of an hour both men
had completed their work. Russell rapidly
ran over his calculations and in silence
handed the paper across to Chetwynd, who
compared it with his own figures.

“Six hundred and eighty-three grains!”
cried Chetwynd; “ a lethal dose with a ven¬
geance.”

As he spoke he handed the paper
to me. I stared at it without speaking.
Though I had been practically convinced
that foul play had been used, now that the
ugly and terrible demonstration of it stared
me in the face, without the possibility of
error, I seemed scarcely able to realize it.

“ We must take these papers immediately
to O’Brien,” said Chetwynd. “ He is the
person to take the next step in this terrible
affa’.r.”

Thanking Russell for his assistance, we
both left the room. A few moments later we
were in the office of the insurance company.
We told O’Brien what had taken place. He
listened with intense eagerness. We then
showed him the figures. His amazement
was almost beyond words.

“ A warrant must be taken out immediately
for the arrest of Sutherland,” he said ; “ that
is my affair. As to Kort, whether he is
guilty or not, he must be subpoenaed to

appear at the trial. I do not think we can
do more at present.”

The insurance manager was in a state of
excitement impossible to describe.

“ Will you wait in town for me,gentlemen?”
he said; “ it may be two or three hours
before I can get the necessary formalities
completed, but this very day that scoundrel
shall be locked up.”

We promised to return again to the office
in a short time, and he left us.

To arrange the formalities and obtain the
required assistance of the law was after all
but the work of a few hours, and early that
same afternoon we, a silent party, travelled
down to Sutherland’s place, Ray Park, in
Surrey. I scarcely dared contemplate the
wretched man’s hideous fate should nothing
transpire to clear him of the awful charge on
which he was to be arrested. Hiring a fly at
Inchampton we drove to Ray Park, some
two miles from the station. It was a small
but pretty red brick house, and scarcely
fulfilled the impression its somewhat preten¬
tious title gave it.

O’Brien rang and knocked loudly. Almost
instantly the door was opened, and to our
utter amazement and consternation the tall
figure of Kort stood before us.

“ In the name of all that is wonderful,
what has brought you here ? ” he cried,
looking from one of us to the other, and as
far as we could tell not in the least suspecting
the hideous truth.

“ We want to see Sutherland,” I answered.

I had scarcely said the words before the
officer of the law who accompanied us stepped
forward.

“ I must see Mr. Sutherland without a
moment’s delay,” he said. “ I hold here a
warrant for his arrest on suspicion of causing
the death of the late Harold Beauchamp by
the administration of poison.”

“ What, has the news got out already ? ”
said Kort, his face turning from red to white
and from white to red again. The police
officer forced his way into the house. Kort
stood for a moment as if he would keep him
out, then stepped back to let him pass.

“ You can all come in,” he said. “ I did
not know the terrible news had got abroad.
I am stunned by this. The wretched Suther¬
land sent for me this morning. You are too
late, officer. Come, I have something to
show you.”

As he spoke Kort walked down the hall,
and threw open a door.

“ He is beyond your power—look ! ”

We all found ourselves in one of the

STORIES OF THE SAJVCTC/AEY CLUB.

5 61

reception-rooms. Seated in a chair, with
his head bowed upon the table and one arm
hanging loosely, sat Sutherland. I uttered a
cry as 1 raised him. The man was dead.

“ Yes, he is dead,” said Kort. “ He sent
for me early this morning in order to confess
his crime, and knowing how I might possibly

Harold Beauchamp. Without collusion or
complicity I designed and carried it out
alone. I obtained the uranium nitrate from
the dispensary of the Sanctuary Club and
administered two large doses myself. I had
got into severe monetary trouble, and the
insurance money on my nephew’s life was

“ THE MAN WAS DEAD.”

be implicated, wrote a long confession saying
that when he* had done so he should give
himself up. He has, as you see, but to the
judgment of no earthly tribunal. I had left
him for a few moments, and found him thus
a short time before you arrived. Smell this
glass—it contained hydrocyanic acid, painless
and swift.”

While Kort was speaking the inspector
glanced through a sheet of paper which lay
beside the dead man on the table.

“ Yes, it is a full confession,” he said. He
read aloud as follows :—

“ I, Edgar Walter Sutherland, hereby of
my own free will, without reservation or equi¬
vocation, confess the terrible crime I have
committed — the murder of my nephew,

Vol. xviii.—71

the only means by which I could put myself
straight.

“ I write this confession now in order to
clear from blame or suspicion Mr. Kort,
on whom, owing to the circumstances of
the case, such might possibly fall. I can¬
not bear the load of guilt any longer. My
mind is going. God help me.

“Edgar Walter Sutherland.”

A silence followed the words of the police-
officer. He looked at O’Brien.

“ Well, sir,” he said, “ we cannot arrest a
dead man.”

“ And as your company will not have to
pay the insurance money in any case now,
I presume the law will have nothing further
to do in the matter,” said Chetwynd.

Great Showers of Shooting Stars.

By Sir Robert Ball.

STRONOMY is generally con¬
cerned about objects of huge
dimensions. For though many
of the celestial bodies may
appear to us to be small on
account of the vast distance
by which we are separated from them, yet
they are in many cases mighty globes com¬
parable with our earth in bulk; or, more
usually, hundreds or even millions of times
greater. There is, however, one class of
objects, strictly belonging to the province of
astronomy, which have no pretensions to
consideration on the ground of their bulk.
The objects of which I speak are, in fact,
not as large as even the smallest of moons
or the most telescopic of planets. They
are not even so big as the mountains on the
earth : the majority of them are indeed
little pieces of matter not larger than the
pebbles on a garden walk. I dare say that
many of them are not greater than the grains
of sand on the sea-shore. We denote them
by the word “ meteors.”

These little objects must, however, be
regarded as bodies which come within the
province of the astronomer, for they have an
existence quite independent of our earth,
and move freely through space, in so far at

least as that part of their career is concerned
which precedes the supreme occasion on
which, once and for all, they make their ap¬
pearance to us.

The most remarkable feature of the
meteor is the speed at which it travels.
Though often not so large as a rifle bullet, a
meteor urges its way at a pace far in excess
of that with which any rifle bullet has ever
been driven, or, we may indeed say, far in
excess of that with which any rifle bullet ever
could be driven. The most improved rifles
which human skill has yet turned out can
impart a muzzle velocity to a projectile cor¬
responding to a pace of about half a mile in
a second of time. But there is a check to
the speed of a rifle bullet arising from the
fact that the missile in the course of its
flight has to force its way through the
atmosphere. The resistance which the
bullet experiences from the friction of
the atmosphere increases at a far more
rapid rate than the increase of the
velocity.

The density of the air decreases with every
increase in height above the earth’s surface,
until, at an altitude of a few hundred miles,
the atmosphere may, for all practical pur¬
poses, be said to be non-existent. A bullet

projected from
a rifle which
was at such an
altitude would
only experience a
resistance much
less than that
which so speedily
reduces the muzzle
velocity of a mis¬
sile fired at the
earth’s surface.
On account of
this atmospheric
resistance it would
be impossible for
missiles down
here to possess
velocities exceed¬
ing a certain limit,
but in the open
space beyond the
confines of our
atmosphere velo¬
cities of any mag¬
nitude would be
quite conceivable.

TRAIL OF A METEOR, NOVEMBER I3TH, 1893. (THE PHOTOGRAPH ALSO SHOWS BROOK’S COMET.)

from a Photo, by Mr. E> E> flei'na,rd t .

GREAT SHOWERS OF SHOOTING STARS.

563

Accordingly, we find that meteors are
generally animated with speeds far in excess
of those possessed by any rifle bullet. For
our present purpose there is no occasion to
inquire as to the manner in which such terrific
velocities have been originally imparted.
All that we have now to consider is the
fact that these little objects when moving
in free space are certainly hurrying along
with velocities ten times, twenty times, fifty
times, or sometimes even one hundred times
as swift as the swiftest rifle bullet that
ever was fired. The reader
may well feel astonished at
su<*h demands on his powers
of conception. It is, how¬
ever, easy to show that
though velocities of such
magnitude may be vastly in
excess of any velocities
which we can produce by
any of our appliances, yet
they are not greater than
velocities we are already
familiar with in the case of
other bodies moving
through space. Take for
instance the earth, which
wends its way at a speed
of eighteen miles per
second. That is nearly
forty times as fast as the
highest speed which has
ever yet been attained by
a rifle bullet. But there
are other celestial bodies
belonging to our system
which move • more quickly than the earth.
Certain comets wheeling round the sun attain
speeds which must be estimated in hundreds
of miles a second. Indeed, there is at least
one of these celestial visitors which, during
the brief period that it remained in the neigh¬
bourhood of our system, attained a pace not
far short of one thousand times that of the
swiftest bullet ever fired from a rifle.

Let us think of a little meteor hurrying
along through open space at a speed one
hundred times greater than that of a rifle
bullet. It need hardly be said that under
such circumstances we could not see the
object. It is too remote from our earth. The
most powerful telescope would not display such
an insignificant body to us even if it were at
rest, still less could we expect to see it when
hurrying along with this bewildering rapidity.
For, try to realize what the speed really is
with which the little object is animated. We
think that a railway train is making very good

progress when it runs fifty miles an hour.
Try, then, to imagine the speed of a train
which would make the same journey in a
minute that the quickest express would
require an hour to accomplish. How vast,
indeed, would this pace be. But yet it falls
far short of the speed of the meteor. We
should have to suppose that the body moved
as far, not in a minute, but in a second, as
the express train does in an hour, before
we should have an adequate idea of the
terrific pace at which one of these little

objects dashes along. If a meteor were to
fly round the Equator while preserving all the
time its characteristic speed, it would take no
more than two or three minutes to cross
each of the continents and each of the
oceans which lay in its way ; and, in fact,
the whole journey round the globe would be
accomplished within ten minutes. Animated
by such a speed a body would pass from
Liverpool to New York in a minute, or it
would travel all the way from the earth to
the moon in less than an hour and a half.

A meteor urging its course with this stu¬
pendous rapidity may pass near the earth, say
at a distance of a thousand miles or so. It
then pursues its way and entirely escapes
our attention. No doubt the attraction of
the great mass of the earth will, to a certain
extent, pull the object, and compel it to
swerve from the direction it has been follow¬
ing ; but provided it gets quite clear of the
atmosphere which so completely invests the

EXPLODING METEOR—FELL ABOUT MIDNIGHT, NOV. 3RD, l8(J5, A FEW DEGREES SOUTH¬
WEST OF THE CONSTELLATION ARIES. RATHER BRIGHTER THAN JUPITER.

From a Photo, by Mr. C. P. Butler, A.R.C.S.

5 6 4

THE S TEA HD MAGAZINE.

earth, the meteor will be uninjured and will
not lose its velocity. Doubtless every day—
nay, every hour and every minute—unseen
meteors are passing by the earth, narrowly
escaping a fall which would for ever terminate
their wanderings.

Suppose, however, the direction of the
motion of a meteor be such that it enters
our earth’s atmosphere. Immediately its
terrific motion is checked. It might almost
be said to be checked with nearly the same
emphasis as the speed of an ordinary rifle
bullet would be checked if it were fired into
a hay-stack. The speed which the meteor
possesses before it has struck into our atmo¬
sphere cannot possibly be maintained after¬
wards. The resistance of the air will not
permit it. But the efforts of the celestial
wanderer to continue its astonishing move¬
ments after it has taken the plunge lead to
consequences which, though fatal to the
meteor, are of the highest interest.

Everyone knows that the friction of two
bodies rubbing against each other is fre¬
quently accompanied by the production of
heat. A .neglected axle-box in a carriage in
rapid motion has occasionally been known to
set a railway train on fire. In this case the
axle, from not being properly supplied with
grease, has become hot from friction, and as
the friction still continued the heat gradually
rose until a temperature sufficient to produce
ignition had been generated. As the flying-
meteor dashes through the air, the air rubs
on the surface of the little missile. It can
be shown by experiment that the friction

of the air against a body hurrying rapidly
through it produces heat. It is true that
we are not actually able to try this experi¬
ment with a body moving so quickly as a
meteor, but we can experiment up to a
certain point, and then calculation will take
up the reasoning, and conduct to a very strik¬

ing result. We can show that when a meteor
dashes into our atmosphere, the heat gener¬
ated as it pierces its way through by friction
will be sufficient, not alone to warm the
object, but to make it red-hot, and even
white-hot. Nay, further, the heat that can
be produced by the friction of a c old body
striking into our cold atmosphere may
become higher than that which is generated
in a blast furnace. It may be higher than
the temperature in the flame of an oxy-
hydrogen blow-pipe. Indeed, it may be
doubted whether even the electric arc itself
would be capable of producing a temperature
so great as that which is not infrequently
generated in the transit of a meteor through
the atmosphere.

The effect upon the meteor is of a most
astonishing description. Be the materials of
this body what they may; whether they are
such as will yield easily to fire, or whether
they are the most intractable bodies which
can be found, they will be unable to
withstand the fervour produced by this
atmospheric friction. The little object
not only grows red and white hot, but
it is fused into a liquid. Nay, further, the
abundance of the heat is such that the liquid
may be boiled off into vapour, so that within
a very few seconds after the meteor has
precipitated itself into the atmosphere its
dissolution is complete. It has perished as
an individual object, and its remains lie
strewn in impalpable dust along a track
perhaps ten, twenty, or fifty miles in length.
Our only knowledge of the existence of

the meteor is
acquired during
the very brief
space while its
annihilation is in
progress. Before
that time we could
not see it, for it
was too small and
too far away, and
moving too
rapidly. After
that time it could
hardly be known
to us, for how
could we gather
up the dust into which it had been converted
along its track? But during the supreme
moment of its dissolution it develops a streak
of light so bright as to be apt to create an
impression altogether out of proportion to
the minuteness of the object to which the
light owes its origin.

TRAIL OF A METEOR NEAR THE PLEIADES, AUGUST IOTH, 1897.
From a Photo, by Mr. E. E. Barnard.

GREAT SHOWERS OR SHOOTING STARS.

565

A NEARLY STATIONARY METEOR, AUGUST gTH, 1897.
|From a Photo, by Mr. E. E. Bernard.

Such is, in fact,
the usual history
of one of these
shooting stars
which every clear
night may be seen
to flash across the
sky. It will be
noted that each
such apparition
marks the total
transformation of
the meteor. It
has, indeed, been
captured by the
earth, and has
thus ceased to
have an indepen¬
dent existence. I
use the word
“ transformation ”
advisedly, for, of
course, it will be
remembered that
no such event as
the absolute destruction of a particle of
matter ever takes place in Nature. The
meteor is no doubt comminuted into dust;
that dust slowly subsides to the ground
through our air, so that this globe of ours
must be actually growing in bulk by the spoils
of the untold meteors which it has captured.

It must not be thought that because a single
observer under ordinary circumstances sees
only a few shooting stars on any particular
night that, therefore, the number of these
objects appropriated by the earth every
twenty-four hours is not very great. It
should, in the first place, be remembered
that the canopy of sky visible to any par¬
ticular observer contains only a very insig¬
nificant portion of the earth’s atmosphere,
while of course the entire atmosphere is
employed in the work of meteor-catching. It
must also be remembered that the shooting
stars which ordinarily attract attention are
only the brighter members of a vast host of
less conspicuous objects. For just as there
are ordinary stars in the sky, too faint to be
seen except with the telescope, so there are
innumerable faint shooting stars which are not
sufficiently bright to be noticed with the naked
eye, though perceptible with optical aid.
Every observer is familiar with the fact that, in
the course of his night’s work, bright streaks
of light will occasionally flash across the field
of view of the telescope. These are really
telescopic shooting stars. Taking these
objects into account, it has been estimated

that the number of shooting stars which
daily plunge into our atmosphere is to be
reckoned by millions, if not indeed by
scores of millions. No doubt the vast
majority of these bodies are extremely
minute. It can, however, hardly be doubted
that the atmosphere thus captures tons of
celestial material, which in due time are added
to our earth. Indeed, considering that this
addition of external matter to our globe has
been in progress for illimitable ages, it seems
quite possible that a considerable part of our
earth may actually have been derived from
the daily raining down of these little celestial
wanderers upon its surface.

It is fortunate for us dwellers on the earth
that we are screened by our atmosphere from
these bullets of the sky. For even though
these objects may be no larger than the
pebbles on a gravel walk, yet, considering
that they are animated with velocities a
hundred times as great as that of a rifle
bullet, it is obvious that they would render a
residence on the earth highly dangerous.
On the moon, for instance, where there is
no protecting atmosphere to reduce the
missiles to streaks of harmless vapour,
and thus serve as a screen, the blows
given to the plains and mountains must be
terrific. For it should be noted, in this
connection, that the efficiency of a missile
in delivering a blow is to be measured not
merely by its velocity, but by the square
of its velocity. It follows that in comparing

5 66

THE STRAND MAGAZINE..

the destruction which could be wrought by a
meteor with that effected by a rifle bullet of
the same weight, we may say that the former
must be ten thousand times as much as the
latter, if we assume, as we have been doing
in this article, that the velocity of the celes¬
tial missile is one hundred times that which we
can produce by our rifles. This considera¬
tion ought to make us more heartily appreci¬
ate the benefits we derive from the kindly
screen which the atmosphere provides. In¬
deed, in one way it may be regarded as
fortunate for our safety that these meteors
do move so rapidly. If they entered our
atmosphere with a speed no greater than
that of a rifle bullet the heat developed
would not be sufficient to dissipate them, and
consequently they would reach the earth in
a solid condition and retaining the capacity
for doing no little mischief. It is, in fact,
the very frenzy of these little objects which
is the source of our security. They are, so
to speak, in such a terrible hurry to get at us
that they become dissolved into streaks of
harmless vapour.

The ancients had a very poetical concep¬
tion as to the character of the shooting stars.
They were supposed to be fiery arrows which
the beneficent deities overhead discharged
at the demons. If an evil spirit were seen
stealing from its legitimate province below
and intruding its baleful presence on the
earth, it was made the mark for one of these
arrows. And as the good deities never
missed their aim, each shooting star announced
that there was one evil spirit the less left to
harass the universe.

On certain occasions the world has been
astounded by a display of shooting stars in
myriads, which have for some hours produced
a spectacle of indescribable magnificence.
Such great showers occur with some degree
of regularity, and we are thus able to predict
to a certain extent the time when they may
be expected, though it should be observed
that any prediction of this kind is always put
forth with a certain degree of reserve.
Astronomers can, no doubt, predict the
occurrence of such a phenomenon as an
eclipse or a transit of Venus, and in doing so
they feel every certainty that in the event the
predictions will be justified in every detail.
For astronomical occurrences of this class, de¬
pending as they do on the movements of the
great bodies of the solar system, are not liable
to be influenced by any causes except those
which calculation can take into account, and
hence they appear with certainty at the pre¬
dicted time. It is quite otherwise with the

movements of these little bodies, which
appear as meteors. They are, as we said,
only seen at the very moment of their
disappearance, and hence any prediction as to
the recurrence of a shooting star shower is
to be regarded as an anticipation that we shall
on such an occasion see objects, though such
individual objects have never up to the
present come, within our ken. We expect
them to appear in just the same way as we
expect that fish will be caught again in the
same place where fish have always been
caught when the right season comes round.
This is, of course, a very different matter
from the prediction of an eclipse of the sun,
where the movements of the three bodies
concerned are subject to continuous scrutiny
and are perfectly well known.

By a shower of shooting stars we mean a
display in which it is not so much the
individual brightness of the objects which
attracts attention as the excessive numbers
in which they appear. It had long been
noticed that there were certain nights in the
year in which meteor displays were specially
manifested. The most notable dates, in this
connection, are the 10th August and the
middle of November. On either of these
occasions in most years the diligent watchers
of the skies will be rewarded with the sight
of an unusual number of these fiery darts.
Even on those days, however, the display is
not, generally speaking, sufficiently striking to
excite universal astonishment. It does, how¬
ever, sometimes happen that the November
shower becomes a spectacle which can only be
described as sublime. Many of our readers
will doubtless recollect the superb display of
shooting stars which took place on the 13th
of November, 1866. I shall always treasure
the recollection of that phenomenon as
perhaps the most interesting astronomical
sight that I have ever witnessed. I was at
that time astronomer to the late Earl of
Rosse, at Parsonstown, in the centre of
Ireland. It was then my duty to observe
nebulae with the famous reflecting telescope
of 6ft. aperture. I was engaged on the
night in question, in conjunction with the
present Earl of Rosse, in examining a nebula,
when the exclamation of an attendant by
my side made me look up in time to
see a splendid shooting star, which, like
a great rocket, streamed across the sky.
Presently similar objects appeared in scores
and hundreds, and for some hours we were
witnesses of one of the most glorious
celestial spectacles that the eye of man could
ever behold. It was to be noticed that the

GREAT SHOWERS OF SHOOTING STARS.

5 6 7

DIAGRAM SHOWING THE RADIATION OF METEORS FROM A POINT.
By Mr. W. F. Denning.

shooting stars did not appear pro¬
miscuously from various parts of the
sky. The directions in which they
moved seemed to radiate from a
point in the constellation of Leo.

This appearance of divergence from
a point is easily shown to be an
effect of perspective; the meteors
are, in fact, all darting towards the
earth from one direction, namely,
parallel to the line from the eye to
the centre of the sickle-shaped part
of Leo. Those particular meteors
which happened to be directed
straight towards the observer seemed
so much foreshortened that they
merely looked like stars which
suddenly burst into brightness and as
suddenly disappeared, with but little
or no change in the apparent position
which they occupied. Some three
or four particularly bright meteors
left long tracks behind them, which
lasted for many minutes before they
finally sank into invisibility.

I should say that the occurrence
of this exceptionally magnificent dis¬
play did not take astronomers alto¬
gether by surprise. They were, in
a measure, expecting it. In the first
place, the date, namely, the 13th of
November, was the date on which it
is usual to see shooting stars radiat¬
ing from this very constellation Leo.

It had further been noticed that
there was a tendency for this shoot¬
ing star shower to produce a display
of exceptional magnificence at
regular intervals of thirty - three
years. I might mention many in¬
stances of such showers extending over the
last nine centuries. We need, however, only
now refer to one great display in 1800 and
another in 1833. It was hence anticipated
that a shower of these particular meteors of
unusual richness would be repeated in 1866.
This remarkable prediction was announced by
Professor Newton, the distinguished astro¬
nomer of Yale University. The brilliant
way in which his anticipations were con¬
firmed justified the remarkable reasonings and
calculations upon which the announcement
was based. The appearance of the great
shower in exact conformity with the predic¬
tion naturally led to much further attention
being devoted to this most interesting subject.
It is largely due to the labours of the late
Professor Adams, of Cambridge, in following
up the line suggested by Professor Newton,

that we have learned the movements of the
bodies which compose the November shower.
It must be remembered that each of these
little objects is attracted by the sun, and in
consequence of that attraction it moves in an
elliptic orbit just like a planet. In the case
of the November meteors, each of these
bodies has as its highway an ellipse so elon¬
gated that it requires thirty-three and a
quarter years to complete a single revolu¬
tion. There are, of course, myriads of
these meteors, each independently pursuing
its own track. These tracks all lie, compara¬
tively speaking, close together, so that the
objects form as it were a vast swarm which
revolves around the sun and requires thirty-
three and a quarter years for each complete
revolution. It so happens that the track
which the earth pursues in its annual course

5 68

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

crosses the track of the meteors on the 13th of
November. Every 13th of November we are
therefore in the highway of the great shoal.
It usually happens, however, that the shoal is
at this time at some other part of its
track. There are, however, many stragglers
along the great line of march, and we
collide with some of these stragglers at each
annual passage. Thus we account for the
ordinary November showers which are not
of any particular prominence. During some
years, however, it happens that a great shoal
is crossing the junction of the two orbits just
at the moment when the earth arrives there.
A collision then takes place. The earth
plunges headlong into the vast shoal of rapidly
moving bodies ; they are burned up in the
way already described in the atmosphere, and
we, on the surface, a couple of hundred miles
below, enjoy the spectacle of a great shower
of shooting stars.

It was an event
of this kind
which astonished
the world on
November 13th,

1866.

As we write
these lines we
are reminded
that the great
shoal of Novem¬
ber meteors is
again hurrying
towards the junc¬
tion, and that we
have good reason
to expect, if the
atmospheric
conditions are
favourable, a repetition about the middle of
November, 1899, of that glorious display
which so many of us treasure in our memories.

[The fall of the celebrated Mazapil iron
meteorite of 1885, near Mazapil, in Mexico
(of which an illustration is given on this
page), was thus described by an eye-witness,
vouched for by Professor Bonilla :—

“It was about nine in the evening when
I went to the corral to feed certain horses,
when suddenly I heard a loud hissing noise,
exactly as though something red-hot were
being plunged into cold water, and almost
instantly there followed a somewhat loud thud.

At once the corral was covered with a phos¬
phorescent light, and suspended in the air
were small luminous sparks as though from
a rocket. 1 had not recovered from my
surprise when I saw this luminous air dis¬
appear, and there remained on the ground
only such a light as is made when a match is
rubbed. A number of people from the
neighbouring houses came running towards
me, and they assisted me to quiet the horses,
which had iDecome very much excited. We
all asked each other what could be the matter,
and we were afraid to walk in the corral for
fear of getting burned. When, in a few
moments, we had recovered from our surprise,
we saw the phosphorescent light disappear
little by little, and when we had brought lights
to look for the cause, we found a hole in the
ground and in it a ball of fire. We retired
to a distance fearing it would explode and

harm us. Look-
ing up to the
J sky, we saw from
time to time
exhalations or
stars,* which
soon went out,
but without
noise. We re¬
turned after a
little, and found
in the hole a
hot stone, which
we could barely
handle, which on
the next day we
saw looked like
a piece of iron ;
all night it
rained stars, but
we saw none fall to the ground, as they
seemed to be extinguished while still very
high up.”

A peculiarity of the surface of a meteorite
is that it is generally covered with small
depressions called “ thumb marks,” as they
have been likened to the impressions that one
makes when pressing some such substance
as putty with one’s fingers. The cause of
these “ thumb marks ” is unknown, but they
have been found to bear a close resemblance
to marks which have been noticed on grains
of gunpowder blown out on firing large
guns.—E d.]

* The meteor fell during a star shower.

MAZAPIL METEORITE IRON SHOWING THUMB MARKS.
Reprinted by permission Jrnrn “ Nature

was eight years old—in some
things ; and in some things—
well, you will see. He had
crisp, curly yellow hair, twink¬
ling blue eyes, and a merry
round face which sparkled like
an early morning hedge rose. He was rather
nicely dressed in blue knickerbockers, and a
brown Italian silk shirt with a turn-down
collar of the same material, and instead of a
tie he wore a twisted silk cord with tassels.
It was an eminently serviceable costume, and
looked well at all hours of the day. When
Mrs. Begbie, the stewardess, saw him she
heaved a great sigh, for she had once had a
little fellow of her own whom kindly memory
painted as a counterpart of this one, and her
sympathetic Scotch tongue took on a still
softer inflection as she pressed him to
take a second serving of pudding, and when
he answered, politely: “No, thank you,
ma’am. Mother does not like me to have
twice,” she murmured to herself, “ Wee
lamb ! ”

The sea, even in the Channel, was unkindly,
but in the Bay its unkindliness amounted to
positive rudeness. The grown-ups in the
big saloon showed their resentment by coldly
absenting themselves from the table. In

Vol. xviii.—72.

the children’s saloon, however, from lack of
experience they took things more cheerfully,
and did not allow their feelings to get the
better of their appetites.

The Bishop of Jolapore’s state-room
happened to be on the same deck, and as
he went down to it he glanced in at the
youngsters sitting round their table, and first
it reminded him of a flower garden, and
then, as he caught sight of the bright-faced
boy in the brown silk shirt, he thought of
other things, and his thin lips pressed tightly
together and his sad eyes glistened softly,
and he went very quietly into his cabin and
closed the door. I am not privileged to
follow him there, but I can imagine what he
did.

As the Bishop sat tucked up in his chair
on deck next day, swathed in a voluminous
plaid, his eyes followed the meteoric evolu¬
tions of the bright-faced boy with a longing
caress in them. He was not a gregarious
man, and his lack of camaraderie was a
cause of constant self-reproach with him.

57 o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE:

He was by nature shy and reserved, and in
all his voyages he had found it difficult to
adopt the jovial, hail-fellow-well-met spirit of
shipboard life which he admired so greatly
in others and strove in vain to emulate. His
efforts in this direction offered some slight
amusement, even to himself, largely tinged,
it must be owned, with self-contempt and
much regret.

But on this occasion he could feel neither
reproach nor contempt for his own solitari¬
ness. There was a great, gaping chasm in
his heart and in his life, a void with which
the ship and the unruliness of the Bay had
nothing to do, and which the whole ship’s
company was inadequate to fill. For all that
had hitherto filled it lay quietly sleeping
under one green mound in a little graveyard
on a Devonshire hillside. They had made
him a Bishop, and he was going back to pick
up broken threads, but his heart was very
empty and very sad, and the submission he
had taught so earnestly to others he found
came very hardly to himself. The sunny
coast of Spain had green graves dotted all
over it for him as he lay tucked up in his
deck chair, when suddenly a clear little
ringing voice alongside him said, “ Please,
may I sit on this bit of your rug?”

It was the bright-faced boy in the brown
silk shirt, and as the young Bishop turned
and caught the full appeal of the frank blue
eyes, something came up into his throat which
he had to swallow with difficulty before he
could answer, “ Certainly, my dear, there is
quite enough for two of us.”

The bright-faced boy accordingly smoothed
out an overflowing end of the plaid which
had blown down on to the deck, and sat
down on it close up to the Bishop’s chair,
and drew the fringy end of it over his short
legs.

“ Now, that’s what I call comfortable,” he
said. “ You see, I haven’t a chair of my
own, and the deck’s hard, and besides, it
dirties your trousers, and when they’re your
only pair, you know-”

“ You’ve.got to be careful of them,” said
the Bishop. “ I used to live in a country
where the little boys never wore any trousers
—or any clothes at all.”

“ How very jolly ! ” said the small boy,
with snapping eyes. “ Was it India ? ”

“ No, that was in the South Seas ; but they
don’t wear very much in India, except the
little white boys. They have to wear clothes,
you know.”

“ It must be much jollier to go quite with¬
out,” said the small boy.

They got quite confidential, and the
Bishop found it very refreshing to have been
singled out in this way by this exceptionally
bright little piece of humanity. The sm^ll
boy informed him that his name was Gordon
Reid, but that wasn’t his mother’s name—
from which the Bishop judged that she was
his stepmother—and that she was that sick
she couldn’t raise her head from the pillow.
He also informed the Bishop among many
other things that his father was a soldier, a
“Colonel-Sergeant,” which was somewhat
confusing, and that when he grew up he was
going to be a soldier too and fight the black
men.

“ Do you fight the black men ? ” he asked
the Bishop.

“Yes, dear, but not in that way. I have
to fight their ignorance and superstitions.”

“ What are igorans and ’stitions, and how
do you fight ’em ? With a sword ? ”

“Yes, with a sword,” said the Bishop,
playing with his own fancy, “but not the
same kind of sword as your father carries.”

“ Father’s sword is a great big one—as big
as me and terrible sharp. I can just remem¬
ber it.”

“ Mine is very small, and I carry it in my
pocket,” said the Bishop, and drew out his
small, much-used Bible.

“ Oh ! ” said the boy, and relapsed into
momentary silence. Then he began prattling
away on other subjects. He informed the
Bishop that the third engineer was named
Sandy Macpherson—“ the man with the
yellow moustache, you know—and he prefers
Scotch to Irish and it’s a pity to drown it,
and he has a photo, of the young lady he’s
going to marry in his cabin, and her name’s
Miss Maggie Macgregor, and she’s as good
as she’s bonnie ”—and much more to the
like effect.

They got so friendly, and the Bishop
enjoyed his naive prattle so much, that he
felt quite sorry when the bell rang for the
children’s tea, and the little fellow scrambled
to his feet, and carefully handed back the
fringe of the plaid to its owner, and said,

“ Thank you, so much; I have so enjoyed
myself. May I come again and talk to you
sometime ? ”

And the Bishop, with more heart than he
had felt for many a day, said, “ Yes, come as
often as you like. We’re going to be good
friends, I can see,” and watched the snfcill
boy scud nimbly along the sloping deck and
disappear down the companion, and felt
more interest in things generally than he
would have believed possible an hour before.

THE BISHOP AND THE BOY.

57i

As be went down to his cabin a little later,
he peeped into the children’s saloon and
stood for a few minutes watching unobserved,
as he was fond of doing, and there Mrs.
Begbie caught him. Little Gordon was
sitting between two tiny, stolid, pale-faced
infants dressed in white lace, feeding first
one and then the other with biscuit and
jam. The stewardess’s shrewd eyes soon
saw in whom the Bishop was interested.

“ A gra-a-and wee laddie, yon, sir ! ” said
Mrs. Begbie. She had heard the quiet
young man was a Bishop, but she was
Presbyterian herself, and did not take much
stock in Bishops. “Those weans absolutely
refused to take any tea unless he fed them,
an’ he’s just as guid to them as if they
were his own.”

“ He’s a fine little fellow,” said the Bishop.

“You know him, sir?”

“ Oh, yes, we’re good friends,” said the
Bishop, and with a nod to little Gordon,
who happened to look up, he passed on to
his cabin.

As the Bishop was solacing himself with
an after-dinner cigar in the corner of the
smoking-room, where he was always painfully
conscious that his presence had somewhat of
a repressive influence, he suddenly caught
sight of a little round face which glimmered
white in the electric light, and a pair of eyes
which roved searchingly round the room.
When the blue eyes met his own, Master
Gordon Reid’s stockings twinkled over the

raised step, and he climbed
up on to the seat alongside
the Bishop.

“ May I sit here ? ” he
asked.

“Won’t the smoke make
you cough ? ”

“ Oh, no,” said the small
boy, “ I like it. Sandy
Macpherson likes Lakitee
best, but he can’t afford it,
so he smokes shag. Mr.
Johnson, the cook, he
smokes Navy Cut, and the
Serang he takes snuff.

Mr. Boyle, the bo’s’un, he
chews. He says he gets

more taste out of it that
way, and besides you can
chew when you can’t
smoke, and he’s got a

predijice against lengthened
ships.”

He continued to impart
much private and personal
information to the Bishop, and when the
latter had finished his cigar he took
the small hand in his and suggested a

turn on deck.

“ And what time do you turn in, little
man ? ” asked the Bishop.

“ Oh, just any time I like,” said the small
boy. “ Shall I tell you a secret ? ” he asked,
with a roguish laugh.

“ Yes, if you like.”

“ You won’t tell ? Promise ! ”

“ No, I won’t tell.”

“ I slept last night in an empty cabin all
by myself. It was a little lonely, but it was
better than—you see-”

And the Bishop had visions of an extremely
sick and probably petulant stepmother, and
felt very sorry for the little fellow.

“ How would you like to sleep in my room ?
I have it all to myself,” he said.

“ Oh ! That ivould be jolly ! ” cried the
small boy, in ecstasy.

“ Well, I’ll tell my room-steward to make
up the other bed. I don’t suppose it makes
any difference to the ship which room you
sleep in. You’re quite sure your mother
won’t mind ? ”

“ Oh, no, she won’t mind. Wo?i't it be
jolly?”

And so, from that time on, the small boy
occupied the other bed in the Bishop’s room,
and when of a night after his last stroll on
deck, at which time his memory was most
alive and his aching sense of loss most

572

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

acute, the Bishop came to turn in, the sight
of that splendid little body flung out broad¬
cast over the lower bunk, in a little cotton
nightgown, which was always trying to convert
itself into a necktie, set his sad heart feebly
glowing again, and was like a healing hand
applied to his wound. He would sit on the
sofa and watch the fine little face, with the
ripe, parted lips, and the damp curls on the
wide, white forehead, and then with a sigh
and a prayer he would turn out the light and
climb up into the top bunk and fall asleep,
grateful that it had fallen to him to minister,
even in so small a way, to the happiness of
this little one, and fully conscious that he
was getting far more than he gave.

Their friendship continued without inter¬
ruption, and was strong enough to withstand
even Gordon’s expressions of flat disbelief in
the story of the Israelites having crossed the
Red Sea dryshod. The Bishop explained
that it was a narrower part than the one they
were at the moment traversing, but the small
boy showed plainly that while he believed
that his friend believed what he was telling
him, he himself was by no means convinced,
and favoured the idea that the Bishop had
been rather badly had in the matter by
someone or other.

Each day the Bishop inquired after his
mother, and every time the boy told him she
was just about the same, and incidentally he
heard that the lady in No. 24 was really
having a very bad time of it, and had ex¬
pressed an earnest desire to be put ashore at
every port they had touched at.

They had cleared from Aden and had
passed Bab-el-Mandeb, when, in the middle
darkness of an unusually dark night, without
an instant’s warning there came a sudden
shuddering shock, and then in the brief,
stunned silence that followed, with a slow,
tired movement, like a wounded leviathan
giving up the ghost, the great ship turned
over on its side and lay still. Then there
came hoarse shouts and cries from the deck,
terrified screams from the passengers ; behind
all these the deadly silence of the stoppage
of the engines, and all the lights went out.

The Bishop and the small boy found them¬
selves in a heap on the sofa, bruised but not
dangerously hurt, and, seizing the small boy
by the arm, the Bishop wrenched open the
door and shoved him up what had been the
floor of the passage, but which now stood up
in front of them like a sloping wall. Then
he scrambled up himself, and hand in hand
they picked a precarious passage along the
corridor which led to the forward companion,

hoarse shouts and cries above them, and
below terrified groans and the wailings of
men and women and children in mortal fear.

They could feel the ship settling lower and
lower, and altering the angle of their climb
every moment. Then there came a terrific
crash, and a sickening tearing and rending,
as though all creation were riving asunder,
and the Bishop clasped the boy to him and
gasped, “ God have mercy on our souls,’’ and
scrambled all the same fur dear life, and
leaped wildly up the side banisters of the
companion, which formed a ladder of a kind,
and slipped and fell with his burden, and
recovered himself with a groan just as a
ghostly wave with gnashing white teeth came
rushing along the corridor, where no wave
had ever been before or had any right to be,
and leaped savagely at them, and frothed
and spumed at them through the banisters,
and then lay down swelling and writhing
half-way up the companion to wait for them.
Then the wails and groans behind were
stilled, for the ship had broken in two, and
the hinder part had sunk.

The Bishop, with his teeth grinding hard
to counteract the grinding of a broken bone
in his leg, forced open the door which stood
above them, and they scrambled out on to
the sloping side of the deck-house, and found
there a huddled heap of men and a woman,
and the woman had two limp white bundles
clasped tight to her broad bosom—Mrs.
Begbie, the stewardess, with the two tiny
children who usually sat next to Gordon
Reid at table.

“God help us, sir,” said Mrs. Begbie;
“ what an awfu’-like thing.”

“ God help us, yes,” said the Bishop.
“ Are we all that are left ? ”

“ We cannot tell. There may be more
forward. We daren’t move till daylight.”

“ Are there any boats ? ” asked the Bishop.

And at that one of the men broke into
a torrent of blasphemy, from which the
Bishop gathered by degrees that the black
men had fought for the boats, and that
the speaker had got a knife through the
arm in trying to prevent them, and so felt
much hurt in every way. He cursed them
high and he cursed them low, and their
fathers and mothers and all their relations
for many generations.

“That is no use, my man,” said the
Bishop. “ Better save your breath. Maybe
you’ll want it.”

“ ’Taint no good,” growled the man, “ but
whenever I thinks of ’em I must cuss ’em
or bust.”

THE BISHOP AND THE BOY.

575

“As a personal favour may I beg of
you-” began the Bishop.

“ Why, it’s the Bishop,” said the man, peer¬
ing at him through the dimness of the dawn,
and they saw that it was the bo’s’un, Boyle.

“Yes, it’s the Bishop,” said that gentleman,
“and we are here in the hands of God, and
the devil can’t help us.”

“ Beg pardon, your reverence, I didn’t
reconnise you. One o’ them bias—aw ! beg
pardon, sir !—one o’ them measly div—aw !
um—um ! ” and he growled below his breath
and then continued aloud—“well, anyhow,
he put his knife through me arm when I
were tryin’ to stop ’em boltin’ wi’ the boats.”

“ Give me a strip off your apron, stewardess,
and I will bind it up,” said the Bishop. “ I’ll
hold the children. How did you come to
get hold of them ? ”

“ I was sitting in their cabin because they
wouldn’t go to sleep, poor wee lambs,” said
Mrs. Begbie, “ and when I felt the ship
going I just grabbed them and scrambled
up as well as I could.”

The small boy took possession of one of

the scared children and cuddled it up in his
arms, and the bo’s’un took off his rough
jacket and buttoned it round the boy’s neck,
for he had nothing on but his little cotton
nightgown.

And now, as though anxious to be in at
the death and unwilling for the sea to have
all the glory, the wind began to moan round
the broken hull, and they could hear the
waves churning hollowly among the ruins
below.

And so the chill dawn broke on them,
and as soon as it grew light enough the men
began scrambling cautiously about to see
what was left of the ship and who remained
of all her company, and then the Bishop saw
that of the other survivors all except the
bo’s’un were Lascars, and their faces were
gray and their eyes were shifty and ugly.
They came back presently with sunken faces
and very little to say, and the bo’s’un had
not an oath to his tongue.

He shook his head in answer to the
Bishop’s inquiring look.

“ We’re all,” he said, briefly, and the
Bishop bowed his head
and commended the souls
of the rest to God.

The sky hung low and
the dark, rolling clouds
boiled along like smoke.
The wind blew through
them in cold, damp gusts,
the waves began to yap
and snarl, and the salt
whips stung them venom¬
ously, and the faces of the
men grew grayer still and
still more sunken and
gloomy.

Every now and again,
when fresh pains shot
through his arm and the
attempted rape of the
boats came back on him,
the bo’s’un’s feelings got
the better even of his
respect for the Bishop,
and he would turn and
growl savagely at the
crouching blacks, and
shake his sound fist at
them, and express a
vehement desire to bash
them into pulp; and
the black men’s pale lips
would twitch up venom¬
ously at the corners
till the eye teeth showed,

U THE BO’s’UN TOOK OFF HIS ROUGH JACKET AND BUTTONED IT ROUND
THE BOY’S NECK.”

574

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

and they would snarl like hyenas and
look dangerous.

“Are we safe here?” asked the Bishop, by
way of diversion.

“ So long’s the wind keeps this way we’re
right. If it gets round to her head she’ll slip
off and we’re done,” said Boyle.

The small boy had never said a word
beyond crooning to the child in his arms. It
took all Mrs. Begbie’s time to comfort the
other one.

“ Couldn’t we get under shelter, and
couldn’t we get something to eat ?” asked the
Bishop, who was possessed of a body as well
as a soul.

But the black men seemed inclined to
take their fate sitting, and the bo’s’un set off
alone on another cautious, lop¬
sided scramble.

He pulled open the door of
the forward companion through
which the Bishop and the small
boy had emerged, but a look at the
ruin below with the water welter¬
ing up and down satisfied him that
nothing was to be done there. He
sat for a time on the forward edge
of the deck-house and looked wist¬
fully across the gap that lay between
him and the men’s quarters, but did
not see how to get across with only
one arm, for the slope of the deck
afforded no foothold, and the
waves were swirling up the lower
side of the slope in a way to make
one’s head swim. The bo’s’un’s
head was steady enough, but that
did not give him the use of his
other arm.

He turned and looked at the
other men, but they only snarled
sulkily back at him and crouched
the closer. He swore at them
roundly, but they refused to budge.

The small boy had been watch¬
ing him. Now he dumped his
nursling into Mrs. Begbie’s arms
and crept alongside the bo’s’un,
and crouched by his side and
looked across at the dark opening
of the fo’c’s’le. Then he stripped
off the jacket, and standing in his
fluttering nightgown he piped,
huskily, “ If you’ll push me up there, Mr.
Boyle,” pointing to the massive bulwarks
which overhung them, “ I’ll crawl along and
see what I can get.”

“ That’s it,” said the bo’s’un, “ you’re a
good plucked one. You’re worth all those

white-livered rascals put together. Think
you can manage it ? ”

“ I’ll try,” piped the boy.

The Bishop had closed his eyes and was
leaning his head against the deck. His
leg was very painful, and the slightest move¬
ment caused the broken bone to grate in
a way that made him feel sick. When he
happened to- open his eyes they fell on the
figure of the small boy just grimping on to
the bulwarks, while the bo’s’un held him
up from below. The wind bellied out the
cotton nightgown and showed the sturdy
naked little legs. Then he got his hold
and wormed himself slowly up on to the
edge of the bulwarks, and then for a moment
caught his breath and lay flat at sight of

the close waves leaping up at him. Then
slowly, inch by inch, with fixed face and
white-eyed side glances, he crawled along
till he came to the raised deck forward, let
himself slowly down it by means of a
dangling chain, and at last slid down an

the bishop and the boy.

575

iron support and crawled through the narrow
opening into the forecastle.

While he waited for the small boy to
reappear, the bo’s’un busied himself in
hauling out of the raffle that lay about all
the lengths of thin rope he could find, and
knotted them together as tightly as the
fingers of the wounded arm would allow him.
Then, with the coil of rope in his hand, he
sat down again on the edge of the deck¬
house and waited, and the Bishop dragged
himself up alongside him.

Presently the little white figure came
fluttering into the opening.

“Here, sonny ! ” cried the bo’s’un, “catch
this,” and flung him the coiled end of the
rope. At the third attempt the small boy
succeeded in catching it. “Tie it round
your waist,” was the next order. “ Now
climb up that post again.”

It was an easy climb, the post lay at such
an angle, and when the little, roped, white
figure lay on the slope of the deck, the
bo’s’un shouted his last order, “ Tie the rope
to that further chain. Then get down again
into the fo’c’s’le.” And with his small
fingers shaking with excitement the small
boy succeeded in slipping the end of the
rope through the last link of the chain and
knotting it there, and then slipped down the
post again and stood under the sheltering
eaves of the fo’c’s’le deck.'

“ Now, your reverence; help me haul on
to this. It’s only a chance. But if the chain
will run this length we can get across, and
we’ll have shelter, and maybe something to
eat.”

The Bishop set his teeth, for every move¬
ment that shook his deg was an agony, but
he gripped the rope and hauled as well as he
could, and between them the chain came
rattling slowly over the fo’c’s’le deck, and
dipped over the edge, and came halfway
across to them, and stuck.

“Up again, sonny,” cried the bo’s’un,
“and clear it if you can.”

Up climbed the little fluttering figure and
sprawled along the sloping deck and shook
the kinked chain till it loosened, and then he
climbed up the thin chain to the bulwark in
case he should be wanted again.

“ He’s a plucky little div—fellow, yon,”
said the bo’s’un. “ If he’d slipped then he’d
ha’ gone slap into the water. I’d sooner have
one plucky white boy than ten skunks of
Lascars any day when it comes to a pinch.
They can haul and pull, but they haven’t got
the pluck of a flea among ’em.”

At last, to his great content, the chain

came to his hands, and he secured it so that
it lay in a great drooping curve against the
slope of the deck, and many a time in the
doing of it did he fervently curse the hand
that knifed him and deprived him of half his
powers.

He called to the boy to twist the thin chain
round the thicker one to stop it running out
any farther, and then he stepped gingerly on
to the frail bridge, and foot by foot crossed
over, carrying the end of his rope still in his
hand.

He swarmed up the droop of the chain at
the farther end and lay on the fo’c’s’le deck.
Then he slacked off more of the chain till it
hung down nearly to the water, and then,
slipping down the post under the fo’c’s’le, he
drew the chain up taut and lashed it to the
foot of the post. Then, tying the rope to
act as a life-line about 6ft. above the chain,
his bridge was complete, and he passed back
over it.

“ Now, Mrs. Begbie, give me one o’ them
kids. I’ll carry ’em across, and you come
next. It’s as safe as London Bridge. No,
you don’t ! ”—as one of the Lascars got up
..and looked as though he would attempt the
passage. “ See here !—if any one of you
dam — dummed niggers sets foot on that
chain, I’ll brain him at the other end—
understand? Very well — then you know
what to expect.”

He got the children across, and he got
Mrs. Begbie across, and then, with a tight-set
jaw, the Bishop managed to get across by
laying himself flat against the deck and
hanging on to the life-line with his hands
and hopping on one foot. But when he
reached the other side his face was so white
and pinched with pain, that the bo’s’un went
into the fo’c’s’le and rummaged around till
he found a flask of gin, and forced him to
drink till he choked.

So now, if not luxuriously lodged, they
were, at all events, under shelter from wind
and spray, and a little knowing rummaging
on the part of the bo’s’un discovered a small
supply of eatables, and not a little tobacco,
and many pipes and some matches. He
rigged up both the Bishop and the small boy
in jackets and trousers from the sailors’
chests, and the small boy was a sight, indeed,
but warm withal, and disposed towards
cheerfulness.

The fo’c’s’le was divided by a fore-and-aft
bulkhead, so that the inner bunks were
available in spite of the topsy-turvy state of
things, and into one of these, after a scanty
meal, the small boy presently crawled with

576

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

one of the children in his arms and fell fast
asleep in a moment. Mrs. Begbie followed
his example, and the Bishop and the bo’s’un,
after the latter had strapped the broken leg
into a set of splints made from some bits of

wind, and each time as he slid down he stood
and looked across at the Lascars, huddled
all together in a silent and despondent heap.
Then, with a shake of the head, in reply to
the Bishop’s inquiring look, if the Bishop

“the small boy was a sight, indeed.”

wood from a seaman’s chest and strips of a
woollen shirt, lit up their pipes, for the
bo’s’un only chewed when he couldn’t smoke,
and they sat in the doorway and discussed
the situation.

The bo’s’un gave it as his emphatic
opinion that they were bound to be sighted
by some passing ship within a very short
time, and that they were quite all right
unless the wind shifted, in which case the
waves would likely ease the bit of wreck off
the reef, and they would all be in kingdom
come in half of no time. But, anyhow, if
the wind was going to change they couldn’t
stop it, and meanwhile tobacco tasted un¬
commonly good under the circumstances.
The Bishop concurred as to the soothing
effect of the weed, but fervently hoped that
the wind would keep where it was, and that
they might be sighted before it was too late.

The day wore slowly on. Every now and
then the Bishop’s head sank wearily against
the planking, and his pipe went out while he
had a quiet doze, and every now and again
the bo’s’un restlessly hauled himself up the
sloping post till his head topped the deck,
and he looked round anxiously for any signs
of approaching help or of a change in the

happened to be awake, he sat down again
and picked up his pipe and resumed his
smoke.

The stewardess and the children slept late
into the afternoon, and it was just as well,
for all their nerves had been badly jangled
by the events of the previous night, and the
stillness was a relief and a restorative. When
at last the feebler folk did awake they were
all in a more contented and hopeful frame of
mind, the Bishop with his broken leg being
in much the worst case, but making no
complaint, and even essaying to smile with
the rest at the figure cut by the small boy in
the seaman’s voluminous garments, which
ended in huge rolls and folds at legs and arms
and made him quite as broad as he was long.

“ Hech, sirs,” said Mrs. Begbie, and the
sound of her wholesome Scotch tongue was
heartening to them all, “ it’s long since I slept
as sound as that, and it seems like a sin to be
sleeping quietly in one’s bunk and all them
puir folk that was with us last night gone in
the twinkling of an eye.”

“ Ye can’t help ’em by keeping awake, Mrs.
Begbie,” said the bo’s’un.

“And puir Captain Deuchars, too,” con¬
tinued the stewardess; “ye’re quite sure he

THE BISHOP AND THE BOY.

577

didn’t get off in one of the boats, Mr.
Boyle ? ”

“ Aye, I’m quite sure. In the first place,
he’d never leave his ship as long as anyone
else was aboard of her; and in the second
place, I heard him on the bridge when I
came forrard to see after the boats, and
got into the mtlee with them black div —
fellows. Then I felt her turning, and then
she cracked in two. I always doubted
there’d be weak spots in her since she was
lengthened.”

“ Do you think any escaped in the boats ? ”
asked the Bishop.

“ Not a soul. There wasn’t time. Them
black div—fellows and ourselves are all
that’s left,” and the immensity of the calamity
crushed them all into silence.

They made another frugal meal off the
scraps they had found, and began to suffer
from thirst, but had no means of alleviat¬
ing it.

Then, boy-like, the small boy set himself
the task of lightening the general gloom
with his antics. He climbed squarely and
toilsomely into and out of every bunk, and
balanced himself on precarious ledges, and
flapped his wings and pulled faces for the
amusement of the other orphans, in a light¬
hearted, thoughtless way which evoked feeble
smiles of response from the children, and, in
the mind of the Bishop, a feeling of wonder
at his seeming indifference to his own loss.
But—“ He is very young, and, after all, she
was only his stepmother,” he argued with
himself by way of extenuation.

The Bishop asked the bo’s’un if they could
do nothing for the miserable Lascars out¬
side. But the bo’s’un did not see what they
could do. “We can’t give ’em any food,
and it wouldn’t do to give ’em any drink,
and we can’t have ’em in here. Once the
grip of the strong ha,nd is off them I don’t
trust ’em.”

“We might give them some tobacco,”
suggested the Bishop.

“ It’s more’n they’ve any call to look for,”
said the bo’s’un, whose arm twinged badly at
times.

“They must be feeling pretty bad out
there,” said the Bishop.

“Serves ’em right,” said the bo’s’un.

With the assistance of the small boy, who
delighted in the rummage, the Bishop made
up a packet of various kinds of tobacco and
some pipes and a box of matches.

Then came the question how to get the
packet to them. The Bishop looked at the
bo’s’un, who shook his head and flatly refused.

Vol. xviii.—73

“ It’s ag’in human nature, your reverence,”
he said ; “ they won’t take no harm. It’s fair
coddlin’ of ’em to give ’em good tobacco.”

“ We have more than we can use,” said
the Bishop.

“ Fair coddlin’ of ’em,” repeated the
bo’s’un, feeling his wounded arm tenderly.

“ I’ll call one of them across.”

“ No, by gum ! ” said the bo’s’un. “ I told
’em I’d brain the first man that came over.
It’d be just inviting ’em to mutiny.”

“ I’ll take it,” said the small boy, who had
been listening with sparkling eyes. And
picking up the packet he started for the
chain.

“ Wait, sonny,” said the bo’s’un, “ if you
must go you may as well go safe,” and he
slacked off the life-line till it came low
enough for the boy to use it.

He got across all right, and was alongside
the clump of crouching figures before they
knew he was coming. Their shifty beads of
black eyes gleamed whitely at the strange,
square little figure, and when he opened the
packet and thrust the pipes and tobacco
among them they grunted gratefully and
showed signs of life.

They made no attempt to detain him, as
it occurred to the Bishop that they might do
after he had started, and the small boy
rejoined his friends in safety. The tobacco
evidently roused a desire for further comforts
in the minds of the black men, for one of
them presently advanced to the brink of
the chasm and shouted, huskily, “ Ghee ! ”

“ No ghee,” replied the bo’s’un from the
doorway, “ain’t got none, and wouldn’t
give it ye if we had,” and the man retired
sulkily and sat down among his fellows.

That night the small boy did not sleep
well, because he had slept nearly all through
the day. And while he lay awake he became
aware of several things. In the first place,
the sound of the wind and the thumping and
dashing of the waves on the wreck was gone,
and outside all was very still. In the next
place, everybody but himself seemed to
be asleep. Mrs. Begbie and the bo’s’un
were snoring in chorus. The stewardess
was accustomed to long spells on duty,
and to taking all the rest she could
get when the chance offered. The bo’s’un
was tired out with the exertions of the
previous night, and weakened, no doubt, by
the loss of blood from his wound. The
Bishop was worn with the pain of his broken
leg, but had fallen asleep in spite of it.

And then the small boy became aware of
something else, and he knew in a moment

578

1 HE STRAND MAGAZINE.

what it was, because he had had more
experience of that chain than anyone else,
except the bo’s’un, and the bo’s’un was
asleep. When you crossed it, the links
ground together under your feet and com¬
plained to one another, and they were com¬
plaining that way just now. He slipped out
of his bunk and made for the door.

It was pitch dark, and he crouched and
listened, and then he heard a whisper along
the chain, and he crawled back to where the
bo’s’un’s trumpet was sounding, and gripped
him by the arm and shook him, and began
dragging him, still heavy with sleep, towards
the doorway. He was wide awake, however,
by the time he got there, and in a moment
his knife was out and he cut the lashings
that held the chain to the post. It went
rattling away down into the darkness, and
whatever was on it went tumbling down with
it. There were half-a-dozen heavy splashes
in the water and many startled ejaculations
which were probably profane. Then the
chain began to rattle violently as one of the

The splashings of the swimmers died away
as one by one they crawled like rats on to
the wreck again. But the bo’s’un stood
listening intently at the doorway. Another
sound had caught his ear—a far-away, dull
thud, thud, like the regular quick beat of a
drum with a hole in it.

Then he went inside quickly and woke
Mrs. Begbie and explained matters to her in
half-a-dozen rapid words, and then he began
rummaging in chests and bunks, and kicked
a lid to pieces, and with a chest full of things
that would burn buttoned inside his jacket
he climbed up the post to the fo’c’s’le deck,
and up the slope to the bulwarks of the ship,
and hastily arranged his firings and set a
match to them, and then slid down for
another armful which Mrs. Begbie had ready
for him, and another, and another. The
small boy, in his eagerness, swarmed up the
post too, and shouted with delight at the
bonfire up above. Then, far away in the dark¬
ness, a rocket soared up, silent and graceful,
like some wonderful flower of the night, and

“ HE HASTILY ARRANGED HIS FIRINGS.”

swimmers tried to climb it. But the bo’s’un’s
fist met his head as it bobbed up level with
the door, and he fell back into the water.

“ Anybody else cornin’ ? ” asked the
bo’s’un. But there was no response. Those
below were too busy to speak, and the ones
up above had nothing to say.

The bo’s’un shook the small boy’s hand,
and said, “ Yer a little man, sonny!” The
Bishop sleepily inquired what was the matter.
Mrs. Begbie was fast asleep.

burst, and dropped golden seeds of hope
into their hearts, and the bo’s’un heaved a
mighty sigh of relief.

There was no more sleep for them that
night, and an hour after daylight found them
all safe and sound, Lascars and all, on board
the old paddle tramp steamer Mary Ann ,
from Cardiff to Bombay with coals. The
accommodation was limited, but not so
limited as they had had on the wreck, and
the bunks were right side up, and the floors

THE BISHOP AND THE BOY.

579

and sides of the cabins had not changed
places, and so in due time they arrived
safely at Bombay. There Mr. Boyle and
Mrs. Begbie and the orphans took deave of
the Bishop and the small boy, and reported
themselves at the offices of their company.
But the Bishop carried off the small boy to
an hotel, for he could not make up his mind
to part with him a moment sooner than was
necessary.

When the Bishop came to post himself up
in the events of the last ten days he found
the papers full of the fighting on the frontier,
and all, whatever their views on other matters
might be, uniting in a chorus of praise anent
the doings of one Gordon Reid, sergeant-
major of the nth Hussars, who in the wild
dash for the passes had proved himself a
mighty man of valour, head and shoulders
above even the bravest of his fellows, had
been sorely wounded, had been recom¬
mended for the Victoria Cross, and had died
in hospital, full of wounds and honours, just
one week before.

“That must be my little lad’s father,”
said the Bishop to himself. “ Now, I wonder
if there is anyone else who wants him more
than I do,” and proceeded to find out.

The loss of the Rangoon and the rescue
of the Bishop of Jolapore and the small boy
Gordon Reid, and the rest, were fully re¬
ported, and the Bishop’s friends came round
in troops to see him, and expressed the live¬
liest interest in his protege. Popular opinion
at once connected the small boy with the
dead hero of the frontier passes, and a letter
for Sergeant-Major Gordon Reid, which had
come in by the previous mail but had not
been delivered for obvious reasons, was at
last handed to the Bishop, as guardian for
the time being of the addressee’s next of
kin, and, under the circumstances, as it was
necessary on the boy’s behalf to find out
what he could concerning him, he decided
to open it in the small boy’s presence.

It astonished him very much, but it con¬
clusively proved the small boy’s identity. It
ran thus :—

“ My Dear Brother, —I am going to
America with Mr. Edward George’s ‘ Black
Mask’ Company. I cannot take Gordie

with me, and I have decided the best thing
to do is to send him back to you. He is a
dear little fellow, and will make a good actor
if nothing better turns up for him. Better
make him a soldier—it’s steadier work than
the other, which is heartbreaking at times.
I have fitted him out as well as I can, but
have no money left for his passage. But I
know just how it can be managed from
coming home with the Bulter children that
time. I shall take him to the ship and tell
him what to do, and maybe they won’t find
out till they can’t put him off. I do hope
he’ll arrive safe, and if there is any blame in
the matter put it all on me. He doesn’t
understand, and he’ll do just what I tell him.
Good luck to you, old boy.

“ Your loving sister,

“Doris Reid.”

The Bishop read it through three times
and then said : “ What does it all mean, my
boy ? ”

“ What does what mean, sir ? ” asked the
small boy, and the Bishop read the letter to
him.

“Yes,” said the small boy, “that’s from
Aunt Dorrie to father about me.”

“ But was your mother not on the
steamer ? ”

“No, sir.”

“And you were quite alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where is your mother?”

“ She died in India.”

“And-” said the Bishop, thinking

back to the early days on the Rangoon ,
“when you used to tell me how your
mother was each day, it was all-”

“ It was just what Aunt Dorrie told me to
say,” he said, sturdily, but with downcast face.

And the Bishop lay and looked at him
and pondered the situation, and pondered
it so long in silence that the small boy
grew very unhappy. When at last the
Bishop raised his eyes thoughtfully he found
the large blue eyes fixed on him in a great
appeal. And the Bishop said no word,
but he stretched out his hand to the small
boy, and the small boy ran to him, like a
dog to the welcoming hand of his friend and
master.

Old Puzzle Cards.

UZZLES, in some form or other,
have always been popular,
and have provided amusement
for all sorts of people from
time immemorial, though per¬
haps they have never been so
popular as at the present time, when almost
every periodical and paper of any note
whatever has its puzzle page.

The puzzles here brought together were
intended for the delectation of our great¬
grandfathers, being chiefly of the latter end
of the eighteenth and beginning of the
nineteenth centuries, when this particular
form of puzzle
was at the height
of its popularity.

The majority of
them served a
double purpose,
for, while chiefly
designed to
amuse, they fre¬
quently conveyed
some political or
personal satire,
which in this
form gave little
or no offence,
and was readily
understood by the
people in general.

The designs
consisted chiefly
of portraits of pro-
minent individ¬
uals, members of
the Royal Family,
great statesmen,
naval and military
heroes, etc., whose
portraits were dis¬
coverable among
branches of trees,
the details of a
landscape, or the
intricacies of a
bunch of flowers ; the outlines of an urn or
a vase was a favourite resource, too, of these
hide-and-seek artists.

Napoleon, being at that time the centre of
attraction and the most prominent person in
the eyes of all the world, naturally came in
for a full share of patronage, and many were

I.—“CORPORAL VIOLET —CONTAINING THREE PORTRAITS.

the puzzles issued in which his well-known
features were discoverable amidst appropriate
surroundings or otherwise. One of the most
popular forms of these Napoleonic puzzles is
No. i, in which he appears among the leaves
of his favourite flower, the violet, a leaf
which the draughtsman has ingeniously made
use of to form the familiar and historic/*///
chapeau. His wife, Maria Louisa of Austria,
may be seen on the left; ’ and their son, the
King of Rome, is safely nestling among the
tender stems in the midst, while Buonaparte
and Maria are watching over him.

When Napoleon was on the eve of leaving
France, to take
up his abode on
the Island of
Elba, he said to
some of his ad¬
herents that he
would return with
the violet season,
and as everyone
knows who is
conversant with
the life of this
extraordinary
man, he did so.
Those partisans
who were in the
secret of his
return to France
from his seclu¬
sion carried one
of the above re¬
presentations of
Napoleon’s
favourite flower,
and always drank
at their meetings
to the health of
Corporal Violet.
The simplicity
and natural
beauty of such a
flower never ex¬
cited the attention
or raised the jealousy of the Bourbons, and
as the custom of wearing flowers in the dress
had always been so popular in France, the
wearing of the violet called forth no suspicion
of any plot for his restoration.

No. 2, of the same kind, is, perhaps, best
explained by the following verses, which dis-

OLD PUZZLE CARDS.

2.—THE ROYAL ALLIED OAK, 1815—FIND ELEVEN PORTRAITS.

parte, King of Westphalia, across
water on left.

In No. 3, a small print of the
emblems of the three countries, may
be found portraits of eight historical
personages. On the left at top is
George IV., his face formed by the
leaves of the rose and thistle ; on the
same side, just below the full-blown
rose, is the King of Prussia; while
the portrait of Marshal Blucher may
be discovered on the same side of
the print among the stems of the rose.
On the right side at the top is George
III., his face also formed like that of
his successor by the leaves of the
rose ; below, the thistle blossom and
leaf form the portrait of the Emperor
of Austria; and among the branches
and leaves at the bottom on the right
the portrait of the Duke of Wellington
may be seen. The two faces in the
centre of the puzzle formed by the
leaves of the thistle are, at the top,
Louis XVIII. of France, and below
Alexander I., Emperor of Russia.

Another form of puzzle, which was
also very popular, was the double head,
two examples of which are given here. These
were chiefly of French origin, and had a
hidden significance, which at this remote
period is hardly appreciated. These double

plays no fewer than eleven portraits of famous
people :—

Behold this oak, whose firm fix’d stay
Doth check oppression’s course ;

Whose slightest branch can ne’er decay,

While strong with virtue’s force.

Our much-loved Sovereign (George III.) decks
the branch,

The highest of the tree :

And peaceful Louis (Louis XVIII.), tho’ driven
from France,

Among its boughs you’ll see.

The Regent’s portrait next behold (George IV.,
below on left),

Whose councils wisdom guides ;

And Russia’s noble monarch bold (Alexander I.,
on right),

Who checked the tyrant’s (Napoleon) strides.

Immortal Wellington next is seen (on left of
trunk, at foot of tree),

Whose fame can ne’er expire ;

And vet’ran Blticher’s warlike mien,

That kindled Napoleon’s ire.

The Mushroom race you have to seek
In weeds about the root,

Who scarce dare at the oak to peep,

Or at its Princely fruit.

Napoleon—largest mushroom at foot
of tree; Joseph Buonaparte, his brother,

King of Spain, on extreme left; Joachim
Murat, Napoleon’s brother-in-law, King
of Naples, on the right; Louis, Napoleon’s
brother, King of Holland, smaller mush¬
room, next to Napoleon \ Jerome Buona- 3.— the rose, shamrock, and thistle—find eight portraits.

582

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

heads have been popular at all times, but
they were probably never more so than
during the stormy period of the French
Revolution and Restoration ; at this time
they formed one of the principal means of
conveying ridicule or satire, transforming, as
they often did, a celebrated politician into
a coal-heaver, a fashionable lady into a
fish-woman, a great person of the day
into an insignificant being; and coupling
together great men and individuals of

entirely opposite opinions, as Rousseau
and Voltaire, Buffon and La Fontaine, a
Jesuit and a Liberal, a pair of lovers into a
married couple (as in No. 4), or even (as in
No. 5) a portrait of a learned doctor into one,
not too flattering, of the reader.

Then, too, there were the curious heads,
formed of rocks, ruins, landscapes, rustic
scenes, etc., which assisted in popularizing
some great hero of the hour. These innocent-

5.—DR. QU1LIRA AND -

looking affairs, in which the casual observer
saw nothing more than appeared upon the
surface, but which to the initiated revealed
the portrait of some particular individual of

■ V ? - i- M-se *—'&■

jSjggj

6. LANDSCAPE PORTRAIT OF GEORGE III., 1743.

OLD PUZZLE CARDS.

583

FIND SEVEN CHILDREN.

design are these words:
“ This is not given as ye
most regular, ye most
varied, or ye most noble
prospect in the world; it
is not doubted but it will
pass for the most pleasant,
and if it be true as Butler

special importance at the moment—how
ingeniously they were worked out: trees of
pretty growth being transformed into hair
and beard, rocks and other prominences into
brows and noses, and, as if the transfiguration
of so simple a growth were not enough, there
were others which had quite a number of
faces hidden away in their deep undergrowth
and under tufts of verdure, which were
discoverable only by the diligent and inter¬
ested seeker who understood the significance
of these curious and ingenious puzzle
pictures. No. 6, for example, is an
engraving of a landscape of mountains,
with a lake in the foreground. Below the

BEST VIRGINIA, jj

When with your friends , t of mo a king ore in Jin d £

Be fur e you mind to read the under lines.

£

i

Dies.

flies,

Shame,

tame*

B

and

dais

Neighbour 1

s can

l

born

Sean-

his

Chain

but

ral

publifh-

on

*

0

are

im mo¬

pu5-

in Man

*

Anions

wings

iy

Luft

h

virtuous

Eagle

load-

is a

1

while

on

of

there

8.—A TOBACCO PAPER PUZZLE.

The bell Virginia,

London.

A wonderful Prophecy.

Before the firfl day of the next new year,*
^Strange wonders in this kingdom fhall
§ appear;
ij^Fourpotemkingsfhallreignwiihin this ifle^,
^Where they fhall caufe great tumults, for^
^ a while; J

b Dead bones again fhall rattle up and downj
I gin every city an u in every town,

| gBy day or night this tumult fhall not ceafe,|
j Until a Heraid fhall proclaim a peace; §j
| g A Herald ftrange, the like was neverborn,®
gHis beard fhall be of fiefh, his nofe and^i
mouth of horn.

9.—ANOTHER TOBACCO PAPER PUZZLE.

of puzzle altogether. By turning this pic¬
ture round, and viewing it from different
points, it will be found that though at
first sight there appear to be but three
children in this group, there are really
seven distinct bodies.

No. 8 is what is called a Tobacco Paper

sings—

The real value of a thing
Is as much money as ’twill
bring—

everybody must allow it to
be most valuable, because
the most costly.”

This is a satirical print,
issued in the year 1743.
It is really if viewed from
the right side a portrait
of George II., wearing a
large Kevenhiiller hat. The
features of the country
represent the face and
dress.

No. 7 is a different kind

5 8 4

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

puzzle, and dates
from 1788. This
not very difficult
puzzle may be
solved by beginning
(as the Chinese do)
at the end. The
fashion of giving
something of this
kind on tobacco
papers was very
customary at the
end of last century,
and many curious
puzzles were dealt
out in this form,
some with obvious
solutions, while
others were evi¬
dently designed by
ingenious individ¬
uals who racked
their brains to pro¬
vide material for

our puzzle - loving grandfathers,
who were ever on the alert for
something new and entertaining,
even as their descendants of the
present day.

There is a lust in man no chain can
tame

Of loudly publishing his neighbour’s
shame ;

On eagles’ wings immoral scandals
flies,

While virtuous actions are but born and
dies.

No. 9 is also a "Tobacco Paper
puzzle. The solution is as follows :
The first four lines describe play¬
ing-cards ; the next two lines,
dice; and the last four, a crowing
cock.

No. 10 is another form of puzzle
popular at this period, and
is upon the same principle as
that of Bill Stumps’ epitaph, of
Pickwickian fame. It reads as
follows :—

Beneath this stone reposeth Claud
Coster, tripe seller, of Impington, as
doth his Consort Jane.

This puzzle is appropriately
dedicated to the learned Society
of Antiquaries, and the penetrat¬
ing geniuses of
Oxford, Cambridge,
Eaton ( sic ), and
Westminster. Our
last example, No.
it, though not of
the same period as
some of its pre¬
decessors, is very
remarkable for the
ingenuity of its
design. The whole
represents the head
of the mythological
God of Drink and
Revelry, whose
features and flow¬
ing beard upon
close examination
gradually resolve
themselves into the
figures of a hand¬
some youth and
his lady love in the
act of embracing
each other.

IT.—HfeAl) OF BACCHUS—CONTAINING TWO l.OVERS.

wiifpif-

or

0CCTO.

; THEBOUNQIBLE

By E

if

. Nesbit.

T is very hard, when you have
been accustomed to go to the
seaside every summer ever
since you were quite little, to
be made to stay in London
just because an aunt and an
uncle choose to want to come and stay at
your house to see the Royal Academy and
go to the summer sales.

Seiim and Thomasina felt that it was very
hard indeed. And aunt and uncle were not
the nice kind, either. If it had been Aunt
Emma, who dressed dolls and told fairy-tales
—or Uncle Reggie, who took you to the
Crystal Palace, and gave you five bob at a
time, and never even asked what you spent
it on, it would have been different. But
it was Uncle Thomas and Aunt Selina.

Aunt Selina was all beady, and sat bolt
upright, and told you to mind what you were
told, and Selim had been named after her—
as near as they could get. And Uncle
Thomas was the one Thomasina had been
named after : he was deaf, and he always
told you what the moral* of everything was,
and the housemaid said he was “ near.”

“ I know he is, worse luck,” said Thoma¬
sina.

“ I mean, miss,” explained the housemaid,
“he’s none too free with his chink.”

Vol* xviti.—74.

Selim groaned. “He never gave me but
a shilling in his life,” said he, “and that
turned out to be bad when I tried to change
it at the ginger-beer shop.”

The children could not understand why
this aunt and uncle were allowed to interfere
with everything as they did : and they quite
made up their minds that when they were
grown up they would never allow an aunt or
an uncle to cross their doorsteps. They
never thought—poor, dear little things—that
some day they would grow up to be aunts
and uncles in their turn, or, at least, one of
each.

It was very hot in London that year: the
pavement was like hot pie, and the asphalt
was like hot pudding, and there was a curious
wind that collected dust and straw and dirty
paper, and then got tired of its collection,
and threw it away in respectable people’s
areas and front gardens. The blind in the
nursery had never been fixed up since the
day when the children took it down to make
a drop-scene for a play they were going to
write and never did. So the hot afternoon
sun came burning in through the window,
and the children got hotter and hotter, and
crosser and crosser, till at last Selim slapped
Thomasina’s arms till she cried, and Thoma¬
sina kicked Selim’s legs till he screamed.

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE.

586

Then they sat down in different corners of
the nursery and cried, and called each other
names, and said they wished they were dead.
This is very naughty indeed, as, of course,
you know; but you must remember how hot
it was.

When they had called each other all the
names they could think of, Thomasina said,
suddenly : “All right, Silly ” (that was Selim’s
pet name)—“ cheer up.”

“It’s too hot to cheer up,” said Selim,
gloomily.

“ We’ve been very naughty,” said Thoma¬
sina, rubbing her eyes with the paint rag,

“ but it’s all the heat. I heard Aunt Selina
telling mother the weather wore her nerves to
fiddle-strings. That just meant she was
cross.”

“ Then it’s not our fault,” said Selim.

“ People say be good and you’ll be happy.
Uncle Reggy says, ‘Be happy, and perhaps
you’ll be good.’ I could be good if I was
happy.”

“ So could I,” said Thomasina.

“ What would make you happy ? ” said
a thick, wheezy voice from the toy cupboard,
and out rolled the big green and red india-
rubber ball that Aunt Emma had sent them
last week. They had not played with it
much, because the garden was so hot and
sunny—and when they wanted to play with
it in the street, on the shady side, Aunt
Selina had said it was not like respectable
children, so they weren’t allowed.

Now the Ball rolled out very slowly—and
the bright light on its new paint seemed to
make it wink at them. You will think that
they were surprised to hear a Ball speak.
Not at all. As you grow up, and more and
more strange things happen to you, you will
find that the more astonishing a thing is the
less it surprises you. (I wonder why this is.
Think it over, and write and tell me what
you think.)

Selim stood up, and said, “ Halloa ” ; but
that was only out of politeness. Thomasina
answered the Ball’s question.

“ We want to be at the seaside—and no
aunts—and none of the things we don’t like
—and no uncles, of course,” she said.

“Well,” said the Ball, “if you think you
can be good, why not set me bouncing ? ”

“We’re not allowed in here,” said
Thomasina, “ because of the crinkly orna¬
ments people give me on my birthdays.”

“Well, the street then,” said the Ball; “ the
nice shady side.”

“ It’s not like respectable children,” said
Selim, sadly.

The Ball laughed. If you have never
heard an india-rubber ball laugh you won’t
understand. It’s the sort of quicker, quicker,
quicker, softer, softer, softer chuckle of a
bounce that it gives when it’s settling down
when you’re tired of bouncing it.

“ The garden, then,” it said.

“ I don’t mind, if you’ll go on talking,”
said Selim, kindly.

So they took the Ball down into the garden
and began to bounce it in the sun, on the
dry, yellowy grass of the lawn.

“Come on,” said the Ball. “You do like
me ! ”

“ What ? ” said the children.

“ Why, do like I do—bounce ! ” said the
Ball. “That’s right—higher, higher, higher 1 ”

For then and there the two children had
begun bouncing as if their feet were india-
rubber balls, and you have no idea what a
delicious sensation that gives you.

“ Higher, higher,” cried the green and red
ball, bouncing excitedly. “ Now, follow me,
higher, higher.” And off it bounced down
the blackened gravel of the path, and the
children bounced after it, shrieking with
delight at the new feeling. They bounced
over the wall—all three of them—and the
children looked back just in time to see Uncle
Thomas tapping at the window, and saying,

“ Don’t.”

You have not the least idea how glorious
it is to feel full of bouncibleness; so that,
instead of dragging one foot after the other,
as you do when you feel tired or naughty,
you bounce along, and every time your feet
touch the ground you bounce higher, and all
without taking any trouble or tiring yourself.
You have perhaps heard of the Greek gentle¬
man who got new strength every time he fell
down. His name was Antseos, and I believe
he was an india-rubber ball, green on one
side where he touched the earth, and red
on the other where he felt the sun. But
enough of classical research.

Thomasina and Selim bounced away, fol¬
lowing the Bouncible Ball. They went over
fences and walls, and through parched, dry
gardens and burning-hot streets ; they passed
the region where fields of cabbages and rows
of yellow brick cottages mark the division
between London and the suburbs. They
bounced through the suburbs, dusty and
neat, with geraniums in the front gardens,
and all the blinds pulled half-way down ;
and then the lamp-posts in the road got
fewer and fewer, and the fields got greener
and the hedges thicker—it was real, true
country—with lanes instead of roads \ and

WHERE YOUWANTOGOTO.

587

frequent trains DURING the year

CITY & WEST END .

LONC.EST ROUTE TO LONDON BRIDCE v- T UL5f Hi

“FOLLOWING THE BOUNCIBLE BALL.”

down the lanes the green and red Ball went
bouncing, bouncing, bouncing and the child¬
ren after it. Thomasina, in her white,
starched frock, very prickly round the neck,
and Selim, in his everyday sailor-suit, a little
tight under the arms. His Sunday one was
a size larger. No one seemed to notice
them, but they noticed and pitied the child¬
ren who were being “ taken for a walk ” in
the gritty suburban roads.

“ Where are we going ? ” they asked the
Ball, and it answered, with a sparkling green
and red smile :—

“To the most delightful place in the
world.”

“ What’s it called ? ” asked Selim.

“ It’s called Whereyouwantogoto,” the
Ball answered, and on they went. It was a
wonderful journey—up and down, looking
through the hedges and over them, looking in
at the doors of cottages, and then in at the

top windows, up and
down—bounce—bounce
—bounce.

And at last they came
to the sea. And the
Bouncible Ball said,
“ Here you are! Now
be good, for there’s
nothing here but the
things that make people
happy.” And with that
he curled himself up like
a ball in the shadow of
a wet sea-weedy rock,
and went to sleep, for
he was tired out with
his long journey. The
children stopped bounc¬
ing, and looked about
them.

“Oh, Tommy!” said
Selim.

“Oh, Silly!” said
Thomasina. And well
they might ! In the
place to which the Ball
had brought them was
all that your fancy can possibly

paint, and a great deal more beside.

The children feel exactly as you
do when you’ve had the long, hot,
dirty train journey—and everyone
has been so cross about the boxes

and the little brown portmanteau

that was left behind at the junction
—and then when you get to your
lodgings you are told that you may
run down and have a look at the
sea if you’re back by tea-time, and mother
and nurse will unpack.

Only Thomasina and her brother had not
had a tiresome journey—and there were no
nasty, stuffy lodgings for them, and no tea,
with oily butter and a new pot of marmalade.

“There’s silver-sand,” said she—“miles of
it.”

“ And rocks,” said he.

“And cliffs.”

“ And caves in the cliffs.”

“ And how cool it is,” said Thomasina.
“And yet it’s nice and warm too,” said
Selim.

“ And what shells ! ”

“And seaweed.”

“And the downs behind ! ”

“ And trees in the distance ! ”

“And here’s a dog, to go after sticks.
Here, Rover, Rover.”

A big black dog answered at once to the

5 88

THE STRANE MAGAZINE.

name, because he was a retriever, and they
are all called Rover.

“ And spades ! ” said the girl.

“ And pails ! ” said the boy.

“And what pretty sea-poppies,” said the
girl.

“ And a basket—and grub in it! ” said the
boy. So they sat down and had lunch.

It was a lovely lunch. Lobsters and ice¬
creams (strawberry and pine-apple), and
toffee and hot buttered toast and ginger-beer.
They ate and ate, and thought of the aunt
and uncle at home, and the minced veal and
sago pudding, and they were very happy
indeed.

Just as they were finishing their lunch they
saw a swirling, swishing, splashing commotion
in the green sea a little way off, and they tore
off their clothes and rushed into the water to
see what it was. It was a seal. He was very
kind and convenient. He showed them how
to swim and dive.

“ But won’t it make us ill to bathe so soon
after meals ? Isn’t it wrong ? ” asked
Thomasina.

“ Not at all,” said the seal. “ Nothing is
wrong here—as long as you’re good. Let me
teach you water-leapfrog—a most glorious
game, so cool, yet so exciting. You try it.”

At last the seal said: “ I suppose you
wear man-clothes. They’re very inconvenient.
My two eldest have just outgrown their coats.
If you’ll accept them-”

And it dived, and came up with two

golden sealskin coats over its arm, and the
children put them on.

“ Thank you very much,” they said. “ You
are kind.”

I am almost sure that it has never been
your luck to wear a fur coat that fitted you
like a skin, and that could not be spoiled
with sand or water, or jam, or bread and
milk, or any of the things with which you
mess up the nice new clothes your kind
relations buy for you. But if you like, you
may try to imagine how jolly the little coats
were.

Thomasina and Selim played all day on
the beach, and when they were tired they
went into a cave, and found supper—
salmon and cucumber, and welsh-rabbit and
lemonade—and then they went to bed in a
great heap of straw and grass and fern and
dead leaves, and all the delightful things you
have often wished to sleep in. Only you
have never been allowed to.

In the 'morning
there were plum¬
pudding for break¬
fast, and roast duck
and lemon jelly, and
the day passed like
a happy dream, only
broken by surpris¬
ing and delightful
meals. The Ball
woke up and showed
them how to play
water - polo ; and
they bounced him
on the sand, with
shrieks of joy and
pleasure. You know,
a Ball likes to be
bounced by people
he is fond of—it is like slapping a
friend on the shoulder.

There were no houses in “ Whereyou-
wantogoto,” and no bathing machines
or bands, no nursemaids or policemen
or aunts or uncles. You could do
exactly what you liked as long as you were
good.

“ What will happen if we’re naughty?”
Selim asked. The Ball looked very grave,
and answered :—

“ I must not tell you ; and I very strongly
advise you not to try to find out.”

“ We won’t—indeed, we won’t, ” said they,
and went off to play rounders with the
rabbits on the downs—who were friendly
fellows, and very keen on the game. .

On the third evening Thomasina was

WHERE YO UWANTOGOTO.

589

rather silent, and the Ball said : “ What’s the
matter, girl-bouncer? Out with it.”

So she said: “ I was wondering how

mother is, and whether she has one of her
bad headaches.”

The Ball said, “ Good
little girl ! Come with
me and I’ll show you
something.”

He bounced away, and
they followed him, and
he flopped into a rocky
pool, frightening the
limpets and sea-anemones
dreadfully, though he did
not mean to.

“ Now look,” he called,
from under the water—
and the children looked,
and the pool was like a
looking-glass, only it was
not their own faces they
saw in it.

They saw the drawing¬
room at home, and father
and mother, who were
both quite well, only they
looked tired—and the
aunt and uncle were there
— and Uncle Thomas
was saying: “ What a blessing

those children are away.”

“ Then they know where
are ? ” said Selim to the Ball.

“ They think they know,” said
the Ball — “ or you think they
think they know. Anyway, they’re
enough. Good-night.”

And he curled himself up like a ball
in his favourite sleeping-place. The two
children crept into their pleasant, soft, sweet
nest of straw and leaves and fern and grass,
and went to sleep. But Selim was vexed
with Thomasina because she had thought of
mother before he had, and he said she had
taken all the fern—and they went to sleep
rather cross. They woke crosser. So far
they had both helped to make the bed every
morning, but to-day neither wanted to.

“ I don’t see why I should make the beds,”
said he ; “ it’s a girl’s work, not a boy’s.”

“ I don’t see why I should do it,” said
Thomasina; “ it’s a servant’s work, not a
young lady’s.”

And then a very strange and terrible thing
happened. Quite suddenly, out of nothing
and out of nowhere, appeared a housemaid-
large and stern and very neat indeed, and she
said :—

“You are quite right, miss : it is my place
to make the beds. And I am instructed to
see that you are both in bed by seven.”
Think how dreadful this must have been
to children who had been going to
bed just when they felt inclined.
They went out on to the beach.

happy

OUT OF NOWHERE APPEARED A HOUSEMAID.

“You see what comes of being naughty,”
said Thomasina; and Selim said, “ Oh, shut
up, do ! ”

They cheered up towards dinner-time—it
was roast pigeons that day and bread sauce,
and whitebait and syllabubs—and for the
rest of the day they were as good as gold,
and very polite to the Ball. Selim told it
all about the dreadful apparition of the
housemaid, and it shook its head (I know
you've never seen a ball do that, and very
likely you never will) and said :—

“ My Bouncible Boy, you may be happy
here for ever and ever if you’re contented
and good. Otherwise—well, it’s a quarter to
seven—you’ve got to go.”

And, sure enough, they had to. And the
housemaid put them to bed, and washed
them with yellow soap, and some of it got
in their eyes. And she lit a night-light, and
sat with them till they went to sleep, so that
they couldn’t talk, and were ever so much
longer getting to sleep than they would have

S9o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

been if she had not been there. And the
beds were iron, with mattresses and hot, stuffy,
fluffy sheets and many more new blankets
than they wanted.

The next day they got out as early as they
could and played water football with the seal
and the Bouncible Ball, and when dinner¬
time came it was lobster and ices. But
Thomasina was in a bad temper. She said,
“ I wish it was duck.” And before the words
had left her lips it was cold mutton and rice¬
pudding, and they had to sit up to table and
eat it properly too, and the housemaid came
round to see that they didn’t leave any bits
on the edges of their plates, or talk with their
mouths full.

There were no more really nice meals
after that: only the sort of things you get
at home. But it is possible to be happy
even without really nice meals. But you
have to be very careful. The days went by
pleasantly enough. All the sea and land
creatures were most kind and attentive.
The seal taught them all it knew, and was
always ready to play with them. The star¬
fish taught them astronomy, and the jelly-fish
taught them fancy cooking. The limpets
taught them dancing, as well as they could
for their lameness. The sea-birds taught
them to make nests—a knowledge they have

this all would have been well. But they
weren’t.

“Let’s dig a bath,” said Selim, “and the
sea will come in and fill it, and then we can
bathe in it.”

So they fetched their spades, and dug—
and there was no harm in that, as you very
properly remark.

But when the hole was finished, and the
sea came creep, creep, creeping up—and at
last a big wave thundered up the sand and
swirled into the hole, Thomasina and
Selim were struggling on the edge, fight¬
ing which should go in first, and the
wave drew sandily back into the sea, and
neither of them had bathed in the new bath.
And now it was all wet and sandy, and its
nice sharp edges rounded off, and much
shallower. And as they looked at it angrily,
the sandy bottom of the bath stirred and
shifted and rose up—as if some great sea-
beast were heaving underneath with his
broad back. The wet sand slipped back in
slabs at each side, and a long pointed thing like
a thin cow’s back came slowly up. It showed
broader and broader, and presently the
flakes of wet sand were dropping heavily off
the top of a brand-new bathing machine that
stood on the sand over where their bath had
been.

-- •">

we’ve done it this time.”

never needed to apply—and if the oysters
did not teach them anything it was only
because oysters are so very stupid, and not
from any lack of friendly feeling.

The children bathed every day in the sea
—and if they had only been content with

“Well,” said Selim, ct we’ve done it
this time.”

They certainly had—for on the door
of the bathing machine was painted:
“You must not bathe any more except
through me.”

So there was no more running into the
sea just when and how they liked. They had
to use the bathing machine, and it smelt of
stale salt water and other people’s wet towels.

After this the children did not seem to
care so much about the seaside, and they
played more on the downs, where the rabbits

WHERE YOUWANTOGOTO .

59i

were very kind and hospitable, and in the
woods, where all sorts of beautiful flowers
grew wild—and there was nobody to say
“ Don't,” when you picked them. The
children thought of what Uncle Thomas
would have said if he had been there, and
they were very, very happy.

But one day Thomasina had pulled a lot of
white convolvulus and some pink geraniums
and calceolarias—the kind you are never
allowed to pick at home—and she had made
a wreath of them and put it on her head.

Then Selim said: “You are silly! You
look like a Bank Holiday.”

And his sister said: “ I can’t help it.
They’d look lovely on a hat, if they were
only artificial. I wish I had a hat.”

And she had. A large stiff hat that hurt
her head just where the elastic was sewn on,
and she had her stiff white frock that
scratched, her tiresome underclothing, all of
it, and stockings and heavy boots; and
Selim had his sailor suit—the every-day one
that was too tight in the arms ; and they
had to wear them always, and their fur coats
were taken away.

They went sadly, all stiff and uncomfort¬
able, and told the Bouncible Ball. It looked
very grave, and great tears of salt water rolled
down its red and green cheeks as it sat by
the wet, seaweed-covered rock.

“ Oh, you silly children,” it said, “haven’t
you been warned enough ? You’ve every¬
thing a reasonable child could wish for.
Can’t you be contented ? ”

“Of course we can,” they said—and so
they were—for a day
and a half. And then
it wasn’t exactly dis¬
content but real
naughtiness that
brought them to grief.

They were playing
on the downs by the
edge of the wood
under the heliotrope
tree. A hedge of
camellia bushes cast a
pleasant shadow, and
out in the open sun¬
light on the downs
the orchids grew like
daisies, and the carna¬
tions like buttercups.

All about was that
kind of turf on which
the gardener does not
like you to play, and
they had pulled arm¬

fuls of lemon verbena and made a bed of it.
But Selim’s blouse was tight under the arms.
So when Thomasina said :—

“ Oh, Silly dear, how beautiful it is, just
like fairyland,” he said :—

“ Silly yourself. There’s no such thing as
fairyland.”

Just then a fairy, with little bright wings
the colour of a peacock’s tail, fluttered across
the path, and settled on a magnolia flower.

“ Oh ! Silly darling,” cried Thomasina,
“ it is fairyland, and there’s a fairy, such a
beautiful dear. Look—there she goes.”

But Selim would not look—he turned over
and hid his eyes.

“ There’s no such thing as fairyland, I tell
you,” he grunted, “ and I don’t believe in
fairies.”

And then, quite suddenly and very horribly
the fairy turned into a policeman—because
everyone knows there are such things as
policemen, and anyone can believe in them.

And all the rare and beautiful flowers
withered up and disappeared, and only
thorns and thistles were left, and the misty,
twiny, trim little grass path that led along
the top of the cliffs turned into a parade, and
the policeman walked up and down it in¬
cessantly, and watched the children at their
play, and you know how difficult

THE POLICEMAN WALKED UP AND DOWN INCESSANTLY.

59 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

to play when anyone is watching you,
especially a policeman. Selim was extremely
vexed : that was why, he said, there couldn’t
possibly be glow-worms as big as bicycle
lamps, which, of course, there were in
“ Whereyouwantogoto.” It was after that
that the gas-lamps were put all along the
parade, and a pier sprang up, on purpose to
be lighted with electricity, and a band played,
because it is nonsense to have a pier without
a band.

“Oh, you naughty, silly children,” said the
Bouncible Ball, turning red with anger,
except in the part where he was green with
disgust; “it makes me bounce with rage to
see how you’ve thrown away your chances,
and what a seaside resort you’re making of
‘ Whereyouwantogoto.’ ”

And he did bounce, angrily, up and down
the beach, till the housemaid looked out of
the cave and told the children not to be so
noisy, and the policeman called out:—

“Now then, move along there, move along.
You’re obstructing of the traffic.”

And now I have something to tell you
which you will find it hard to make any
excuses for. I can’t make any myself. I
can only ask you to remember how hard it
is to be even moderately good, and how
easy it is to be extremely naughty.

When the Bouncible Ball stopped
bouncing, Selim said :—

“ I wonder what makes him bounce.”

“ Oh, no, don't /” cried Thomasina, for she
had heard her brother wonder that about
balls before, and she knew all too well what
it ended in.

“Oh, don’t,” she said, “oh, Silly, he
brought us here, he’s been so kind.” But
Selim said, “Nonsense ; balls can’t feel, and
it will be almost as good to play with after
I’ve looked inside it.”

And then, before Thomasina could prevent
him, he pulled out the knife Uncle Reggy
gave him last holiday but one, and catching
the Ball up, he plunged the knife into its
side. The Bouncible Ball uttered one whiff¬
ing squeak of pain and grief, then with a low,
hissing sigh its kindly spirit fled, and it lay,
a lifeless mass of paint and india-rubber in the
hands of its assassin. Thomasina burst into
tears—but the heartless Selim tore open the
Ball, and looked inside. You know well
enough what he found there. Emptiness ;

the little square patch of india-rubber that
makes the hard lump on the outside of the
ball which you feel with your fingers when
the ball is alive and his own happy, bouncing,
cheerful self.

The children stood looking at each
other.

“ I—I almost wish I hadn’t,” said Selim
at last; but before Thomasina could answer
he had caught her hand.

“ Oh, look,” he cried, “look at the sea.”

It was, indeed, a dreadful sight. The
beautiful dancing, sparkling blue sea was
drying up before their eyes—in less than a
moment it was quite flat and dusty. It
hurriedly laid down a couple of railway lines,
ran up a signal-box and telegraph-poles, and
became the railway at the back of their house
at home.

The children, gasping with horror, turned
to the downs. From them tall, yellow brick
houses were rising, as if drawn up by an
invisible hand. Just as treacle does in cold
weather if you put your five fingers in and
pull them up. But, of course, you are never
allowed to do this. The beach got hard—it
was a pavement. The green downs turned
grey—they were slate roofs—and Thomasina
and Selim found themselves at the iron gate
of their own number in the terrace—and
there was Uncle Thomas at the window
knocking for them to come in, and Aunt
Selina calling out to them how far from
respectable it was to play in the streets.

They were sent to bed at once—that was
Aunt Selina’s suggestion—and Uncle Thomas
arranged that they should have only dry
bread for tea.

Selim and Thomasina have never seen
“Whereyouwantogoto” again, nor the Boun¬
cible Ball—not even his poor body—and they
don’t deserve to either. Of course, Thomasina
was not so much to blame as Selim, but she
was punished just the same. I can’t help
that. This is really the worst of being
naughty. You not only have to suffer for it
yourself, but someone else always has to
suffer too, generally the person who loves you
best.

You are intelligent children, and I will not
insult you with a moral. I am not Uncle
Thomas. Nor will I ask you to remember
what I have told you. I am not Aunt
Selina.

The Devil's Corkscrews.
A PUZZLE FOR GEOLOGISTS.
By Rene Bache.

N that wonderful playground
of Nature called the Bad
Lands—which might well have
been designed for occupancy
by communities of ogres and
giants, so weird and fantastic
are its landscape effects, counterfeiting with
rocky spire, minaret, and buttressed fort a
vast city of the supernatural—are found the
so-called Devil’s Corkscrews, long regarded
by scientific men as a well-nigh hopeless
puzzle.

As the adventurous traveller wanders
through the strange avenues of this myste¬
rious region, where everything is on a
gigantic scale and man seems a mere pigmy,
his eye is caught now and then by a huge
spiral column of white stone standing out in
relief from the side of a hill, and rising in
an exact perpendicular, as if to
uphold the rocky masses above.

In places, scores of them are
seen exposed on the face of a
single cliff, always perfectly vertical,
and having the appearance of pillars
designed in a vanished and extinct
school of architecture. Within an
area of about 500 square miles in
Nebraska there are literally millions
of these curious objects, revealed to
view by being “ weathered out ”
of the sandstone formation. They
are composed of quartz, and every
one of them is carved out with a
precision that might be expressed
by a mathematical formula.

To call these remarkable spirals
“ Devil’s Corkscrews ” seemed fairly
appropriate, in view of the total
lack of explanation for them. Always
it has been customary to attribute
whatever was inexplicable to Satanic
origin; and, besides, how is one
to account for the making of a
twisted pillar 15ft. or more in
height, as mathematically formed
as any ordinary corkscrew, out of
quartz rock, without intervention by
some sort of artifice ? Plainly,
from the popular view-point, some
supernatural agency must be respon¬
sible for the phenomenon in question,

Vol, jfviii.—75

which is known to the better-informed as a
“ fossil twister.” The spirals are fossils—of
that there can be no doubt—but, rejecting
the theory of diabolical agency in their
manufacture, scientists are eagerly inquiring
what they were, animal or vegetable, when
they were alive.

They must be of animal origin or plant
origin — the question is, which ? Some
theorists have been of the opinion that they
were petrified vines, but who ever heard of a
vine that climbed in a mathematical spiral ?
Others suggested that they were fossil worms
of huge size—a most ingenious and even
plausible idea. In a region known to have
been inhabited formerly by many gigantic
species of reptiles—some of them 90ft. in
length—whose remains are dug out of the
rocks in the Bad Lands to-day, why should

UNEARTHING A “DEVIL’S CORKSCREW” FROM A HILLSIDE.

Prom a Photograph.

594

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

EXCAVATING A SERIES OK “CORKSCREWS” FROM A CLIFF.

there not have been exceptionally large
worms ? Nay, why should these worms not
have been of mathematical habit, erecting
themselves spirally, while waiting for food, in
the exact perpendicular, and becoming fos¬
silized eventually in that somewhat strained
and uncomfortable attitude ?

However, the belief that really stuck, find¬
ing many confident and even enthusiastic
advocates, has come to be known as the
“gopher-hole theory.” In parts of the West
a small rodent animal, of subterranean habits,
known as the “gopher,” does immense
damage to crops by eating the roots of grain
and other cultivated plants.

Ages ago, declare the
indorsers of this idea,
gophers of a prehistoric
breed made their home in
the region now known as
the Bad Lands, and, after
the manner of their kind,
dug burrows. Obeying a
mathematical “ instinct,”
they excavated their holes
in perfect spirals, and, in
the course of a thousand
centuries or so, these bur¬
rows, long vacated by their
original owners, were filled
in with silica from water
which overflowed them,
thus reproducing the form
of the “ corkscrews ” in
solid quartz, to be exposed
to view in modern day S Prom a |

through the wear¬
ing away of the
hillsides by wind
and rain.

The essential
point of evidence
requiied to back
up this theory was
seemingly fur¬
nished not long
ago by the dis¬
covery of the
bones of a real
gopher buried
actually in the sub¬
stance of one of
the quartz cork¬
screws. This,
everybody said,
proved the case,
and the advocates
[Photograph. 0 f the gopher
idea simply sat
back and smiled a superior smile ; there was
nothing further to be demonstrated. But,
alas ! not long afterward, fossil parts of a
deer were found in another quartz spiral, and
it had to be admitted that no member of
the deer family ever was a burrowing
animal. So the question was again admit¬
ted to be open to argument, and Professor
E. H. Barbour, of the University of
Nebraska, long a conservative opponent
of the suggestions previously entertained,
stepped forward with what has at the present
time every appearance of being the true
story of the origin of the mysterious screws.

A FRAGMENT OF A “CORKSCREW” WITH ITS ROQT.

[Photograph.

THE DEVIL’S CORKSCREWS.

595

From a] a fine specimen nearly excavated. [Photograph.

It seems, according to his account, that—
as is understood by all geologists—the great
basin to the east of the Rocky Mountains,
including the area now called Nebraska, was
a vast lake a million years or so ago. That
was the epoch known as Miocene, when as
yet the North American continent was in
process of formation. On the bottom of
this fresh-water sea, at a depth of hundreds
of feet, grew immense numbers of water-
weeds of a species unknown to-day. They
were of gigantic size, some of them 20ft. or
more in height, and they assumed the form
of huge spirals, mathematically exact in their
curvature. It is imagined—though of this
there is no positive proof—that each one was
made up of a group of plants, together form¬
ing a sort of community.

Rivers brought into the inland sea immense
quantities of detritus, and this was deposited
on the bottom of the lake so rapidly that
whole fields of the giant water-weeds were
buried beneath it. In the course of ages the
lake-bottom became dry land, and incidentally

the plants, decaying, were replaced,
particle by particle, by silica de¬
posited from water which contained
it. Silica, of course, is the material
of quartz, and thus it is that the
so-called Devil’s Corkscrews were
formed, reproducing in rocky sub¬
stance the vegetables from which
they originated. Weathered out
from the cliff-sides in these later
days, they stand in rows like sculp¬
tured pillars twisted into spirals.
Unlike ordinary corkscrews, they
turn not all one way, but are right-
handed as often as left-handed.
Anybody might well suppose them
to be works of art, so graceful and
elegant are they. Some of them
wind about a vertical axis, like a vine
around a stick, but others are free.

The typical Devil’s Corkscrew
consists of two parts — the screw,
already described, and a massive
“ root,” sometimes as big round as
a hogshead, which branches off
from the lower end of the spiral.
In a large specimen the screw may
be 15ft. long, while the “root”
attains a length of 20ft. Advocates
of the gopher theory contend that
the rodent’s nest is represented by
the “ root,” while the spiral stands
for the passage of communication
with the surface of the ground. This
delusion, however, may now be regarded as
thoroughly exploded. Professor Barbour him¬
self admits that his water-weed theory may not
be correct, but challenges anybody to offer a
more plausible suggestion to account for this
most curious of geological freaks.

During several years past the University
of Nebraska has sent an annual expedition
to the corkscrew-bearing region, all expenses
being borne by the Hon. Charles S. Morrill,
of Lincoln, in that State. While the most
notable investigative work has been done by
Professor Barbour, the Dcemonelix beds have
been explored by other scientists of high
reputation —among them Mr. Darton of the
U.S. Geological Survey, Dr. Scott, of
Princeton, and Drs. Riggs and Farrington,
of the Field Columbian Museum, Chicago.
Neither time nor money has been spared in
pursuing the investigation, which has resulted
in tracing the peculiar fossiliferous forma¬
tion over the western half of the Nebraska
into Wyoming.

Curiosities .*

[ We shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section , and to pay for such as are accepted.]

BOBB. A Sorrel
jE, 24 Years.

B0GUE. A Bay

AZ, 18 Years.

A Gray.

VlSST

DOGS

ZADOC PRATT’S ECCENTRICITY.

Zadoc Pratt was one of the wealthiest
and most eccentric residents of the Catskill
Mountains in New York State. The town
of Prattsville was named after him, and he
lived there all his life. lie owned an
immense estate, and one of his fads was
that no one who applied to him for work
should be turned away. As a consequence,
all the big rocks on his place were carved
into rustic benches, odd figures were cut
in the solid rock of the hillside, and a large
room, which he destined to be his tomb,
was cut out of the rock. He devised all sorts
of fantastic tasks for those who applied to

MADE OF FISH SCALES.

We have heard of wax flowers, china flowers,
paper, and every other imaginable kind of artificial
flowers, but Miss F. A. Meagh, of Ash Hall, Stoke-
on-Trent, enlightens us yet farther. She sends us an
extraordinary spray of artificial flowers made of the
scales of fishes ! She says : “The fish scales spray
was brought over from Brazil a good many years ago,
and was made by the South American Indians ; the
leaves (as well as the flowers) are made entirely of fish
scales and coloured green, while the flowers are pink.”

A BICYCLE WITH A STORY.

Mr. C. Field, of Woodlands House, Milngavie,
N. B., has been travelling in Belgium. During the
course of his wanderings through that interesting
country he has come upon an extraordinary curiosity.
The spokes of the wheels of the cycle shown in the
annexed drawing are intended to form letters, and the
combined letters to form the following sentence :
“ Vive le nouveau genre de sport et le plaisir qitc
procure la bicyclettef a literal translation of which
reads as follows : “ Long live this new kind of sport
and the pleasure which the bicycle provides.” The
work is that of a clever pedlar, who induced Mr.
Field to purchase the drawing which we reproduce.
In order to read the words properly the drawing
should be held horizontally on a level with the line of
vision.

him for work. He was a great
lover of dogs and horses, and
owned a large number. As they
died he had them buried near
each other, and heaped up a large
mound over them. On top of this
he erected a tombstone, which is
shown in the illustration. He was
a great philanthropist, and his
death, which occurred a few years
ago, was greatly lamented. He
was not buried in the tomb he
had carved for himself, but,
contrary to his wishes, in the
village cemetery, where a tall
shaft marks his grave,

Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited,

CURIOSITIES.

597

f

able, I thought a
photograph of the
steeple above us
would be interesting,
so I held my kodac
almost perpendicu¬
larly in the air and
obtained the accom¬
panying curious re¬
sult. The tower
resembles a bridge
more than anything
else, so true is the per¬
spective.” In order
to see the photo, in
its true light the pic¬
ture should be held
above the head.

A GROTESQUE
ADORNMENT.

This curious picture
shows a figure which
stands at the foot of
an ornamental foun¬
tain in the Corpora¬
tion Park, Darwen,
Lancs. The fine
stream of water fall¬
ing on the head of the

TO THE “ MAN OF THE HOUR.”

Who said the London General Post Office was behind the tim<
Here is a letter marked in the first place (and, naturally enou:
“ Insufficiently Addressed.” But on looking at it again the G. P.
saw the name “ Neufeld,” and remembered in a moment the thrill
narrative of suffering and weird adventure now appearing month
month-in The Wide World Magazine , under the title, “ In the Khali
Clutches ; or, My Twelve Years’ Captivity in Chains in Omdurmai
“Neufeld ! Why, of course,” murmured theG.P.O. (and it does mum
sometimes), “ Charles Neufeld is the famous prisoner of the Khalifa v
was released only when the victorious Lord Kitchener struck off
chains in the Saier Prison at Omdurinan. Neufeld —Yes, at present
spells Wide World Magazine, and that spells ‘ Newnes ’ and Sou
ampton Street.” And so the letter was duly delivered.

COLOGNE STEEPLE.

“ Whilst touring in Germany,” writes Mr. Jas. W. Smith, jun.,
of 8, St. Botolph Street, Boston, Mass., “ I had the pleasure of
stopping at Cologne, on the Rhine. Amongst the various things
we saw was the cathedral. After ascending as high as we were

fountain has frozen upon it with this pecu¬
liar effect. Note the enlargement of the
mouth and the huge beard. There are also
one or two curious suggestions of faces in
the ice. Mr. II. Irving, of Darwen, Lancs
has kindly forwarded us this photograph.

598

THE STRAND

MAGAZINE.

JNUL AIN ACCIDENT.

We have from time to time reproduced
interesting photographs sent to us by our
correspondents, taken from above, from be¬
low, and from other curious points of view,
but the snap-shot here shown is, we think,
one of the best of the kind that has yet come
to hand. Looked at casually one would
think that the young map had fallen from
the top of !he chimney, his cap being still
on the descent. But it is not so. The
camera was tilted upwards from below, the
man sat on the edge of the wall and threw
up his cap, while the picture was snapped,
with the above curious result. We are in¬
debted to Mr. G. H. Janneman, jun., of 3,
Anderson Avenue, Port Richmond, New
York, for this interesting snap-shot.

A MINE SQUEEZE.

The accompanying photograph represents
a mine squeeze in an anthracite coal mine
in the Wyoming Valley, Pa. The picture

was taken 650ft. below the surface of the ground, and
shows the roof of a gangway giving way and breaking
the props placed under it for support. The props
shown are from 14m. to 2oin. in diameter, and had
only been placed there a few days. Many lives have
been lost in this mine owing to these squeezes, the
props sometimes snapping like pipe-stems, without
any warning, burying the men working under them.
Mr. Harry IJ. Davenport, of Plymouth, Pa., who
sends the photo., says : “ Pieces of coal were actually
falling whilst the picture was being taken.”

A MODELLER IN COAL.

Of all the peculiar substances from which models
have been made, surely coal must take the premier
position. A more brittle modelling composition
could hardly have been chosen, yet in our picture we

have crosses, ink-
stands, boots,
brackets, candle¬
sticks, and waiters
all made of coal.
Mr. Turton, of
Hucknall Torkard,

who is seen in the photo¬
graph with a lady’s boot
in his hand, is the clever
modeller of these objects,
his only tools being a
pocket-knife, a chisel,
and a file, while a
specially hard kind of
coal is used which is
capable of being polished
with the flat hand. The
cup in the centre of the
photo, was made by
Mr. Turton for a local
football league com¬
prising thirteen teams,
and was to be played for
each season : interest,
however, abated, and
the first winners still
hold it. Mr. Harold
Rowe, of Hucknall
Torkard, has kindly
sent us this picture.

CURIOSITIES.

599

“ DEAD AND ALIVE.”

Mr. Alfred Priest, of 14, Hamstead Road, Hands-
worth, Birmingham, sends the next photo. He says :
“ Inclosed I send a photo, which I am sure is quite
unique, even amongst the interesting collection that
has been appearing for some long time in The

Strand Maga¬
zine. It was
suggested to me
in this way : I
was inspecting a
few of my can¬
vases (painted
as a student),
and I asked my
brother to hold
them up for me
so that they
should not re¬
flect any light, as
pictures often do
when not at a
proper angle
with the light (of
windows, etc.).
When he was
holding this par¬
ticular picture
up, the quaint
blending of the
picture and my
brother’s legs at
once reminded
me of your well-
known photo,
curiosities. It is
further interest¬
ing as being a
copy of the
famous portrait
of Philip IV. of
Spain, by Velasquez ; now, I believe, in the Dulwich
Gallery. To take this photo. I posed specially, while
my brother worked the camera.”

CAN A CAT FLY?

This sounds very much like a conundrum, and a
very absurd one, too. If we look at the picture of
pussy which is reproduced here, our question is at
least partially an¬
swered. This extra-
ord inary cat, it
will he perceived, is
the proud possessor of
a pair of wings. It
belongs to a lady of
Wiveliscombe, Somer¬
set, to whom it was
given when a kitten.

There was nothing
extraordinary in its
appearance at first, but
after a time it developed
a pair of wings. They
are not, of course,
covered with feathers,
but fur—the same as
the rest of the body.

Several persons have
seen this wonderful cat.

The photograph was
taken by Mr. G. W.

French, of Wivelis¬
combe, Somerset.

A THIRSTY CABLE-DRUM.

An exciting scene occurred one morning in Nelson
Street, Bristol, where an electric cable is being laid.
The workmen had left one of the drums of cable
standing on the top of a slight incline, and by some
means or other it was started rolling down the slope.
At the bottom of the hill there is an arch about 10ft.
wide (St. John’s Arch), and it went clear through this
and turned slightly to the left and crashed through a
public-house window, completely demolishing the
front of the premises. The drum weighs 53cwt., and
if it had gone 2ft. more to the right it would have
knocked down the pillar shown in the photograph,
and brought the whole house down. Several persons
had narrow escapes, but fortunately no one was
injured. The photograph was forwarded by Mr. C.
M. Fairclough, of Ockham, Keynsham, near
Bristol.

6 oo

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

which they are composed having been carefully collected
by the smith who at present owns the forge. lie then
reared this monument to his own patience and ingenuity.
Our correspondent who has kindly forwarded us the
photograph says : “ The name along the top of the

archway is also composed of shoes ; unfortunately, how¬
ever, I^took the photograph from the wrong side,”

A JUMPING DOLPHIN.

It is Mr. G. T. Wrench, of 3, Parklands,
Surbiton Hill Park, Surrey, who sends us this

" TOPMOUNTERS ”

PLEASE NOTE.

Miss M. Bulley, of
Breck-IIey, Liscard,

Cheshire, favours us
with the remarkable
advertising card of a
small hotel in Nor¬
way. The document
was printed for the
benefit of English
travellers, and is
absolutely genuine.

A CUP WITH A
MYSTERY.

The drinking cup
of which we here re¬
produce a photo, is a
very ancient one.

The sender, Miss K.

Walker, of 14, Priory
Road, Bedford Park,

Chiswick, W., says : “It is of
clear glass, with a small engrav¬
ing on one side. In the mouth of
the cup is a hollow globe of glass,
so placed that the water will run
slowly into the cup, but it seems
impossible to drink from it. I
remember as children we called
it a ‘ puzzle cup,’ and were told
that the puzzle was to drink
out of it, but I have never
heard how it was done, and have
never been able to discover.”
Unfortunately, the original
handle has been broken off and
replaced by one of iron, covered
with wickerwork. The ends of
the old glass handle, however,
are still attached to the body of
the cup, but no tube or opening
into it can be found in them.

The hotel for turists ....

on Turtegro

— Owner Mr Ivar 0iene —

is laying by the foot of the eminent “Skagastolstinder”, the largest field

in Jotunheimen for topmounters. The best
the best place for country-layers. Different i
trips. Nearest stopping-place for steamers
station for passage to Lom - Gudbsandsdale

leaders are to be had. It is
nteresting places for summer-
— Skjolden. Recommands as

interesting photograph. He
says : “ This is a snap-shot,
taken off the coast of New South
Wales, of a dolphin leaping out
of the water.” A dolphin is dis¬
tinguished from a porpoise by
its long, flat snout, which can be
distinctly discerned in the photo.
We should imagine that Mr.
Wrench has been particularly
fortunate in thus catching the
dolphin “on the hop.”

AN ARCHWAY OF HORSE¬
SHOES.

This extraordinary archway
stands at the entrance to a forge
near Amesbury, Wilts, and is
indeed an interesting curiosity.
The two pillars together weigh
over four tons, the shoes of

Vol. xviii.

No. 108.

The Strand Magazine.

DECEMBER, 1899.

Illustrated Interviews.

LXVIII.—SIR LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA, R.A.

By Frederick Dolman.

F “ the glory that was Greece
and the grandeur that was
Rome ” there is no greater
living exponent in pictorial
art than Sir Lawrence Alma-
Tadema. Many a visitor to

the annual exhibitions of the
Royal Academy, looking upon
his vivid realization of daily life
in the ancient classical period,
with its graceful women and
stately men, its brilliant sky,
gleaming marbles, and gorgeous
flowers, must have greatly won¬
dered where and how in murky,
commonplace London such pic¬
tures could be conceived and
created, it being well known that
the distinguished painter, a
Dutchman by birth, has long
been an Englishman by adop¬
tion, and a Londoner by choice.
No. 17, Grove End Road, St.
John’s Wood, where Sir Lawrence
has resided for many years, is
not an address which in itself
signifies much in answer to such
a question, and you might pass
along the thoroughfare a dozen
times without having your atten¬
tion attracted to the dwelling-
place which bears that number,
surrounded as it is by a high
garden-wall in accordance with
the general plan of the neigh¬
bourhood.

When you pull the old-
fashioned iron bell-handle, how¬
ever, and the garden-gate in
response gently slips open, tacitly
inviting you to walk along the
tessellated pavement, protected
by a glass awning, to the portal
of the house, revelations are
assuredly at hand full of en¬
lightenment as to the value

Vol. xviii.—76.

which a great artist with enthusiasm for his
work puts upon sympathetic environment.
The door-knocker, a massive antique mask
of brass, with the word Salve— the favourite
greeting of the Romans—carved above in
bold lettering, fitly heralds your entrance to

From a Photo, by] sir Lawrence ai.ma-tadema, e.a. [Geo. Neimes, Ltd.

604

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

Painted by] “ SAPPHO.” [Sir L. Alma-Tadema, K. A.

Copyright by Photographische Gesellschaft. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London.

a home which more than any other in
London illustrates the artistic beauty of
domiciles such as Horace and Cicero knew,
and such as are suggested to us to-day in
the finest remains of Pompeii and Hercu¬
laneum. The atrium, triclinium, peristyle,
impluvium, and other features which Lord
Lytton describes with so much detail in
“ The Last Days of Pompeii ” have been
reproduced with as much fidelity as was con¬
sistent with present-day convenience and the
English climate.

It is in the essentially modern billiard-
room, however, that Sir Lawrence receives
me as the representative of The Strand
Magazine.

We seat ourselves in a little recess at the
end of the room, just raised a little to afford
a better view of the table when a game is in
progress, and light cigars. The electric globe
fills this recess with a soft glow, but there is
only a dim light over the rest of the room,
and the figure and features of the artist, as
he reclines in his chair, are consequently
placed in clear relief. Of about the middle
height, Sir Lawrence looks lithe and strong,
and although his rather shaggy hair is
partially grey, and the pince-nez looks like a
fixture, you would never take him to be
a man who had seen sixty-three years and
has painted more than three hundred
important pictures. He is dressed in the
neglige style of the studio, the brown hue of
his clothes seeming to set off the slight
colour on his frank, energetic face. Although

so pleasing, the face is not of an English
type, and, if it were, it would be denied by the
accent with which, in excellent literary form,
and sometimes very quickly, Sir Lawrence
speaks in the tongue of the country which
he honours by making his own.

“ Then it is your custom to work every
day and all day?” I remark, resuming the
talk when our cigars were well alight.

“ Yes, but I cannot claim to work with the
regularity of some artists. I never know
how much or how little I am going to do.
For days I make no progress with a picture
—there is so much painting-out. Leighton,
on the other hand, as you may know, was
able to apportion every part of his day to its
allotted task -two hours to a model, two
hours to a sitter, so much more to a study,
and so on.”

“And yet your work, Sir Lawrence, is
mostly of the same kind—the public won’t
let you paint much without blue sky and
white marble in it.”

“That is true, but it only increases, I
think, the strain upon the artist. I have
attained—at least, people think I have
attained—to excellence in a certain groove
of art. I must continue to work in that
groove, but at the same time I must not
merely repeat myself. In this groove I have
to find fresh features of interest, new points
of achievement. This makes the artistic effort,
although, in a sense, I may be able to paint
very blue skies and very light marbles better
and more easily than anything else.”

ILL USTRA TED INTER VIE J VS.

605

“ Then you are not in the same position as
the actor who is condemned by success to
play the same part night after night?”

“ Not quite. But actors are prone to tire
of the sphere in which they have made
their reputations. Many a comedian has
longed to distinguish himself as a tragedian,
when it is pretty certain that if he were to
make the attempt, comedy would lose an
excellent interpreter, and tragedy would gain
little. In the same way painters are apt to
despise success as soon as it seems to be too
easily gained—they often strive ambitiously

work gf his earlier years was of somewhat
different character, and I am moved to
inquire how he discovered his true metier.

“ I was always very fond of Roman history,
although at school, which I left rather early,
I am afraid I never made very much head¬
way with Latin and Greek. I was first
attracted to the artistic possibilities of marble
when visiting Ghent in 1858. A friend
happened to take me into a certain club¬
house— I forget for the moment the name
of the club—which had a marble smoking-
room. I don’t suppose the room was of any

Painted by ] “the proposal.” [Sir L. Alma Tadema, R.A.

Reproduced by permission of Mr. Stephen T. Gooden, 57, Pall Mall, owner of the Copyright.

in some new field for which they are less
fitted, but then it is so difficult to know one’s
own powers.”

It is in association with such pictures as
“ The Shrine of Venus,” “A Reading from
Homer,” and “ An Audience at Agrippa’s ”
that the name of Alma-Tadema will long be
memorable in the annals of art. But the

exceptional magnificence, but it was the
finest marble room I had then seen, and its
wonderful whiteness and atmosphere made
an extraordinary impression upon me.”

“ And with this association of ideas —
historical interest and the beauty of marble
—you proceeded to Italy and Greece ? ”
“No, I did not visit Rome for some years

6o 6

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

later, and Greece I have never seen. A friend
of my mother’s did, indeed, offer me a sum
of money quite early in my career to enable
me to have a long course of travel. But,
after due consideration, I declined the kind
offer. It seemed to me—and my opinion
remains the same to-day—that a young artist
whose style and individuality had yet to be
formed was more likely to be harmed than

‘I am Alma-Tadema’—and could enjoy and
profit by all that I saw without danger of
mere imitation. You remember the story of
Correggio, the desire of whose heart was to
see the Raphaels in the Vatican. When it
was realized, and he stood before the famous
works, he exclaimed, ‘And I too am a
painter ! ’ ”

“ But how, then, did you obtain the know¬

Paintedby ] “at THE SHRINE OF VENUS.” [Sir L. Alma-Tadema t R.A.

Copyright by Pholographische Gesellscliaft. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London.

benefited by going to Venice, say, and
studying Titian, to Rome and studying
Michael Angelo, to Spain and immersing
himself in Velasquez.”

“ Yet the Royal Academy maintains
several travelling studentships ? ”

“ Yes, I know, but the policy, in my
opinion, is a mistaken one. Scarcely any of
the greatest painters travelled in their youth.”

And Sir Lawrence promptly ran through
many names of the Masters, both old and
modern, in verification of his statement.

“When I first visited Italy in 1863 I
had developed as an artist into what I am
now—I could say to myself without egotism,

ledge of every detail of old Greek and Roman
life shown in your pictures?”

“ As to the costume, mainly from sculpture
and antique paintings ; as to general details
of architecture, furnishing, etc., mainly from
museums and collections. Baring Gould’s
‘Tragedy of the Caesars/ for instance, is an
excellent work, inspired by the portraits of the
time. Of course, I know Pompeii by heart—
I spent a long time in exploring it, especially
in 1884 and in 1863, when the pavements
were uncovered, and not as now covered up'
with mud, owing to the misguided methods of
preservation adopted by the Italian .officials.

I have never visited Greece and the Orient,

ILLUSTRATED INTER VIEWS.

607

Painted by] “unconscious rivals.” [Sir L. Alma-Tadema, H.A.

Copyright by Photographwche Geselhchaft. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.., London.

from the fear that I should.not be able to
see the ancient life there for the crowds of
living people and things of to-day. Even
Rome is becoming hopelessly modern in that
Sense — on my last visit in 1886 I was much
less able to discover for myself the life of the
ancient city.”

“And you do not have to go abroad in
search of models ? ”

“ No, in London a painter can obtain
everything he wants in that way. As to
Italians, for instance, there are available
models of as many types as in Rome itself.
It has been said, 1 know,, that some of my
Greeks and Romans are too English in their
appearance. But, after all, there is not such
a great difference between the ancients and
the moderns as we are apt to suppose. This
is the truth that I have always endeavoured
to express in my pictures, that the old
Romans were human flesh and blood, like
ourselves, moved by much the same passions
and emotions.”

“ Your knowledge of Greek and Roman
life has been more than once enlisted in the
service of the stage, Sir Lawrence ? ”

“ Yes, I was first asked by Irving to assist
him with 4 Coriolanus.’ But as you know,
4 Coriolanus 9 was never produced, and my

work did not get beyond careful sketches for
the scenery. Then I was consulted by Mr.
Beerbohm Tree about the mounting of
4 Hypatia/ for which I made myself respon¬
sible. In 1897 I assisted Sir Henry in the
production of 4 Cymbeline/ and last year I
had a good deal to do with Tree’s production
of 4 Julius Caesar.’ ”

44 You have found in these matters, I
suppose, pleasant relaxation after the work of
the studio ? ”

44 Relaxation ! ” and the artist gave a sardonic
little laugh. ‘ 4 It was confoundedly harder
work than painting. When I was not attend¬
ing rehearsals I had members of the com¬
pany here on all sorts of questions, and I
had no end of difficulty in persuading them
to be truly Roman in appearance. Portia
would wear jewels, and so on. Then, the
long interviews with scene-painters, and the
rehearsals ! I remember on one occasion
I was at Her Majesty’s—it was the dress-
rehearsal of ‘Julius Caesar’—from seven in
the evening till three the next morning. I
suppose it was my own fault—I couldn’t help
entering fully into the interest and excitement
of the thing. But that is always my way—I
concentrate all my energy and attention on
whatever I take in hand. For the time being

6o8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Painted by] “love’s votaries.” [Mr L. Alma-Tadema, R.A.

Copyright by Photographischs Gesellschaft. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London.

ILL ULTRA TED INTER VIE IVS.

I found it practically impossible to do any
other work, and I think I shall have to refuse
anything of the kind again. At the same
time I got a considerable amount of enjoy¬
ment out of the experience, as our actors and
artists are such nice people to deal with.”

With all the enthusiasm for art which this
conversation has revealed, it was only by an
interposition of Providence—as some people
would call it—that Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema
became an artist. The son of a notary in
the village of Dronryp, near Leeuwarden, he
lost his father when only four years old.
His mother, of whom he always speaks with
affection as a woman of rare strength of
purpose and character, had a large family to
bring up on comparatively small means.
Although even in childhood Laurens showed
cleverness with the pencil, she not unnatur¬
ally distrusted art as too precarious a pro¬
fession for her boy. It was decided that he
should be a lawyer, like his father, and to
that end was sent to the public school at
Leeu warden.

But the passion for art was not to be
stifled. He would get up at daybreak and
work for hours with pencil and brush before
the irksome school routine began. His first
distinct success in art was a portrait of his
sister, painted at the age of thirteen, and
exhibited in a Leeu warden gallery.

All this undermined his health, and the
doctors doubted whether his vitality would last
him many months, so he was allowed to go
in for art as a profession. Then a seeming
miracle happened. Instead of sinking into
the grave, the lad henceforth grew in strength
and vigour. Emancipation for his art in
which he rejoiced had saved his life. In 1852
Alma-Tadema was entered as a student at
the Academy of Art in Antwerp, and for
several years worked there under Wappers
and de Keyzer. According to the testimony
of contemporaries his industry was prodigious,
and he produced in the school a number of
pictures having semi-mystical, semi-historical
subjects, but all of these were destroyed by
the hands of their extremely self - critical
creator.

Alma-Tadema left the Antwerp Academy
in 1858 to become the pupil of Hendrik Leys,
the distinguished Belgian historical painter,
whom he often assisted in the execution of his
pictures, the principal subjects relating to the
sixteenth century. Under the inspiration of
Leys he produced a picture, “ The Education
of the Children of Clovis ” (1861), which
first laid the foundations of his fame. This
picture, originally sold for about ^65, which

Vol. xviii.—77.

609

is now in the possession of the King of
the Belgians, was one of several painted
between 1860-63 that were suggested by
that strange old work, Gregory of Tours’s
“ History of the Franks.” Settling in
Antwerp, the young artist had been joined
there by his mother and sister in 1859. The
beloved mother, however, did not live to see
the name of Alma-Tadema obtain more than
a local reputation. She died in 1863, and a
few months later the artist sought consolation
for his bereavement in marriage. He lost
his first wife, a French lady, in 1869, and in
the same year came to London, which has
ever since been his home.

Before Alma-Tadema came to England his
name had been noised abroad in the art
circles of France and Germany by a number
of pictures having ancient Egyptian and
Roman life for their theme. The first of these,
painted in 1863, was entitled “Egyptians
Three Thousand Years Ago.” An old friend,
Dr. George Ebers, the great Egyptian scholar,
once asked the painter why, in depicting
ancient life, he should have begun with the
land of Isis.

“Where else,” replied Alma-Tadema,
“ when I made myself acquainted with the
life of the ancients, should I have begun ?
The first thing the child learns of ancient
times is about the Court of Pharaoh, and if
we go back to the source of art and science,
how often do we not go back to Egypt ? ”

“ Egyptians Three Thousand Years Ago,”
“The Mummy,” “The Chess-Players,” etc.,
were followed by “ A Roman Family,”
“Tarquinus Superbus,” “Entrance to a
Roman Theatre,” and other pictures of the
great city of the Caesars. One of the pictures,
“The Pyrrhic Dance,” brought to England
from Brussels, where Alma-Tadema resided
between 1865 and 1869, became his first
contribution to the Royal Academy of the
latter year.

“ In the thirty years that passed since,”
the artist remarked, “ I don’t think I have
missed a single exhibition at Burlington
House. I have exhibited at other galleries,
of course, but all my most important work
has been first shown at the Royal Academy.”

The first picture painted by Alma-Tadema
in England was “ A Roman Emperor,” and
in the succeeding years this was followed by
“ The Death of the First-Born ”—which the
artist himself considers one of his best works
—“The Picture Gallery,” “The Sculpture
Gallery,” “ An Audience at Agrippa’s,” and
other canvases that quickly placed him in
the front rank of our London exhibitors. At

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

610

Painted by] fortune's favourite.” [Sir L. Alma-Tadema, R.A.

“ Gems and gemlike eyes and gold and golden heads.”—Tennyson (“ The Princess ).

Copyright bn Photographische Gesellschaft. Bn permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London.

the same time he was forming the ties which
now bind him to England and English life. In
1871 he married Laura Theresa Epps, then
a London art student, giving promise of the

talent she has since shown. In 1873 he
took the earliest opportunity of becoming a
British citizen, and three years later he was
elected an Associate of the Royal Academy.

ILL USTRA TED INTERVIEWS.

6 n

Full membership followed in 1879, and by
the conferment of knighthood the Queen has
now given a fitting recognition to a career
which will adorn the annals of British art.

I do not pretend that Sir Lawrence gave
me his autobiography thus as we sat smoking

soft glow of a window of Mexican onyx. The
beauty of onyx windows in domestic architec¬
ture Alma-Tadema was the first to realize in
this house, Lord Bute next introducing them
into one of his residences, and Mr. Water-
house, R.A., in designing the National

Painted by] “the fkigidarium.” [Sir L Alma-Tudema, R.A.

Reproduced by permission of Mr. Stephen T. Gooden, 57, Pall Mall, owner of the Copyright.

after dinner in his billiard-room. Wild
horses would not drag it from him, I think,
in this way. But such is his life-story, as
some of his friends have heard it from his lips
in bits and fragments on various occasions.

Having finished our cigars, we rise from
our easy chairs to visit the studio. Passing
out of the billiard-room, I have a glance at
Sir Lawrence’s library, containing a choice
collection of books on art, archaeology,
Greek and Roman life, etc. The library
itself is unlike any other apartment so
designated that I have yet seen. This room,
which Sir Lawrence calls his atrium, is up¬
stairs, adjoining the studio. The staircase
to the gallery is in this room. In one
corner is a small fountain, the water falling
gently into a marble basin below, and a
business-like escritoire, at which the artist
writes whilst standing, is partially lit by the

Liberal Club, placing two at the top of its
celebrated marble staircase. A quantity of
withered rose-leaves are strewn about by the
side of the marble basin.

“ It was here that I painted the flowers,”
Sir Lawrence explains, “ in my ‘Roses of
Heliogabalus/ and although it was—how
many years ago ?—these leaves have been
kept ever since. In painting this picture I
had to have roses sent from the Riviera, three
boxes full a week during four winter months.”

We approach the studio by a staircase
of burnished brass. “This staircase was
said to be of gold,” remarks Sir Lawrence,
“ by an imaginative writer some time ago in
one of the German papers, and the result
was that for weeks almost every post brought
me begging letters from Germany, where I
was evidently regarded as a veritable Croesus.”

As we enter the studio it is in darkness,

612

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

and Sir Lawrence goes round switching on
the electric lights. There is thus gradually
revealed to me a large and lofty chamber,
with a gallery at one end and an apse at the
side, marble panellings and cedar doors, and
an antique marble fireplace. The ceiling is
vaulted, that of the apse being in the shape
of half-dome. The studio, like the rest of the
house, was designed by Sir Lawrence, when
in 1885-86 No. 17, Grove End Road, which

plosion—1 tried the effect of a white studio.
Now, as you see, the prevailing hue is a
silvery white, and that, I think, best agrees
with my present temperament, artistically
speaking.”

On a dais at one side of the studio is a
wonderful piano, the winner of the gold
medal at the London Musical Exhibition a
few years ago. It is inlaid with ivory and
mother-of-pearl; whilst, inside the lid, on

Painted by | “a kiss.” \bir L. Alma-Tadema, R.A.

Reproduced by permission of Mr. Stephen T. Gooden, r>7, Pall Mall, owner of the Copyriyht.

had been in the occupation of M. Tissot, the
French artist, was practically re-built from its
foundations.

The walls are of marble, but the beautiful
ceiling has the soft, silvery tint of aluminium.

“ I have always found that the light and
colour in a studio had a great influence
upon me in my work. I first painted in a
studio with panels of black decoration. Then
in my studio in Brussels I was surrounded by
bright red, and in London—at Townshend
House, Regent’s Park—I worked under the
influence of a light green tint. During the
winter I spent in Rome in 1875-76—when 1
was obliged to leave my London house by the
destructive effect of the Regent’s Canal ex-

a vellum lining, are to be found the auto¬
graphs of the famous musicians, Paderewski
among the number, who have played upon
the instrument as the artist’s guests. In the
apse may be read the inscription, Ars ionga
vita brevis , whilst over the door Alma-
Tadema’s favourite motto has been carved
in letters of gold : “ As the sun colours
flowers, so art colours life.”

Three or four easels stand about on the
parquet floor, each bearing an unfinished
picture.

“ I always have two or three pictures in
hand at the same time,” Sir Lawrence ex¬
plained. “I am obliged to—otherwise I should
become too much absorbed in one subject.

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

613

edby] portrait OF m. Paderewski. [Sir L. Alma-Tadema, R.A.

Copyright by Photographische Gesellschaft. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London.

I must turn from
one picture to
another for quick¬
ness and fresh¬
ness of interest.

You see this pic¬
ture upside down
on the easel?

That is as I left
it this afternoon
after a hard day’s
work upon it, and
if you don’t mind
I would rather not
look at the canvas
again to-day.

“ I have had
this picture in
hand,” and the
artist pointed to a
rather small can¬
vas, only half
painted, “ for
nearly two years,
and I am afraid
I have now for¬
gotten what I had originally intended to
put in the upper part. The paint and
pencilled lines show it to be a bathing
scene—but I can tell you nothing as to the
details.”

This was an exceptional case, but despite
the amount of his work, Alma-Tadema
has spent a fairly long time—one, two, or
even three years—on all his more important
pictures, such as “At the Shrine of Venus,”
“The Vintage Festival,” “A Dedication to
Bacchus,” and “The Coliseum.” There is
so much “painting-out,” he confesses. He
has the Dutch care for detail, and some
detail in a picture may be painted and re¬
painted before it satisfies him. A pile of
large photographs and original drawings of
Rome which I discovered on a seat in the
studio had been thus accumulated, it seems,
during the painting of “The Baths of
Caracalla,” Sir Lawrence’s principal contribu¬
tion to this year’s Academy. “ Photography,”
he remarked, “ is a great boon undoubtedly
to the artist of to-day who has any concern
for accuracy in details.”

A large canvas filled with pencilled outlines
attracts my attention. But looking at it with
a curious eye, my lips are sealed by Sir
Lawrence’s warning words : “ Yes, I hope
to make a picture of it for next year’s
Academy, but beyond that I can say nothing.
The idea may come to nothing.”

A narrow staircase takes us to the gallery,

looking down from which the full beauty of
the studio, with its harmonies of light and
colour, is impressed upon one. On the other
side of this gallery is a conservatory, full of
exotics, such as the artist has often intro¬
duced into his pictures. The gallery leads
to a corridor, where I notice a fine portrait of
Lady Alma-Tadema, painted by her husband,
to whom she has sat for more than one of his
subject pictures, notably in “ The Departure,”
some years ago. He has exhibited portraits,
it may be added, of his daughter, the artist,
as well as of Miss Onslow Ford and
Miss MacWhirter. But more characteristic
examples, perhaps, of Alma-Tadema’s style
as a portrait-painter are his Paderewski at the
piano and his Dr. Epps, the brother of
Lady Alma-Tadema, at the bedside of a
patient.

“ People generally,” Sir Lawrence plain¬
tively remarks, “ always seem to forget that
I paint portraits.”

“ Portraits always appear to be considered
the least interesting part of an exhibition,” I
remark.

“I hardly believe so; and painted in the
old style portraits always please. As a rule, a
portrait consists of a head and some clothes,
perhaps one or two hands, and the rest of
black or brown background, representing a
person as he is never seen in real life.
When you or I meet a friend, we see not
only him but his surroundings, whether it is

614

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Copyright by Photographische Gesellscha/t. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.,
* London.

in a room, a garden, or the
street. I consider, there¬
fore, that you should paint
not only men and women,
but some part also of their
accessories or environments,
and it is upon this principle
that most of my portraits
have been executed. But
people are very conservative
in such matters, and a good
many, I am afraid, when
they engage to pay a certain
price for a portrait, want
the painter to devote the
whole of his attention to
their head only:”

44 Who have been the
principal purchasers of your
pictures, Sir Lawrence?”

“ The greater portion
have gone to America, I
believe, although many re¬
main in England, of course.
Germany has bought a
number, and the rest are
scattered about the world.
That picture of which I was
showing you just now the
engraving, 4 Roses, Love’s
Delight,’ was purchased by
the Czar of Russia.

44 Art has long since ceased
to be dependent on the old
aristocracy. It no longer
lays up art treasures, and
the best picture-buyers of to¬
day are the nouveaux riches.
Then, with cheaper and im¬
proved methods of reproduc¬
tion, the taste of the people
generally is coming into ac¬
count. With one or two
exceptions all my pictures
have been published, 4 The
Vintage Festival ’ leading
the way.”

In Sir Lawrence’s genial
company the night quickly
grows late. I pass out through
the dimly-lighted corridors
and halls that seem so many
backgrounds to the R.A.’s
pictures, and at the big outer
door experience a farewell
handshake which is the
speeding counterpart to its
welcoming Salve.

The Croxley Master.

In Three Parts. Part III.
By A. Conan Doyle.

stolidly upon his K-leg. It gave him a
tremendous pedestal. One could hardly
imagine his being knocked down. And he
could pivot round upon it with extraordinary
quickness. But his advance or retreat was
ungainly. His frame, however, was so much
larger and broader than that of the student,
and his brown, massive face looked so resolute
and menacing, that the hearts of the Wilson
party sank within them. There was one
heart, however, which had not done so. It
was that of Robert Montgomery.

Any nervousness which he may have had
completely passed away now that he had his
work before him. Here was something
definite—this hard-faced, deformed Hercules
to beat, with a career as the price of beating
him. He glowed with the joy of action. It
thrilled through his nerves. He faced his
man with little in-
and-out steps, break¬
ing to the left, break¬
ing to the right,
feeling his way, while
Craggs, with a dull,
malignant eye,
pivoted slowly upon
his weak leg, his left
arm half extended,
his right sunk low
across the mark.
Montgomery led with
his left, and then led
again, getting lightly
home each time. He
tried again, but the
Master had his
counter ready, and
Montgomery reeled
back from a harder
blow than he had
given. Anastasia, the
woman, gave a shrill
cry of encourage¬
ment, and her man
let fly his right.
Montgomery ducked
under it, and in an
instant the two were
in each other’s
arms.

“ Break away !
Break away ! ” said
“they fell into position.” the referee.

Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited.

III.

ONTGOMERY — Craggs,”
said he.

A great hush fell over the
huge assembly. Even the
dogs stopped yapping ; one
might have thought that the
monstrous room was empty. The two men
had stood up, the small white gloves over
their hands. They advanced from their
corners and shook hands : Montgomery
gravely, Craggs with a smile. Then they fell
into position. The crowd gave a long sigh
— the intake of a thousand excited breaths.
The referee tilted his chair on to its back legs,
and looked moodily critical from the one to
the other.

It was strength against activity—that was
evident from the first. The Master stood

616

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

The Master struck upwards on the break,
and shook Montgomery with the blow. Then
it was “time.” It had been a spirited opening-
round. The people buzzed into comment
and applause. Montgomery was quite fresh,
but the hairy chest of the Master was rising
and falling. The man passed a sponge over
his head, while Anastasia flapped the towel
before him. “ Good lass ! Good lass ! ”
cried the crowd, and cheered her.

The men were up again, the Master grimly
watchful, Montgomery as alert as a kitten.
The Master tried a sudden rush, squattering
along with his awkward gait, but coming
faster than one would think. 'The student
slipped aside and avoided him. The Master
stopped, grinned, and shook his head. Then
he motioned with his
hand as an invitation
to Montgomery to
come to him. The
student did so and
led with his left, but
got a swinging right
counter in the ribs
in exchange. The
heavy blow staggered
him, and the Master
came scrambling in
to complete his ad¬
vantage ; but Mont¬
gomery, with his
greater activity, kept
out of danger until
the call of “ time.”

A tame round, and
the advantage with
the Master.

“T’Maister’s too
strong for him,” said
a smelter to his neigh¬
bour.

“Aye, but Mother’s
a likely lad. Happen
we’ll see some sport
yet. He can joomp
rarely.”

“ But t’Maister can
stop and hit rarely.

Happen he’ll mak’him
joomp when he gets
his nief upon him.”

They were up
again, the water glistening upon their faces.
Montgomery led instantly and got his right
home with a sounding smack upon the
Master’s forehead. There was a shout from
the colliers, and “ Silence ! Order ! ” from the
referee. Montgomery avoided the counter

and scored with his left. Fresh applause,
and the referee upon his feet in indigna¬
tion. “No comments, gentlemen, if you
please, during the rounds.”

“Just bide a bit! ” growled the Master.

“ Don’t talk—fight ! ” said the referee,
angrily.

Montgomery rubbed in the point by a
flush hit upon the mouth, and the Master
shambled back to his corner like an angry
bear, having had all the worst of the round.

“ Where’s thot seven to one ? ” shouted
Purvis, the publican. “ I’ll take six to one ! ”

There were no answers.

“ Five to one ! ” There were givers at
that. Purvis booked them in a tattered
note-book.

WHAT A DELICIOUS MINUTE IT WAS.”

Montgomery began to feel happy. He lay
back with his legs outstretched, his back
against the corner post, and one gloved hand
upon each rope. What a delicious minute it
was between each round. If he could only,
keep out of harm’s way, he must surely

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

617

wear this man out before the end of twenty
rounds. He was so slow that all his strength
went for nothing. “You’re fightin’ a winnin’
fight—a winnin’ fight,” Ted Barton whispered
in his ear. “Go canny; tak’ no chances;
you have him proper.”

But the Master was crafty. He had
fought so many battles with his maimed limb
that he knew how to make the best of
it. Warily and slowly he manoeuvred round
Montgomery, stepping forward and yet again
forward until he had imperceptibly backed
him into his corner. The student suddenly
saw a flash of triumph upon the grim face,
and a gleam in the dull, malignant eyes. The
Master was upon him. He sprang aside and
was on the ropes. The Master smashed in
one of his terrible upper-cuts, and Mont¬
gomery half broke it with his guard. The
student sprang the other way and was against
the other converging rope. He was trapped
in the angle. The Master sent in another,
with a hoggish grunt which spoke of the
energy behind it. Montgomery ducked, but
got ?„ jab from the left upon the mark.
He closed with his man. “ Break away !
Break away! ” cried the referee. Mont¬
gomery disengaged, and got a swinging blow
on the ear as he did so. It had been a
damaging round for him, and the Croxley
people were shouting their delight.

“Gentlemen, I will not have this noise,”
Stapleton roared. “ I have been accustomed
to preside at a well-conducted club, and not
at a bear-garden.” This little man, with
the tilted hat and the bulging forehead,
dominated the whole assembly. He was like
a head master among his boys. He glared
round him, and nobody cared to meet his
eye.

Anastasia had kissed the Master when he
resumed his seat. “ Good lass. Do’t again ! ”
cried the laughing crowd, and the angry
Master shook his glove at her, as she flapped
her towel in front of him. Montgomery was
weary and a little sore, but not depressed.
He had learned something. He would not
again be tempted into danger.

For three rounds the honours were fairly
equal. The student’s hitting was the quicker,
the Master’s the harder. Profiting by his
lesson, Montgomery kept himself in the open
and refused to be herded into a corner.
Sometimes the Master succeeded in rushing
him to the side ropes, but the younger man
slipped away, or closed and then disengaged.
The monotonous “ Break away ! Break
away ! ” of the referee broke in upon the
quick, low patter of rubber-soled shoes, the

Vol. xviii.— 78.

dull thud of the blows, and the sharp, hissing
breath of two tired men.

The ninth round found both of them in
fairly good condition. Montgomery’s head
was still singing from the blow that he had
in the corner, and one of his thumbs pained
him acutely and seemed to be dislocated.
The Master showed no sign of a touch, but
his breathing was the more laboured, and a
long line of ticks upon the referee’s paper
showed that the student had a good show of
points. But one of this iron man’s blows
was worth three of his, and he knew that with¬
out the gloves he could not have stood for
three rounds against him. All the amateur
work that he had done was the merest tapping
and flapping when compared to those frightful
blows, from arms toughened by the shovel
and the crowbar.

It was the tenth round, and the fight was
half over. The betting now was only three
to one, for the Wilson champion had held
his own much better than had been expected.
But those who knew the ringcraft as well as
the staying power of the old prize-fighter
knew that the odds were still a long way in
his favour.

“ Have a care of him ! ” whispered Barton,
as he sent his man up to the scratch. “ Have
a care ! He’ll play thee a trick, if he can.”

But Montgomery saw, or imagined he saw r ,
that his antagonist was tiring. He looked
jaded and listless, and his hands drooped a
little from their position. His own youth
and condition were beginning to tell. He
sprang in and brought off a fine left-handed
lead. The Master’s return lacked his usual
fire. Again Montgomery led, and again he
got home. Then he tried his right upon the
mark, and the Master guarded it downwards.

“ Too low ! Too low ! A foul ! A foul ! ”
yelled a thousand voices.

The referee rolled his sardonic eyes slowly
round. “ Seems to me this buildin’ is chock-
full of referees,” said he.

The people laughed and applauded, but
their favour was as immaterial to him as
their anger.

“ No applause, please. This is not a
theatre,” he yelled.

Montgomery was very pleased with him¬
self. His adversary was evidently in a bad
way. He was piling on his points and
establishing a lead. He might as well make
hay while the sun shone. The Master was
looking all abroad. Montgomery popped
one upon his blue jowl and got away without
a return. And then the Master suddenly
dropped both his hands and began rubbing

6 i8

THE STEAND MAGAZINE .

his thigh. Ah! that was it, was it? He
had muscular cramp.

“ Go in ! Go in ! ” cried Teddy Barton.

Montgomery sprang wildly forward, and
the next instant was lying half senseless, with
his neck nearly broken, in the middle of the
ring.

The whole round had been a long con¬
spiracy to tempt him within reach of one of
those terrible right-hand upper-cuts for which
the Master was fam¬
ous. For this the
listless, weary bear¬
ing, for this the
cramp in the thigh.

When Montgomery
had sprang in so hotly
he had exposed him¬
self to such a blow
as neither flesh nor
blood could stand.

Whizzing up from
below with a rigid
arm, which put the
Master’s eleven stone
into its force, it
struck him under the
jaw : he whirled half
round, and fell a help¬
less and half para¬
lyzed mass. A vague
groan and murmur,
inarticulate, too ex¬
cited for words, rose
from the great audi¬
ence. With open
mouths and staring
eyes they gazed at
the twitching and
quivering figure.

“ Stand back !

Stand right back !”
shrieked the referee,
for the Master was
standing over his man

ready to give him the coup-de-grace as he rose.

“ Stand back, Craggs, this instant,” Staple-
ton repeated.

The Master sank his hands sulkily and
walked backwards to the rope with his
ferocious eyes fixed upon his fallen antagonist.
The timekeeper called the seconds. If ten
of them passed before Montgomery rose to
his feet the fight was ended. Ted Barton
wrung his hands and danced about in an
agony in his corner.

As if in a dream—a terrible nightmare—
the student could hear the voice of the
timekeeper—three—four—five—he got up

on his hand—six—seven—he was on his
knee, sick, swimming, faint, but resolute to
rise. Eight—he was up, and the Master was
on him like a tiger, lashing savagely at him
with both hands. Folk held their breath as
they watched those terrible blows, and
anticipated the pitiful end—so much more
pitiful where a game but helpless man refuses
to accept defeat.

Strangely automatic is the human brain.

SIX—SEVEN—HE WAS ON HIS KNEE.”

Without volition, without effort, there shot
into the memory of this bewildered, stagger¬
ing, half-stupefied man the one thing which
could have saved him — that blind eye of
which the Master’s son had spoken. It was
the same as the other to look at, but Mont¬
gomery remembered that he had said that it
was the left. He reeled to the left side, half
felled by a drive which lit upon his shoulder.
The Master pivoted round upon his leg and
was at him in an instant.

“ Yark him, lad; yark him ! ” screamed the
woman.

“ Hold your tongue,” said the referee.

THE CROXLEY MASTER.

Montgomery slipped to the left again and
yet again, but the Master was too quick and
clever for him. He struck round and got
him full on the face as he tried once more to
break away. Montgomery’s knees weakened
under him, and he fell with a groan on the
floor. This time he knew that he was done.
With bitter agony he realized, as he groped
blindly with his hands, that he could not
possibly raise himself. Far away and muffled
he heard, amid the murmurs of the multitude,
the fateful voice of the timekeeper counting
off the seconds.

“ One—two—three—four—five—six-”

“ Time ! ” said the referee.

Then the pent-up passion of the great
assembly broke loose. Croxley gave a deep
groan of disappointment. The Wilsons were
on their feet, yelling with delight. There
was still a chance for them. In four more
seconds their man would have been solemnly
counted out. But now he had a minute in
which to recover. The referee looked round
with relaxed features and laughing eyes.
He loved this rough game, this school for
humble heroes, and it was pleasant to him
to intervene as a Deus ex Machina at so
dramatic a moment. His chair and his hat
were both tilted at an extreme angle; he
and the timekeeper smiled at each other.
Ted Barton and the other second had rushed
out and thrust an arm each under Mont¬
gomery’s knee, the other behind his loins,
and so carried him back to his stool. His
head lolled upon his shoulder, but a douche
of cold water sent a shiver through him, and
he started and looked round him.

“ He’s a’ right ! ” cried the people round.
“ He’s a rare brave lad. Good lad ! Good
lad ! ” Barton poured some brandy into his
mouth. 1 he mists cleared a little, and he
realized where he was and what he had to
do. But he was still very weak, and he
hardly dared to hope that he could survive
another round.

“ Seconds out of the ring ! ” cried the
referee. “ Time ! ”

The Croxley Master sprang eagerly off his
stool.

“ Keep clear of him ! Go easy for a bit,”
said Barton, and Montgomery walked out to
meet his man once more.

He had had two lessons—the one when
the Master got him into his corner, the other
when he had been lured into mixing it up
with so powerful an antagonist. Now he
would be wary. Another blow would finish
him. He could afford to run no risks. The
Master was determined to follow up his

619

advantage, and rushed at him, slogging
furiously right and left. But Montgomery
was too young and active to be caught. He
was strong upon his legs once more, and his
wits had all come back to him. It was a
gallant sight—the line-of-battleship trying to
pour its overwhelming broadside into the
frigate, and the frigate manoeuvring always so
as to avoid it. The Master tried all his ring-
craft. He coaxed the student up by
pretended inactivity. He rushed at him
with furious rushes towards the ropes. For
three rounds he exhausted every wile in try¬
ing to get at him. Montgomery during all
this time was conscious that his strength was
minute by minute coming back to him. The
spinal jar from an upper-cut is overwhelming,
but evanescent. Fie was losing all sense of
it beyond a great stiffness of the neck. For
the first round after his downfall he had been
content to be entirely on the defensive, only too
happy if he could stall off the furious attacks
of the Master. In the second he occasionally
ventured upon a light counter. In the third he
was smacking back merrily where he saw an
opening. His people yelled their approval
of him at the end of every round. Even the
ironworkers cheered him with that fine un¬
selfishness which true sport engenders. To
most of them, unspiritual and unimaginative,
the sight of this clean-limbed young Apollo,
rising, above disaster and holding on while
consciousness was in him to his appointed
task, was the greatest thing their experience
had ever known.

But the Master’s naturally morose temper
became more and more murderous at this
postponement of his hopes. Three rounds
ago the battle had been in his hands. Now
it was all to do over again. Round by round
his man was recovering his strength. By the
fifteenth he was strong again in wind and
limb. But the vigilant Anastasia saw some¬
thing which encouraged her.

“ I hat bash in t’ribs is telling on him,
Jock,” she whispered. “ Why else should he
be gulping t’brandy? Go in, lad, and thou
hast him yet.”

Montgomery had suddenly taken the flask
from Barton’s hand, and had a deep pull at
the contents. Then, with his face a little
flushed, and with a curious look of purpose,
which made the referee stare hard at him, in
his eyes, he rose for the sixteenth round.

“ Game as a pairtridge,” cried the publican,
as he looked at the hard-set face.

“ Mix it oop, lad, mix it oop ! ” cried the
iron men to their Master.

And then a hum of exultation ran through

620

THE STEAJVI) MAGAZINE.

their ranks as they realized that their tougher,
harder, stronger man held the vantage after
all.

Neither of the men showed much sign of
punishment. Small gloves crush and numb,
but they do not cut. One of the Master’s
eyes was even more flush with his cheek than
Nature had made it. Montgomery had two
or three livid marks upon his body, and his
face was haggard, save for that pink spot
which the brandy had brought into either
cheek. He rocked a little as he stood
opposite his man, and his hands drooped as
if he felt the gloves to be an unutterable
weight. It was evident that he was spent
and desperately weary. If he received one
other blow it must surely be fatal to him. If
he brought one home, what power could
there be behind it, and what chance was
there of its harming
the colossus in front
of him ? It was the
crisis of the fight.

This round must
decide it. “ Mix it
oop, lad. Mix it oop,”
the iron men whooped.

Even the savage eyes
of the referee were
unable to restrain the
excited crowd.

Now, at last, the
chance had come for
Montgomery. He had
learned a lesson from
his more experienced
rival. Why should he
not play his own game
upon him ? He was
spent, but not nearly
so spent as he pre¬
tended. That brandy
was to call up his
reserves, to let him
have strength to take
full advantage of the
opening when it came.

It was thrilling and
tingling through his
veins, at the very
moment when he was
lurching and rocking
like a beaten man.

He acted his part ad¬
mirably. The Master
felt that there was an
easy task before him,
and rushed in with
ungainly activity to

finish it once for all. He slap-banged away
left and right, boring Montgomery up against
the ropes, swinging in his ferocious blows
with those animal grunts which told of the
vicious energy behind them.

But Montgomery was too cool to fall a
victim to any of those murderous upper-cuts.
He kept out of harm’s way with a rigid
guard, an active foot, and a head which was
swift to duck. And yet he contrived to
present the same appearance of a man who
is hopelessly done. The Master, weary from
his own shower of blows, and fearing nothing
from so weak a man, dropped his hand for
an instant, and at that instant Montgomery’s
right came home.

It was a magnificent blow, straight, clean,
crisp, with the force of the loins and the
back behind it. And it landed where he had

MONTGOMERY STOOD HALF DAZED.”

THE CROXLEY MASTER .

621

meant it to—upon the exact point of that
blue-grained chin. Flesh and blood could
not stand such a blow in such a place.
Neither valour nor hardihood can save the.
man to whom it comes. The Master fell
backwards, flat, prostrate, striking the ground
with so simultaneous a clap that it was like a
shutter falling from a wall. A yell which no
referee could control broke from the crowded
benches as the giant went down. He lay
upon his back, his knees a little drawn up,
his huge chest panting. He twitched and
shook, but could not move. His feet pawed
convulsively once or twice. It was no use.
He was done. “ Eight—nine—ten ! ” said
the timekeeper, and the roar of a thousand
voices with a deafening clap like the broad¬
side of a ship told that the Master of
Croxley was the Master no more.

Montgomery stood
half dazed, looking
down at the huge
prostrate figure. He
could hardly realize
that it was indeed
all over. He saw the
referee motion to¬
wards him with his
hand. He heard his
name bellowed in
triumph from every
side. And then he
was aware of some¬
one rushing towards
him; he caught a
glimpse of a flushed
face and an aureole
of flying red hair, a
gloveless fist struck
him between the eyes,
and he was on his
back in the ring be¬
side his antagonist,
while a dozen of his
supporters were en¬
deavouring to secure
the frantic Anastasia.

He heard the angry
shouting of the referee,
the screaming # of the
furious woman, and
the cries of the mob.

T h e n so m e t h i n g

seemed to break like an over-stretched banjo
string, and he sank into the deep, deep mist-
girt abyss of unconsciousness.

The dressing was like a tiling in a dream,
and so was a vision of the Master with the
grin of a bulldog upon his face, and his

three teeth amiably protruded. He shook
Montgomery heartily by the hand.

“ I would have been rare pleased to shake
thee by the throttle, lad, a short while since,”
said he. “ But I bear no ill-feelin’ against
thee. It was a rare poonch that brought me
down—I have not had a better since my
second fight wi 5 Billy Edwards in ’89.
Happen thou might think o’ goin’ further wi’
this business. If thou dost and want a
trainer, there’s not much inside t’ropes as I
don’t know. Or happen thou might like to
try it with me old style and bare knuckles.
Thou hast but to write to t’ ironworks to find
me.”

But Montgomery disclaimed any such
ambition. A canvas bag with his share—one
hundred and ninety sovereigns—was handed
to him, of which he gave ten to the Master,

who also received some share of the gate-
money. Then, with young Wilson escort¬
ing him on one side, Purvis on the other, and
Fawcett carrying his bag behind, he went in
triumph to his carriage, and drove amid a
long roar, which lined the highway like a

“ HE WENT IN TRIUMPH TO HIS CARRIAGE.”

622

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

hedge for the seven miles, back to his start¬
ing-point.

“ It’s the greatest thing I ever saw in my
life. By George, it’s ripping ! ” cried Wilson,
who had been left in a kind of ecstasy by
the events of the day. “There’s a chap
over Barnsley way who fancies himself a bit.
Let us spring you on him, and let him see
what he can make of you. We’ll put up a
purse, won’t we, Purvis? You shall never
want a backer.”

“At his weight,” said the publican, “I’m
behind him, I am, for twenty rounds, and no
age, country, or colour barred.”

“ So am I,” cried Fawcett; “ middle¬
weight champion of the world, that’s what he
is—here, in the same carriage with us.”

But Montgomery was not to be beguiled.

“ No; I have my own work to do now.”

“ And what may that be ? ”

“ I’ll use this money to get my medical
degree.”

“ Well, we’ve plenty of doctors, but you’re
the only man in the Riding that could smack
the Croxley Master off his legs. However, I
suppose you know your own business best.
When you’re a doctor, you’d best comedown
into these parts, and you’ll always find a job
waiting for you at the Wilson coal-pits.”

Montgomery had returned by devious ways
to the surgery. The horses were smoking at
the door, and the doctor was just back from
his long journey. Several patients had called
in his absence, and he was in the worst of
tempers.

“ I suppose I should be glad that you have
come back at all, Mr. Montgomery,” he
snarled. “ When next you elect to take a
holiday, I trust it will not be at so busy
a time.”

“I am sorry, sir, that you should have
been inconvenienced.”

“ Yes, sir, I have been exceedingly incon¬
venienced.” Here, for the first time, he

looked hard at the assistant. “ Good
heavens, Mr. Montgomery, what have you
been doing with your left eye ? ”

It was where Anastasia had lodged her
protest. Montgomery laughed. “ It is
nothing, sir,” said he.

“And you have a livid mark under your
jaw. It is, indeed, terrible that my repre¬
sentative should be going about in so dis¬
reputable a condition. How did you receive
these injuries ? ”

“ Well, sir, as you know, there was a little
glove fight to-day over at Croxley.”

“ And you got mixed up with that brutal
crowd ? ”

“ I was rather mixed up with them.”

“ And who assaulted you ? ”

“ One of the fighters.”

“Which of them?”

“ The Master of Croxley.”

“ Good heavens ! Perhaps you interfered
with him ? ”

“ Well, to tell the truth, I did a little.”

“ Mr. Montgomery, in such a practice as
mine, intimately associated as it is with the
highest and most progressive elements of our
small community, it is impossible-”

But just then the tentative bray of a
cornet-player searching for his key-note
jarred upon their ears, and an instant later
the Wilson Colliery brass band was in full
cry with : “ See the Conquering Hero

Comes,” outside the surgery window. There
was a banner waving, and a shouting crowd
of miners.

“ What is it ? What does it mean ? ” cried
the angry doctor.

“ It means, sir, that I have, in the only way
which was open to me, earned the money
which is necessary for my education. It is
my duty, Dr. Oldacre, to warn you that I
am about to return to the University, and
that you should lose no time in appointing
my successor.”

THE END.

“ Punch!'

A Peep into

By J. Holt Schooling.

[ The Proprietors of “Punch ” have given special permission to reproduce the accompanying illustrations. This
is the first occasion when a periodical has been enabled to present a selection from Mr. Punch? s famous pages. ]

Part XII. —Punch’s Almanacks, etc. ; 1842 to 1899.

I.—THE FIRST PAGE OF THE FIRST “PUNCH’S ALMANACK.”

^ addition to the ordinary weekly
numbers of Punch from 1841 to
1898 [the first of which was
issued on the 17th July, 1841],
whose pages have lately given
so much pleasure to us, we have the
Almanacks or Christmas Numbers of

of April 23, 1864, the “ Jubilee ” issue
of July 18, 1891, etc. These extra num¬
bers extending through nearly sixty years,

“ Tickled with a Straw.”— Advertising Medium. “Come,
now, you leave orf! or I’ll call the Perlice ! ”

3.— BY JOHN LEECH, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1859.

supply some very interesting material that
may be used appropriately for our final
peep into Mr. Punch’s wonderful collec¬
tion.

The uncertainty that attaches to the
paternity of Punch itself, which has been
mentioned in the first part of this article, is
also connected, in some degree, with the
origin of Punch!s first almanack, the first
page of which is shown in No. 1.

2.— FROM PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1849. THE GREAT SEA SERPENT, BY RICHARD DOYLE.

Punch, and a few odd issues, such, for This small facsimile of the original page —
example, as the ‘‘Tercentenary Number” relating to January, 1842 — is now shown

624

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

Scene on a Bridge in Paris. — Now, what clo you Think is the Matter
here? Why, Alphonse, in a Boat on the River, has just caught a Goujon
about the size of his Little Finger !

4.—BY JOHN LEECH, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1863.

mainly as a
curiosity and
on account of
the interest it
has as the first
page of the
first Punch
Almanack ; it
has not been
practicable to
reproduce here
the small print
of the original
page in a size
that would
admit of these
jokes for Janu¬
ary, 1842, being
easily read.

According to
Mr. Athol

Mayhew, “ son of Henry Mayhew,
projector, part proprietor, and
first editor of Punch” this first
Almanack was written entirely by
Henry Mayhew and H. P. Grattan
in the Fleet Prison. In his book,
“A Jorum of Punch” Mr.
Athol Mayhew states that the
late H. P. Grattan, who in 1841-2
was in the Fleet Prison for debt,
was called off the racket-ground
one day by his visitor, Henry
Mayhew, who then communicated
an idea to Grattan for plucking
“ Punch out of the Slough of
Despond in which that hard-
struggling publication was fast
sinking ” in 1841-2. Mayhew’s
idea was to issue a “ Punch's

Comic Almanack,” with humor¬
ous cuts, and a joke for every
day in the year, and Grattan was
asked to join Mayhew in the
work.

But Grattan could not get out
of the Fleet and Mayhew could
not sleep there — the latter not
being detained in the prison.
The work necessitated the close
and continuous association of
the two writers, so Mayhew be¬
came a voluntary prisoner in the
Fleet for seven days, and during
the week—so Mr. Athol May¬
hew states—the whole of the
famous first Punch's Almanack

was written by

Amateur Theatricals.. An Othello “ Break-down.”— Othello, who
as I ago says, ‘‘is always up to some Foolery or Other,” under the Combined
Influence of Sherry and the Blackness of the Circumstances, finds the “ Nigger
Business” utterly Irresistible. Scene rises Suddenly. Tableau! Dismay of
Desdemona, Iago, etc., and Delight of the Audience.

5. — 15 Y SIR JOHN TENNIEL, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1868.

these two men :
an average of
about fifty
jokes per day,
and the whole
of them made
in a prison !

Another
authority ques.
tions the full
authenticity
of this 'account
of the first
Punch's Al¬
manack, but
whatever be
the true ver¬
sion, it seems
to be a fact
that this first
A 1 m a naclc,
whose first
page is shown

“ Fine Art,” 1869 .— Rural Connoisseur. “ He’s a P’intin’ Two Pictur’s
at Once, d’yer See ? ’Blest if I don’t Like that there Little’Un as he’s got
Irs Thumb through, the Best ! ”

—BY CHARLES KEENE, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1870.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH .”

625

in No. 1, was
mainly instru¬
mental in mak¬
ing Punch per¬
manently and
financially suc¬
cessful. Mr.

Athol Mayhew
states that the
sale of Punch
before the
appearance of
the first Al¬
manack was
barely seven
thousand a
week, and that
the sales of this
one Almanack
reached the
enormous total
of one hundred and fifty-two thousand.
Punch's circulation went up in the week
of issue from six thousand to ninety
thousand; “an increase ”—says Mr. M. H.
Spieimann—“ I believe, unprecedented in
the annals of publishing.” The illustra¬
tions in No. 1 were done, I believe, by

An Alarming Intruder. —Little Boldwig (he had been
dining with his Company, and had let himself in with his
latchkey—to Gigantic Stranger he finds in his hall). “Come
on. I II fight you !” (Furiously). “ Put your Shtick clown ! ! ”
[But his imaginary foe was only the new Umbrella-Stand—a
present from Mi-s. B. /]

8.— BY CHARLES KEENE, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 187s.

Vol. xviii.— 79 .

H . G . H i n e
and Kenny
Meadows—two
of Mr. Punch’s
early artists.

Richard
Doy 1 e is re¬
presented by
No. 2, part of
a picture for
the Almanack
for 1849—fifty
years ago.
And Doyle’s
design for the
front cover of
Punch stiM
shows its
familiar face
on the book¬
stalls, week by
week, although this cover-design was made
in January, 1849. Richard Doyle died in
December, 1883, and his nephew, Arthur
Conan Doyle, brilliantly perpetuates the
success of a talented family.

Never Judge People by Externals.—^ (with Game).
Is this Squire Brown’s ? 11
Squire Brown. “ It is ! ”

Boy. “ Are you Squire Brown’s Butler?”

Squire Brogan. “ 1 am not ! ”

Boy. “ Whose Butler are you ? ”

9. —BY DU MAURIER, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1879.

Nos. 3 and 4 are by John Leech, and in
No. 5 we get an interesting surprise when we
see the familiar sign-manual of Sir John
1 enniel in the left-hand corner of this comic
Othello-drawing. One has for so long a
while been accustomed to regard the great
cartoonist as on an unapproachable pedestal
of classic art, that the great artist’s early

-The Royal Blankshire Hussars (Yeomanry). ■* Inspection

Parade. Sergeant-Major. “When I d’ saye Draa-a-, mind thee

he—ant to Draa-a- ; but when I d’ saye Souards,—whip ’em out smeart
and Dress up t Gutter.”

7 —BY SIR JOHN TENNiEL, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1871.

626

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

As for political opinions, I have
none ; at least, if I have my own little
politics, I keep them to myself, and
profess only those of the paper. If
I have infused any dignity into cartoon¬
designing, that comes from no particular
effort on my part, but solely from the
high feeling I have for art. In any
case, if I am a “cartoonist”—the
accepted term—I am not a caricaturist
in any sense of the word. My draw¬
ings are sometimes grotesque, but that
is from a sense of fun and humour.
Some people declare that I am no
humorist, that I have no sense of fun
at all ; they deny me everything but
severity, “ classical ity,” and dignity.
Now, 1 believe that I have a very
keen sense of humour, and that my
drawings are sometimes really funny !

Physical Geography. — English Angler (on this side 0/ the Tweed). “ Hi,

Donald ! come over and help me to land him—a 20-pounder I’ll swear-”

Highlander (on the other). “ It wull tak’ ye a lang Time to lan’ that Push
too, d’ye ken, Sir, whatever !—Ye hae heuket the Kingdom o’ Auld Scotland ! ”
12.—BY CHARLES KEENE, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR l88l.

The Commissariat.— Squire (to tuna Butler). “I have three or four

Clergymen coming to Dine with me to-morrow, Prodgers, and-”

M r. Prodgers.

“ ’Igh or Low, Sir? ”

Squire. “ Well — I

hardly-. But

why do you ask,

Prodgers ? ”

Mr. Prodgers.

“ Well, you see, Sir,
the ‘ ’Igh ’ drinks
most Wine, and the
‘ Low’ eats most
Vittles, and I must
perwide accordin’!!’’

TO. — BY CHARLES
KEENE, PUNCH’S AL¬
MANACK FOR 1879.

“f o o 1 in g”
comes as a
surprise.

In this con¬
nection it is
interesting to
quote Sir John
TenniePs own
words spoken
by him in
April, 1889, to
Mr. M. H.
Spiel mann,
and recorded
his

The Knight and the Flea — An Unrecorded Trial of the
Middle Ages.

11.—by linley sambourne, punch’s almanack for 1880.

Inspection of No. 5, and of
No. 7, also by Sir John Tenniel,
will indorse Sir John’s opinion
as to his sense of humour,

while, apart from these unac¬
customed and little-known
“ social ” drawings, of which

Nos. 5 and 7 are examples,
many of the Tenniel - cartoons
which we have seen in earlier
parts of this article show a
very keen sense of humour. Of
course, Sir John Tenniel, as

“ senior ” cartoonist, has often

struck a much higher note than
humour—notes in which a trace
of humour
would have
been a jarring
discord— the
fine pathos of
his “ Dropping
the Pilot” [see
The Strand
Magazine for
October] wants
no humour to
spoil it, to
quote only
one of the
many Tenniel-
cartoons that
would have
been impos¬
sible had Sir
John per¬
mitted his
own sense of
humour to
interfere with

by the latter
History of Flinch ”:—

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

627

Distinguished Amateurs—The Poet.— Poetic Husband .
•‘Hear this Sonnet of Mine, Etnily. It has cost me much
Labour ; and though I say it who shouldn’t, it’s not unworthy of
Shakspeareor Milton.’’

Prosaic Wije. “ Certainly, my Love. But I wish you
wouldn’t write Sonnets on our best cream-laid Note-paper! I
must get you some Foolscap !”

13.— BY DU MAURIER, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1882.

the dignified and most powerful expression
he has so often given to the public mind
during his splendid fifty years’ work for
Punch and for the nation. A strong Tenniel-
cartoon is far-reaching in its effects, and the
lesson taught by it sometimes needs for its
propulsion a weightier arrow than the light
shaft of humour.

No. 6 is by Charles Keene, and No. 8 is
also by Mr. Punch’s greatest artist; Charles
Keene was the finest master of black and
white art that this country has yet produced.

No. 9 is by du Maurier, No. io by Charles
Keene, and in No. n there is a quite un¬
expected Linley Sambourne. This consum¬
mate master of design has not often given us
such a broadly humorous drawing as this in
No. it, but even here the draughtsman¬
ship is as perfect as in the more classic
drawings which we associate with Mr.
Sambourne.

There is a wonderful Keene in No. 12. I

“Arcades Amuo.”— New M.P. (grandly). “ The House ! ”
Cabby (lately from the Provinces also). “‘Ouse!—what
‘Ouse?”

{Explanations in the rant! Cabby said, when he returned
to the Shelter , “ The language that Ge'tleman give 'im was
that cilice, he thought he must 'a been one o' the Irish lot! ”]
15.— BY CHARLES KEENE, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1884.

don’t mean the joke, which is good enough,
but the drawing itself. Look at it.

In Nos. 13 and 14 are two good examples
of du Maurier’s social pictorial satire, and

A Little Mistake.— New Beauty (just out, and fresh
f rom Clapham). “And are you a Member of the Blue Ribbon
Army ? ”

Chatty Old Gentleman. “ No, I haven’t that honour ! ”

N. B. “Then, what’s that big Blue Ribbon you’ve got on?”
C. O. G. “Well, it’s called the Ribbon of the Order of the
GarterJ ’’

14.— BY DU MAURIER, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1883.

No. 15, by Charles Keene, almost makes one
feel wet to look at it, so vivid is Keene’s
representation of the drenching rain, in which
the cabby (lately from the Provinces) asks

628

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Development of Mesmeric Science. —The fatal Mesmeric Duel in the
Bois de Boulogne, between the Chevalier Lenoir, of Paris, and Professor
Schwartz, of Berlin. (Vide Annals of Psychical Society for 1884.)

17. —BY DU MAURIER, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR I884.

George Louis Palmella Busson
du Maurier, who was born in
1834, and who worked for Punch
during 1860-1896, was origin¬
ally intended to be a man of
science, and, as a youth, he
studied under Dr. Williamson,
the eminent professor of chem¬
istry at the Laboratory of
Chemistry at University College,
London. But even in those
early days the tendency towards
art came out, and du Maurier
states in his book that Dr.
Williamson told him “ not long
ago ” that “ he remembers
caricatures that I drew, now forty

the pompous new M.P. who wants
to go to “The House”:—“’Ouse!
—what ’Ouse?” And No. 16, by
Keene, is very line indeed.

In No. 17 du Maurier pokes
fun at the revival of mesmerism
of fifteen years ago, and No. 18
is also by Mr. Punch’s genial
satirist.

No. 19 is by Charles Keene,
and No. 20 by du Maurier. This
drawing, “ Cultchah ! ” is the last
of those by du Maurier which
have been chosen from Punch's
Almanacks, etc., for inclusion here,
and before we leave this most
popular of Mr. Punch’s artists, it
will be interesting to turn to du

Volunteer Tactics at our Autumn Manoeuvres. — Captain
Wilkinson (excitedly , to Major Walker , of the Firm of Wilkinson,
W’alker dPCo., Auctioneers and Estate Agents). “ Don’t you think we’d
better bring our Right Wing round to attack the Enemy’s Flank, so as to
prevent their occupying those empty Houses we have to let in Barker’s
Lane ? ! ”

19.— BY CHARLES KEENE, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1885.

Catching a Tartar. — Flippant Cockney. “ Are there many
Fools in this part of the World, my Lad?"

Nondescript. “Not as I knows on, Zur ! Why, d’yer fee\ a
bit Lonesome , loike ? ”

18.— BY DU MAURIER, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1885.

Maurier’s little book “ Social Pictorial Satire ”
published in 1898 [the author died in
October, 1896].

years back.and that he and other

grave and reverend professors were hugely
tickled by them at the time. Indeed,

Cultchah! — Ingenious Youth. “May I — a — offer you
Happy Thoughts, from Punch ?”

Fair Girtonite. “A—thanks; but I have provided myself
with the ‘Pensdes of Pascal.’ ”

20.—BY DU MAURIER, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR l888-

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

629

“ The Meshes of the Law \ " —Rural Magistrate. “Prisoner, you are
charged with—ah—loitering about in a suspicious manner, without any
ostensible Employment. How do you obtain a laving?

Prisoner. “ Your Wusship, I’m engaged in the manufactu-e of Smoked
Glasses for observing Eclipses—an * Industry’”— (solemnly )—‘‘an ‘ Industry,
your Wusship, which involves protracted periods of enforced Leisu-are ! !

{Discharged with a Caution /]

21. —BY CHARLES KEENE, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1887.

Charles Keene that has been
taken from these almanacks.
Look at the bland composure
of the vagabond as he so
deliberately explains his occupa¬
tion to the puzzled rustic magi¬
strate : “ Your Wusship, I’m

engaged in the manufacture of
Smoked Glasses for observing
Eclipses — an ‘ Industry ’” —
(solemnly )—“an ‘Industry,’ your
Wusship, which involves pro¬
tracted periods of enforced
Leisu-are !! ” Admirable ! is it
not? You almost hear the man
say : “ . . . . protracted periods
of enforced Leisu-are!!” as
you look at Keene’s wonder¬
ful drawing of the speaker.

he [Dr. Williamson] remembers nothing else
about me, except that I promised to be a
very bad chemist.”

Du Maurier threw away test-tubes and
crucibles and went back to Paris, where he
was born and brought up, and studied to
become an artist in M. Gleyre’s studio. In
those days came the intimate knowledge of
student-life in Paris which du Maurier shortly
before his death in 1896 crystallized into
“ Trilby ”—and by so doing charmed the
world.

After Paris came more art-study in Antwerp,

Prehistoric Peeps.—Primeval Billiards.

23.—BY E. T. REED, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1894.

A Little Quiet Whist in Prehistoric Times.—The
End of the Game.

22.—BY E. T. REED, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1894.

And the magistrate listens so earnestly to
the rigmarole ! The artful vagabond shows
plainly that he knows he has the best of the
game.

And now we reach some of Mr. E. T.
Reed’s work, Nos. 22 and 23. These two
“ Prehistoric Peeps ” are very funny, and
although their full effect is not seen so well
in these small facsimiles as in the much
larger Punch- originals, the small copies now
shown are excellent examples of Mr. E. T.
Reed’s thoroughly genuine and unforced
humour. An art-critic has aptly remarked,
Mr. Reed and Mr. Punch were made for

where du Maurier had Mr. Alma-Tadema as
a fellow-student, and where du Maurier lost
the sight of one eye : “ Perhaps it was the
eye with which I used to do the funny
caricatures,” remarks the artist. All du
Maurier’s work for Punch was done by a
man with only one eye !

The next drawing, No. 21, is the last by

The Festive Season in Ancient Egypt.—A little Market¬
ing in the Nineveh New Roach

24.—BY C. HARRISON, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1897.

630

THE STRAND MAGAZINE

each other. May the partnership long con¬
tinue will be the hope expressed by those
whom Mr. Reed has made his friends by
virtue of his work for Punch — and that
means nearly all the world.

Sambourne’s very fine drawing, “The.
Mahogany Tree,” which was published as a
double-page picture in the Jubilee Number
of Punch , July 18, 1891. The proprietors
and the staff are toasting Mr. Punch on the

25.— BY LINLEY SAMBOURNE, PUNCH’S “JUBILEE” NUMBER, JULY 18, 1891.

To the Almanack for 1897 Mr. C.
Harrison contributed some very original and
humorous sketches, applying our Christmas
customs to
Ancient Egypt,
and one of
these is shown
in No. 24—a
little Market¬
ing in the
Nineveh New
Road. A
clever imita¬
tion of the
style of draw¬
ing practised
by the ancient
Egyptians.

In No. 25
we have a
small copy of
Mr. Linley

attainment of his fiftieth year. Mr. Burnand
(the editor of Punch since 1880) stands at
the left pointing to Punch as he gives the

toast of the
evening, on
Mr. Burnand’s
right sits Sir
John Tenniel
with dog Toby
pawing him,
then come Mr.
Linley Sam-
bourne, Mr.
Arthur a
Beckett, Mr.
R.C. Lehmann,
Mr. Harry
Furniss, Mr.
du Maurier.
Mr. W. H .
Bradbury is
just rising

Prehistoric Pantomime. —It certainly was somewhat disconcerting when
the real Animal suddenly turned up in the Stage Box ! ”

26. —BY E. T. REED, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1895.

A PEEP INTO “PUNCH.

631

from his chair at the right of du
Maurier, and his partner, Sir
William Agnew, stands with arms
outstretched, drinking to the

“The Twelve Labours of ’Arky.’’—Fourth Labour.— ’Arry plays
Cricket, and “ wishes he ’adn’t.”

29. —BY PHIL MAY, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1896.

Britannia A la Beardsley.—(A ry Our “ Yellow" Decadent.)

28.— BY E. T. REED, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1895.

“Oh, I say, they’re gone for a Rope or some¬
thing. Awfully sorry, you know, I can’t come any
nearer, but I’ll stay here and talk to you.”

30. — BY L. RAVEN-HILL, PUNCH’S ALMANACK
FOR 1898.

editor from 1874 to 1880. A
portrait of Charles Keene [lately
dead at the date of this picture]

Reed, with a glass upheld in his right hand, Mr.
H. W. Lucy [“ Toby, M.P.”], and Mr. Anstey.

The portraits and busts also included by this
most interesting picture are of Mark Lemon,
editor from 1841-1870, at the left, of Gilbert
Abbot a Beckett, with one of Douglas Jerrold
under it, a bust of Thackeray, small busts of
Richard Doyle and of Thomas Hood in
Punch’s alcove, a large bust of
John Leech, a portrait of Shirley
Brooks, editor from 1870 to
1874, and one of Tom Taylor,

Youth {to Miserable Policeman). “W’y don't
yer go 'Ome?"

27. —punch’s almAnack for 1899.

benign Punch. Then, on Sir W.
Agnew’s right, come Mr. Milliken,
Mr. Gilbert a Beckett, Mr. E. T.

632

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

little boy asks his father —
“ Isn’t there a Conjurer amongst
them ? ”

The Prehistoric Punch-Dinner
in No. 35, by Mr. E. T. Reed,
has interest for us apart from
that of its intrinsic fun, for the
reason that we may compare
it with Mr. Sambourne’s Punch-
Dinner in No. 25. Both these
drawings contain portraits of the
privileged few who are entitled
to sit at Mr. Punch’s famous
table, and while No. 25
relates to the year 1891 (July

Unrecorded History. — I. Landing William the Conqueror. (Cross
Channel , Passage moderate.)

31.—BY E. T. REED, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1896.

is on the easel
behind the
chairs of the
two proprietors
of Punch.

In No. 26
Mr. E. T. Reed
treats us to a
glimpse of Pre¬
historic Panto¬
mime, and,
glancing at
No. 27, we see
in No. 28 a
wonde rf u 11 y
true imitation
by Mr. Reed
of the peculiar
style of draw¬
ing invented by
Aubrey Beardslev.
Mr. Phil May

18), this later drawing, No.
is from
1899, and

the

it

35 >
for
the
o f
the

Unrecorded History. —V. Queen Elizabeth just runs through
thing of her own composition to William Shakspeare.

32.—BY E. T. REED, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1896.

Almanack
includes all
members
the staff-
inside staff —
of Punch at
the present
date (S e p -
tember 27 th,
1899). A
comparison
of these two
drawings will
show some
i m p o r t a n t
alterations in
the staff
of Punch
s i n c,e h i s
Jubilee year
in 1891.

the late Mr.

drew No. 29,
No. 30 is by Mr. Raven-

and
Hill,

The two pieces of Unrecorded
History in Nos. 31 and 32 are
full of amusing incident—Mr. E.
T. Reed’s bright humour sparkles
at the tip of every pen-stroke
that he has put into these draw¬
ings. I wish these copies were
a little bigger.

Look, too, at Mr. Reed’s most
witty drawing, “ The Millennium-
sky Review,” in No. 33.

In No. 34, by Phil May, Mr.
Gladstone looks less scandalized
than some of the other dis¬
tinguished guests, when the

The Millenniumsky Review. (Tsarskoe Selo, a.d. 1900 and
something.) Their Imperial Majesties the Kaiser and the Tsar proceeded,
followed by a brilliant Staff, to inspect the virtuous and harmless remnant of
the Russian Troops. It is no use disguising the fact that the first results of
Ceneral Disarmament and Universal Peace were just a trifle lugubrious
and depressing!

33.—BY E. T. REED, punch’s ALMANACK FOR 1899.

A PEEP INTO “ PUNCH.

6 33

A Great Disappointment. — Proud Parent (who has been introducing his
son to some of Englands gentlemen). “ There, my Boy, this will be something
for you to remember when you are a Man ! ”

Young Hopeful (rather disappointed). “Isn’t there a Conjurer amongst
them?” 34.— by phil may, punch’s almanack for 1897.

the foreground is the artist [Mr. E. T.
Reed], a suppliant before one of his own
productions ! Then Mr. Bernard Part¬
ridge with his pipe, and next to him Mr.
Phil May makes the most of his closing
moments and dashes down a lightning
study of the expression of the monster who
is about to assimilate him. Last, Mr.
Philip L. Agnew, one of the Proprietors
of Punch , who is trying energetically to
preserve the valued life of his unfor¬
tunate friend !

It is interesting to compare the
two lists of the members of the
inside staff of Punch in the
Jubilee pictures of July 18, 1891
(No. 25), and in this drawing from
the Almanack for 1899. Here is
the comparison :—

In drawing No. 25, In drawing N o. 35, from the
July 18, 1891. Almanack for 1899.

INSIDE STAFF.

Mr. F. C. Burnand.Mr. F. C. Burnand.

Sir John Tenniel.Sir John Tenniel.

Mr. Linley Sambourne Mr. Linley Sambourne.
Mr. Arthur a Beckett...Mr. Arthur a Beckett.
Mr. R. C. Lehmann ...Mr. R. C. Lehmann.

Mr. Harry Furniss.Resigned.

Mr. George du Maurier...Dead.

Mr. E. J. Milliken.Dead.

Mr. Gilbert a Beckett ...Dead.

Mr. E. T. Reed .Mr. E. T. Reed.

Mr. H. W. Lucy.Mr. H. W. Lucy.

Mr. Anstey Guthrie ...Mr. Anstey Guthrie.

Mr. Bernard Partridge.

Mr. Phil May.

Mr. Owen Seaman.
proprietors.

Mr. W. H. Bradbury.Dead.

Sir William Agnew.Sir William Agnew.

Mr. Laurence Bradbury.

Mr. Philip L. Agnew.

For a description of the staff at dinner
in No. 35 I will use Mr. E. T. Reed’s
own words given to me :—

The present very strong in¬
side staff of Punch —literary and
artistic—is, moreover, reinforced by many
other good workers who have not a place
at the Punch - table. Some of the best

Beginning at the left, Sir
William Agnew, the Chief Pro¬
prietor, sits at the head of the
table. On his left is Mr.
Laurence Bradbury, another of
the proprietors ; next to him
Mr. Owen Seaman tunes up his
harp and voice as the bard of
Punch , next to him and hurling
an immense rock is Mr. R. C.
Lehmann the famous oarsman
(a literary member of the staff).
On his left is Mr. Arthur a
Beckett ; then Linley Sam¬
bourne, the life and soul of the
table, on this as on many
another occasion. Sir John
Tenniel comes next. Smoking
the primeval churchwarden,
Mr. P. C. Burnand is genially
controlling the discussion [of
the Cartoon]. Next, on Burn-
and’s left, is Mr. Anstey Guthrie
[Mr. F. Anstey] the cheery re¬
cipient of Mr. Lehmann’s rock !
Then “Toby, M.P.”— Mr.
IL W. Lucy ; on the turf in
Vol. xviii.— 80 .

A Prehistoric “ * Punch ’- Dinner.”— The weekly discussion of the Cartoon was lull
01 incident and pleasurable excitement.

35.— BY E. T. REED, PUNCH’S ALMANACK FOR 1899.

634

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

known of
these clever
artists are Mr.

A. S. E o y d,

Mr. A. C. Cor-
bould, Mr.

Reginald
Cleaver, “ E.

H” (Mr.

E v e r a r d
Hopkins),

Mr. Arthur
H o p k i n s,

Mr. W. J.

Hodgson,

Mr. G. H.

Jalland, Mr.

J. A. Shep¬
herd; and,
amongst the
still “newer”
men. are Mr.

L. Raven-
Hill, Mr. C.

Harrison,

Mr. Lewis
Baumer, Mr.

G. R. Halkett,

Mr. Tom
Browne,

Mr. G. D.

Armour, Mr.

Ralph Clea¬
ver, Mr. Sydney Harvey, Mr. Gordon
Browne, Mr. C. L. Stampa, Mr. James
Greig, Mr. J. Leighton, and others.

It is certain that no periodical but Punch

has ever
included in
its inside
and outside
staffs so
much bril¬
liant and
varied talent,
starred here
and there
with genius
of the first
order, as
has been
displayed
by these
peeps into
the pages of
Punch. Mr.
Punch —
Long m a y
you live and
prosper! We
reciprocate
your good
wishes for
the New
Year so finely
expressed by
your great
artist Mr.
Linley Sam-
bourne, and
we hope, some of us, to be present at your
“At Homeon July 17th, 1941, to which
you finally invite us for the celebration of
your hundredth birthday.

Mr. Punch Drinks to Everybody—Wishing them a Happy New Year !!
36. —by linley sambourne, punch’s almanack FOR 1894.

‘AU REVOIR'"

37 .—BY LINLEY SAMBOURNE, punch’s “jubilee” NUMBER, JULY l8, 1891 .

HEY that go down to the
sea in ships ” see strange
things, but what they tell is
ofttimes stranger still. A
faculty for romancing is
imparted by a seafaring life
as readily and surely as a rolling gait and a
weather-beaten countenance. A fine imagi¬
nation is one of the gifts of the ocean—
witness the surprising and unlimited power
of expression and epithet possessed by the
sailor. And a fine imagination will frequently
manifest itself in other ways besides swear
words.

Captain Brander is one of the most gifted
men in this way in the whole merchant
service. His officers say of him with pride
that he possesses the largest vocabulary in
the great steamship company of which he is
one of the oldest and most respected
skippers, and his yarns are only equalled in
their utter impossibility by the genius he dis¬
plays in furnishing them with minute detail
and all the outward circumstance of truth.

I first learned this fact from the second
engineer the evening of the sixth day of our
voyage, as we leant across the bulwarks and
watched the sunset. The second engineer
was a bit of a liar—or I should say romancer
—himself. The day he took me down into
the engine-room he told me, as personal ex¬
periences, tales of mutinous Lascar firemen,
unpopular officers who disappeared suddenly
into the fiery maw of blazing furnaces, and
so forth, which, whatever foundation of fact
they. may have possessed, certainly did not
lose in the telling. As a humble aspirant in
the same branch of art he naturally was quick
to recognise the genius of that past master,
the captain, and his admiration for his chief
was as boundless as it was sincere.

“ I say, Miss Baker,” he said, apropos of
nothing, “ have you had the skipper ‘ on ’
yet ?” ’

“ Not that I am aware of,” I said. “ What
do you mean ? ”

“ Why, has he been spinning you any yarns

yet ? There isn’t a man in the service can
touch him for stories. I don’t deny that he
has seen some service, and been in some tight
places, but for a real out-and-out lie, commend
me to old Monkey Brand ! ” (It was by this
sobriquet, I regret to say, suggested partly
by his name, and mostly by his undoubted
resemblance to a well-known advertisement,
that the worthy captain was known in the un¬
regenerate engine-room.)

“ Oh, I should just love to hear him,” I
cried. “There is nothing I should like
better. Do tell me how I can manage to
draw him.”

“Well, he doesn’t want much drawing as
a rule,” said the engineer. “ He likes to give
vent to his imagination. Let me see,” he
continued ; “ to-morrow afternoon we shall
be about passing the Grecian Islands. Ask
him about them, and try and get him on the
subject of Gorgons.”

“ Gorgons ! ” I said. “ What a strange
topic ! Why, since I’ve left school I have
almost forgotten what they were. Weren’t
they mythological creatures who turned
people into stone when they looked at
them ? ”

“That’s about it, I believe,” said the
engineer, “and a fellow called Perseus cut
off their heads, or something of that kind.
It’s a lie anyhow, but you ask the skipper.”

It was the custom of Captain Brander
every afternoon to make a kind of royal
progress among his passengers. Going the
entire circuit of the ship; passing slowly
from group to group, with a joke here and a
chat there, and bestowing his favours in
lordly and impartial fashion — especially
among the ladies. I have watched him
often coming the whole length of the pro¬
menade deck, making some outrageous com¬
pliment to one girl, patting another on the
shoulder, even chucking a third under the
chin; a sense of supreme self-satisfaction
animating his red cheeks, curling his grey
hair, and suffusing his whole short, portly
person. Eccentric he was; indifferent to

636

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

his personal appearance—his battered old
cap had seen almost as much service as he
had—but a more popular man or an abler
officer never walked the bridge. On this
particular occasion I was at the end of
the deck, and had so arranged that an
inviting deck chair stood vacant beside
me. Wearied by his progress by the time
he reached me, he fell at once into my little
trap, and sat down on the empty chair, leant
back, and spread his legs. He and I were

“ HE LEANT BACK, AND SPREAD HIS LEGS."

fast friends, and had been since the day when
I tried to photograph him, and he had
frustrated my design by unscrewing the front
lens of my camera and keeping it in his
pocket for the rest of the morning.

“Captain,” I said, pointing to a cloudy
grey outline faintly visible against the
eastern horizon, “ what land is that ? ”

“ My dear young lady,” said he, “ I am
quite sick of answering that question ! If I
have been asked it once I have been asked
it twenty times in the last half-hour. That
old Mrs. Matherson in the red shawl button¬
holed me on the subject to such an extent
that I thought I should never getaway again.
Wonderful thirst for information that old
party has ! And she appears to think that
because Fm captain I must have a complete
knowledge of geography, geology, history,
etymology, mythology, and navigation. Well,
for the twenty-first time, then, we are passing

the isles off the coast of Greece, and that one
straight ahead is Zante.”

“ So that is Greece, is it ? ” I mused aloud.
“ Well, from here at least it looks old enough
and romantic enough to be the home of
all those ancient heroes we read about—
Alexander and Hercules and—and—Gorgons
and those sort of things.” I felt I had intro¬
duced the subject somewhat lamely, after all,
and the captain looked me full in the face as
if suspecting a plot. But if I am not very
adroit in conversation, I can at least look
innocent upon occasions, and he merely said,
“And what do you know about Gorgons,
pray? ”

“Oh, as much as most people, I expect! ,;
I answered. “They are only a sort of fairy
tale, you know.”

“ I am not so sure of that,” said Captain
Brander. “ Those fairy tales, as you call
them, have often truth at the bottom of
them. And as to Gorgons, why, I could tell
you a little incident that happened to me
once—but it’s rather a long story.”

Then I urged my best persuasions—not
that he needed much pressing—and pushing
his old cap off his bald forehead, and
speaking slowly and with that almost
American accent peculiar to him,
he unfolded his tale of wonder as
follows :—

“ Ids nearly thirty years ago, Miss
Baker— that’s long before you were
ever born or thought of—that I was
fourth officer of the Has/ar, 2,000-ton
vessel of this same company I serve
to this day. How times have altered,
to be sure! The Has/ar was
reckoned a fine ship in those days, and if
you had told me that I should presently
command an 8,000-tonner, such.as I do this
day, with 11,000 horse-power engines, and
more men for the crew alone than the Has/ar
could hold when she was packed her tightest,

I very probably wouldn’t have believed you.
However, that is neither here nor there.
But thirty years ago in the spring time—now
I come to think of it, it was in the month of
April—we were cruising in this very neigh¬
bourhood, and one thick foggy night our
skipper lost his bearings a bit, got too near
the coast, and ran us ashore off the south
point of Zante.

“ Of course there was a great fuss, and
everybody came up on deck with life-belts,
and all the girls screamed, and all the young
fellows swore to save them or die in the
attempt; and the skipper turned as white as
paper—not that he was afraid, for he was no

THE GORGON'S HEAD.

637

coward—none of our officers are that—but
because he knew his prospects were ruined,
and he would be turned out of the company
and perhaps lose his certificate, and he’d got
a wife and a big family, poor chap ! Of course
that consideration didn’t affect ;//£, for I was
in my bunk and asleep at the time, but it
was certainly unfortunate for him.

“Well, it was very soon discovered that
the ship wasn’t going down in a hurry, and
nobody got into the boats, though they were
lowered ready. And when daylight came we
saw we were fast on the rocks, with half the
stern under water, and the saloon and a lot
of the cabins flooded. But more than that
the Haslar couldn’t sink, and at low water
you might almost walk dryshod on to the
shore. There was no getting her off, however,
and so all the passengers were landed and
sent home as best they could across country,
and a rough time they had of it, for Zante is
not an over-hospitable sort of a place; while
we officers had to stick to the ship till we
could get help, and then till she was repaired
sufficiently to work her into dock somewhere.

“ It was a tedious job, for help was slow
in coming; and then all her boilers had
to be taken out before she would float,
and we fellows got jolly sick of it, I can tell
you, for we were hard worked, and Zante is
a wretched hole to spend more than half an
hour in. Our one amusement, when we were
off duty, was to go ashore on foot or row
round the island in a boat, shooting wild
fowl and exploring the country. There was
precious little to see and not much to shoot,
and it was slow fun altogether till, one day,
the second officer came back from a tramp
ashore and told us he had found his w r ay to
some very remote village on the eastern
coast, where there was a cave among the
hills which the villagers warned him not to
enter. He could not gather for what reason,
because he didn’t understand enough of
their outlandish tongue, but as it w r as then
growing late he was obliged to return to the
ship without further investigation.

“ I was always one for adventure when I
was a lad, and directly the second officer
told his tale I made up my mind to go and
explore that cave before any of the rest had
a chance. It so happened that next day was
my turn for going ashore, and I went and
looked up one of the assistant engineers and
persuaded him to come with me. I wanted
him because he was a chum of mine, and
also he was the only one of us who could
talk the language a bit. He had been in
those parts before, and generally acted as

interpreter in our dealings with the natives.
His name was Travers, a queer little dark
chap, with black eyes and a hot temper, but
a pleasant fellow enough if you did not rub
him up the wrong way, and game for anything
under the sun. He readily agreed to come
with me, and we started as soon as we could
get away, telling no one of our destination,
for we had no wish to be forestalled.

“It was a long tramp, right across the
island, to the village which Jenkins, the
second officer, had indicated. But at last,
after climbing a weary hill, we looked down
on some clustering huts standing amid vine¬
yards in the valley beneath, while another
and much sheerer cliff rose on the opposite
side, whose rugged scarp was all rent and
riven as by an earthquake, and intersected by
a deep ravine. Here and there among the
rocks w r ere dark shadows and black patches
which might be the entrances to caverns in
the crag. £ This must be the place,’I said,

4 and one of those is the forbidden cave.
How are w r e to find out which?’

44 As if in answer to my question, at this
moment there came along the hill-top to¬
wards us a burly countryman with a sun¬
burned face and tattered garments. He
regarded us with astonishment, as well he
might, for they get few strangers in those
parts, and he made some remark to us in his
queer language, which, of course. I didn’t
understand, but Travers did and replied to
it. Finding he was understood, the country¬
man stopped and talked.

44 4 Ah ! ’ he said, or so Travers interpreted.

4 So you have reached the valley of the
Haunted Cavern ! It is far to seek and hard
to find, but it lies spread beneath you.’

“ 4 But which is the Haunted Cavern, and
why is it so called ? ’ asked Travers.

4 4 4 It lies in yonder cleft of the hills,’
answered the man, pointing to the opposite
ravine, 4 and it is called the Haunted Cavern
because none who venture there return alive.
Nay, they return not either alive or dead.
They are seen no more ! ’

44 ‘Tell that to the Marines ! ’ said Travers,
only he translated it into Greek, of course, or
what the Zante people think is Greek. 4 You
don’t expect me to believe such a yarn as
that ! Why, what is there up in that place?’

44 4 That is what none can tell,’ replied the
peasant; 4 for none come back to say. And,
indeed, it is the truth I speak. Many men
have attempted to find the secret. In
bygone days, I have heard, a whole party of
soldiers were sent there to search for brigands
supposed to be in hiding, but not one was

6 3 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

seen again. The cavern has an evil name,
and now is shunned by one and all, but
every now and again there arises a youth
venturesome beyond the rest; and he heeds
not the warnings of the old, but hopes to
break the spell and find the treasure that
some say is hidden there, and he starts in
high hope and courage, but never again do we
behold his face ! ’

“ 4 But what is
the reason ? 5 per¬
sisted Travers, the
incredulous.

“ ‘ Nay, that we
cannot say/ reiter¬
ated the man. £ A
short distance can
one go up the
ravine that leads
to the cavern. I
have been there
myself, and truly
there is nothing
that can be seen
except a barren
valley, scattered all
over with big black
stones. Nothing
more, and farther
than the entrance
none must ven¬
ture.’

“ 4 Oh, I say ! ’
exclai m ed T ravers,
in delight, ‘aid you ever hear such an old liar ?
This beats anything I could have believed
possible in the nineteenth century. Come
on, Brander! We are in luck this time! ’
and the impetuous fellow dashed off down
the hill, I at his heels, leaving the country¬
man dumb with amazement behind us.

“ At the foot of the hill we entered the
little village. An old, white-haired man of
rather superior appearance was crossing the
road before us. Travers accosted him and
asked him the way to the Haunted Cavern.
The old man turned quite pale with astonish¬
ment and apprehension.

“ 4 The Haunted Cavern, my son ! ’ he
said, in quavering tones; 4 surely you are not
going thither ? ’

4 4 4 Yes, we are, though,’ said Travers, his
eyes dancing with excitement. It is wonderful
what enterprise that boy—he was little more
—had in him. ‘And if you won’t tell us,
we’ll find the way out for ourselves ! ’ and he
pushed past the old man, who held out his
skinny hands as if to detain him.

“Before we had got clear of the hamlet

the news had somehow got circulated that we
were about to explore the ravine, and the
whole of the inhabitants turned out in the
wildest excitement. Some were for staying
us forcibly, till Travers began to get quite
nasty, drew his revolver, and talked of firing.
Many reiterated and emphasized alarming
warnings and assurances that we should

never return. All watched us with the most
intense interest, and followed close on our
footsteps until we began to near the fatal
spot, when they fell off singly or in parties,
till finally at the very entrance of the ravine
we had left even the boldest spirits behind us.

44 In truth, it was a strange spot to which
we had penetrated. The narrow path had
led us suddenly round the spur of the moun¬
tain, and now, look which way we might,
the giant rocks towered up sheer above us,
hundreds of feet high, in inaccessible grey
walls. The sinking sun was now too low to
shine within this well-like space, which his
rays could only reach at midday, and the
very air struck damp and chill. We were in
an open valley, thus shut in by the cliffs, of
considerable extent, but not to be reached
by any path except that we had traversed.
The ground was firm and smooth, but littered
all over with the strangest black stones of all
sorts of shapes, and in all positions, though of
a fairly uniform size, and alike in material.
There was something uncanny and weird
about these queer black boulders, which

“the old man held out his skinny hands to detain him.”

THE GORGON'S HE AH.

639

strewed the valley the thicker
the farther we advanced, till at
the far end of the space, where
a huge back hole yawned omin¬
ous in the cliff, they almost
entirely blocked the way.

“The dark cavern looked
terribly grim and forbidding in
the fading light. A little stream
issued from its mouth and
trickled among the stones. It
did not gurgle and glisten as
most mountain streams, but
flowed noiselessly, sluggish,
and dull, and gathered in
stagnant pools on its rocky
bed. No birds sang in that
dismal nook ; no sound from
without penetrated to its
recesses. All was silent,
dim, and chill as the tomb
itself.

“ Despite my utmost
efforts, I felt the spell of the
weird, wild spot stealing over
me, and a cold shudder crept
down my backbone. There
was but room for one at a
time in the ever - narrowing
track, and I was at first lead¬
ing. My steps became slower
and slower, and finally I
paused altogether and turned to look
back on Travers to see if he too was
feeling the oppressive sense of evil that
seemed to hang heavy in the very air. But
in his face was only visible an ecstasy almost
of eagerness and delight. His dark eyes
sparkled again, his cheeks were flushed, his
breath came quick, and his whole body was
quivering with excitement.

“ : Go on, Brander ! 5 he cried. ‘ What are
you stopping for, man ? This is grand ! This
is luck, indeed ! Did you ever see such a
place ? Come on, I want to get to that
cave!’

“ I felt utterly ashamed to confess my
weakness, but it was that cave that I had
begun to dread more and more. Whatever
else I may be, Miss Baker, it is not boasting
to say I am no coward. I have seen danger,
aye, and courted it all my life, and until that
moment I doubt if I had known what fear
was. But I knew then: the blind, unreasoning
fear that saps the strength of mind and limb
and melts the heart and paralyzes all thought
save that one overpowering instinct to fly—
somewhere. Yet, in face of Travers’s eager¬
ness, I could not bear to show the white

DID YOU EVER SEE SUCH QUEER STONES?”

feather. I turned my back therefore on the
dark cavern, now just ahead of us, and
endeavoured to temporize.

“ ‘Travers,’ I said, ‘did you ever see such
queer stones ? How do you suppose they
have got here ? They are quite a different
nature from these cliffs, so they could not
have fallen from the sides.’

“ ‘ Oh, bother the stones ! ’ said Travers.

‘ I can’t look at them now, I want to get into
the cave. Quick, before it gets dark ! ’ and
as I still hesitated, he pushed past me into a
more open space beyond, almost at the
cavern’s mouth. I did not dare to leave him,
and was scrambling after him as best I might,
when I suddenly heard him cry out in a
voice such as I had never heard before, and
hope never to again. A shrill, high-pitched
cry in which there were surprise, wonder, dis¬
gust, alarm, and awful horror all combined in
one : a cry of astonishment, a shriek of agony,
a shout of dismay. ‘ Look, Brander! look !
look ! ’

“ I could have sworn that when he spoke
my companion was in full view, close beside
me, touching me almost, though at the exact
moment my eyes were looking from him ; but

640

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

when I turned my head in answer to his cry
he was gone.

“For one second only had my gaze been
averted, but in that time he had utterly
vanished from sight, disappeared in a flash,
gone—whither ? A large black stone stood
close beside me, similar to the rest in that
ghostly valley; yet it struck me somehow that
I had not noticed it there before. I placed
my hand upon it as I peered round behind
to see if Travers were there, and a shudder I
could not explain ran up my arm, for the
stone felt warm to the touch. I had not
time then to analyze my unreasonable horror
at this trivial circumstance ; I was too eager
to find my friend. I rushed madly among
the stones, I yelled his name again and again,
but the weird echoes of my cry, returned in
countless reflections from cliff and cavern,
alone answered me.

“ In a frenzy of despair I continued my
search, for certain was I that by no natural

MY EYE SUDDENLY FELL ON A SHALLOW POOL OF WATER.

means could Travers have disappeared so
utterly in so brief a space. Blind panic
seized me, and I knew not what I did, till
my eye suddenly fell on a shallow pool of
water collected in a rocky hollow at my very
feet. It was not more than a couple of
inches deep, and scarce a yard across, but on
its placid face were reflected the overhanging
rock and opening of the cavern just behind it,
and also something else that glued my eyes
to it in horror and rooted my flying feet to
the ground.

“Just above the cavern’s mouth was a
narrow ledge of rock, running horizontally, and
of a few inches in width. On this natural
shelf, reflected in the water, I saw, hanging
downwards, a decayed fragment of goat-skin,
rotten with age, but which might have been
bound round something, long years before.
Upon this, as if escaped from its folds, rested
a Head.

“It was a human head, severed at the
neck, but fresh and unfaded as if but
newly dead. It bore the features of a
woman—of a woman of more perfect
loveliness than was ever told of in
tale, or sculptured in marble, or
painted on canvas. Every feature,
every line, was of the truest beauty,
cast in the noblest mould—the face
of a goddess. But upon that perfect
countenance was the mark of eternal
pain, of deathless agony and suffering
past words. The forehead was lined
and knit, the death-white lips were
tightly pressed in speechless torment;
in the wide eyes seemed yet to
lurk the flame of an unquench¬
able fire ; while around the fair
brows, in place of hair, curled
and coiled the stark bodies of
venomous serpents, stiff in death,
but their loathsome forms still
erect, their evil heads yet thrust
forward as if to strike.

“ My heart ceased beating,
and the chill of death crept
over my limbs, as with eyes
starting from their sockets I
stared at that awful head,
reflected in the pool. For
hours it seemed to me I gazed
fascinated, as the bird by the
eye of the snake that has
charmed it. I was as incapable
of thought as movement, till
suddenly forgotten school-room
learning began to cross my
brain, and I knew that I

THE GORGON'S HEAD.

641

looked at the reflection of Medusa, the
Gorgon, fairest and foulest of living things,
the unclean creature, half woman, half
eagle, slain by the hero Perseus, and one
glimpse of whose tortured face turned the
luckless beholder into stone with the horror
of it.

“If I once raised my eyes from the
reflection to the actual head above I knew
that I too should freeze in a moment into
another black block, even as poor Travers,
and every other who had entered the accursed
valley had done before. And as this thought

water till I seemed almost to touch it, when
my senses fled and I knew no more.

“When I woke at last it was far on in the
night, and a bright moon, riding high, shone
full down upon the valley, revealing the
ragged rocks and scattered stones with a cold
brilliance that almost equalled the day. I
was lying chilled and stiff beside the pool,

Vol. xviii.- 81.

and I started up in amazement, unable to
recall to my mind, for a moment, where I
was or what I was doing there. I had my
back to the cavern, fortunately, and as I
gazed over the ghostly and deserted scene
the events of the day suddenly returned to
my mind in a single flash of terror.

“ To escape from this ghastly place was
now my only thought, and in order to do
this I resolved to look no more at the pool
at my feet in case the terrible fascination
should again take possession of me. What
it cost me to adhere to this resolution I
cannot tell you, but with the courage of
despair I pressed blindly forward to the
mouth of the ravine, only pausing a second
to lay my hand upon the now ice-cold
stone that once was Travers.

“ Poor Travers ! gay, light - hearted
fellow ! Ever in the forefront of mischief,
of danger, of adventure. How eager he had
been to solve the secret of the haunted
valley, which now must be his tomb for
ever. How full of health and spirits he
had scrambled a few hours before among
those very boulders, one of which now,
standing stiffly erect among its forest of
brethren, was at once the monument and
sole relic of a fearless lad, a cheery friend,
and a gallant seaman. Dear old Travers !
Brave, foolish boy ! My heart was heavy,
indeed, for his awful fate, as I reverently
touched the stone and murmured to the
night breeze, stealing around the
rocks, ‘Good-bye, old fellow; sleep
sound ! ’

“It seemed to me, in my loneli¬
ness and terror, that my fearsome
journey would never be ended : that,
lost in a labyrinth, I should tread
that valley for ever. But at last,
after endless ages, I reached the
mouth of the ravine, and once on
open ground I stretched my cramped
limbs and ran, without ceasing, till I
once more reached the ship.”

Here the captain paused, more from want
of breath than anything else, I think.

“Go on, Captain Brander,” I cried. “You
haven’t half finished yet. What did they say
when you returned, and how did you explain
about poor Travers ? ”

“Young lady,” said Captain Brander,
“don’t ask any more questions. I think
I have told you enough for one afternoon,”
and here, an officer coming up and summon¬
ing him, he left me.

The Champion Orange - Peeler.

Photos, specially taken by George Newnes, Ltd.

By A. B. Henn.

R. BIRCH is a ship’s cook by
profession, but, let it be said,
he is rather more than that:
he is to all intents and purposes
an accomplished chef, as his
numerous medals and diplomas
will show. More than that, again, he is an in¬
ventor. Mr. Birch is
one of those extra¬
ordinary all-round
men it is one’s ill-
luck to meet with
but seldom. He is
the one man we
would wish to have
as a companion on
a desert island of
the Pacific. He has
the wonderful gift
of making some¬
thing out of what
might well be called
nothing at all, or
the very next door
to it.

He has manufac¬
tured with his own
hands a set of
kitchen utensils out
of an ordinary hun¬
dredweight of cocoa-
nuts. From an egg-
separator to the
most useful of soup-
ladles, the shells
were speedily trans¬
formed into useful
and business - like
utensils. Now, for a
man who can make
an up-to-date egg-
separator out of the
most common of cocoa-nut shells in less than
ten minutes, it is not too much to expect
something still more wonderful and startling.

It so happens that at times the most care¬
ful and industrious of ships’ cooks will find
time lie heavy on his hands ; whenever such
has been the case Mr. Birch contrived to fill
in his odd moments in his endeavour to

perfect himself in one of the various hobbies
which he has made his own.

When a man happens to travel in the
company of some thousands of cases of
oranges his mind will naturally dwell for a
considerable part of the journey upon the
luscious fruit and its possibilities. Our
champion happened
to travel once in
such companion¬
ship, and he then
and there decided
to form a closer
acquaintance with
his fellow-travellers,
and the photographs
which illustrate this
article will serve to
show the fruits (no
pun intended) of his
endeavour.

No Christmas
dinner is considered
complete without its
addenda of oranges.
It may therefore not
prove uninteresting
to show how the
peel of this popular
dainty may be used
as a means of orna¬
ment and, let us
add, amusement.

Though much
time and patience
are required to attain
the perfection of our
champion, it is
nevertheless pos¬
sible to acquire
the art of orna¬
mental orange-peel¬
ing in a few self-taught lessons. The photos,
here reproduced of oranges peeled by Mr.
Birch in our presence will give sufficient aid
to a beginner should he care to devote his
attention to the art for a few hours only.
The well-sharpened blade of a penknife is
all that is required. The oranges, of course,
are a sine qua non %

MR. BIRCH, THE CHAMPION ORANGE-PEELER.
From a Photo.

THE CHAMPION ORANGE-PEELER.

643

FIG. I.

Look at Fig. 1, which illustrates the first
cut. We see that the initial stage consists
in making four slits at right angles from the
top, but not quite to the bottom, of the peel.
The nail of the thumb is then inserted

FIG. 4.

goodly strip of peel such as is shown in Fig. 3
—in the second stage on the right, and in
the third stage on the left of the fruit.
Figs. 4 and 5 show different ways of cutting
or carving ; but Fig. 6 will show how to use

FIG. 2.

beneath the peel in order to separate it from
the body of the fruit.

Fig. 2 shows how thin slices or strips are
cut from the sides of the four main sections,
or leaves. These
four leaves must
then be cut
again from top
to bottom, and
from bottom to
top alternately,
but never quite
to the end, so
as to form one
continuous strip
of smaller leaves,
that with gentle
pulling will
lengthen into a

FIG. 5.

the original cutting of Fig. 3 in the orna¬
mental building up of Figs. 7 and 8.

Here we shall have to give away “a trick
of the trade,” if we may call it so.

In order to
mount the
orange-peel artis¬
tically, small bits
of wood the size
of large Swedish
matches, pointed
at each end, will
be found useful.
Also longer bits
of wood, such
as are shown in
the centre of
Fig. 6, with tiny
bits of wire upon

FIG. 3.

644

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

owing, of course, to the loss of
colour ; but our picture will show
sufficiently well what can be made of
carved oranges with a little skill and
a handful of greens and flowers,

which the ends of the peel strips may be
firmly fixed, will come in with advantage.
Fig. 7 shows how an orange suitably peeled,
carved, and trussed can be placed on an
ordinary wine-glass, which glass has been

such as are easily found in every well-
appointed household.

Fig. 9 is what must be called a piece of
fancy carving. We call it carving, for it can
hardly be called peeling, though, perhaps,
the difference is insignificant. It is intended
to represent a Japanese house-boat, with
folding doors, and very pretty do these

previously ornamented with a small square ot
white or coloured paper cut in any suitable
design. In Fig. 8 we find an orange also
carved and trussed, but ornamented in a
more elaborate shape.

It is difficult to show in a photograph the
charming effect of such table decoration,

THE CHAMPION ORANGE-PEELER.

645

doors look, for they can
be opened and closed at
will, and give room for
considerable amusement.

Fig. 10 is one that re¬
presents a great deal of
skill, coupled with no little
amount of patriotism.
Mr. Birch’s enthusiasm
for the Crown is exempli¬
fied here in a striking
manner. He has endeav¬
oured to represent in
orange-peel the symbol of
our power and greatness.

FIG. TO.

fashioned. There is no
limit to these designs. A
favourite form of amuse¬
ment suggests itself.
There are, for instance,
endless possibilities in try¬
ing to carve your partner’s
features in the peel of an
orange. Try it.

In the course of con¬
versation Mr. Birch sug¬
gested the erection of an
elaborate table-centre de¬
coration by means of one
hundred carved oranges.

FIG. 12 .

Considering the frailty
of the material, we
venture to suggest
that he has met with
no small amount of
success.

There is a comic
side to orange-peeling,
and, though Mr. Birch
mostly inclines to the
artistic, there is

nothing to prevent our
digressing a little from
his methods, and to
suggest a somewhat
novel kind of enter¬
tainment for after-

dinner amusement.

Fig. 11 is an illustra¬
tion in point. In less
than two minutes this
clever representation
of Mr. What-you-may-
call - him has been

FIG. 13.

We challenged him to
perform the feat, and
forthwith ordered one
hundred of the finest
fruit extant.

Upon the receipt of
these Mr. Birch set to
work on the extra¬
ordinary structure
which is illustrated in
its various stages by the
pictures that follow.
In the construction of
such an elaborate “ set
piece,” as we may be
permitted to call it,
several accessories are
of course necessary.

Those shown in
Fig. 13 are of the sim¬
plest. They are the
accessories that were
used in the construc¬
tion of the centre-piece

646

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

FIG. 14.

under notice. They consist in the first place
of a base made of wood in the shape of a
cross, with one long piece of wood fixed in
the centre thereof and projecting vertically
upwards.

Four pieces of wood, similarly shaped, are
fixed into the ends of the arms of the cross
in such a manner as to
remain rigid in an upright
position. The shorter
pieces are fixed at suitable
intervals, according to the
form of design that is in¬
tended.

It must be understood,
of course, that this staging
is but an elementary one.

If wire were used there is
no end to the designs that
might be produced. These
may be left to the ingenuity
of our readers.

In Fig. 14 we find what
we will call the table-centre
orange pyramid in its first
stage. The oranges have
all been carved in one and
the same design. In the
first row they are placed
side by side in an oval,
and form the base of the
pyramid. It is not neces¬
sary to place the “ founda¬
tion ” or “staging” in the
middle of the structure until
at a later stage.

In some places you will
see that bits of refractory
peel have fallen back as
though neglected, but on

close inspection of
subsequent stages
you will find that
they have been put
right, and this is
part of the careful
finishing touches
that must be given
as reasonable ad¬
vance is made.

Look at Fig. 15.
Here we have a
number of rows
added to the first,
and our pyramid is
already assuming
respectable propor¬
tions. The centre
support has been
firmly fixed into its base, and forms, as it
were, the main-mast of the whole concern.

It must not be forgotten that, as the pro¬
cess of piling up goes on, the various supports
must be tied together by means of tape, wire,
or even strong thread, whichever, in fact, is
most handy, in order to give the whole struc-

THE CHAMPION ORANGE-PEELER.

647

ture its required
stability. If a wire
frame were first con¬
structed in much the
same manner as those
used for ornamental
lamp-shades, the result
would be more secure
and, no doubt, more
artistic also; but fail¬
ing that, a wooden
structure, such as the
one indicated, will
meet any ordinary
case, and has on its
side the advantage
of simplicity, not to
speak of economy.

Fig. 16 shows the
pyramid practically
completed, without,
of course, its addi¬
tional ornaments of
ferns and flowers.
The orange which
f o r m s the ‘ ‘ m a s t-
head,” so to speak,
must be carefully and

FIG. 17.

elaborately carved and “trussed.” It is
necessary that it should be firm in its setting,
for should it vacillate there is danger of
the whole structure collapsing owing to
top-heaviness. Additional oranges, carved,
trussed, and decorated, may with advantage
be placed at the four corners or around the
pyramid, such, in fact, as are shown placed
upright on the wine-glasses in the picture.

In Fig. 17 we have a pretty view of the
table-centre complete. About one hundred
artistically peeled oranges are here shown,
forming as pretty a centre-piece as has ever
been devised. Streams of smilax trail down
its sides, and maidenhair ferns peep out here
and there; as also do little bunches of
flowers to add the necessary colour. In
fact, the whole structure reflects much credit
on its originator, and suggests endless scope
for the ingenuity of our readers.

By Robert Barr.

ANY writers who set down
accounts of things that have
happened craftily conceal some
important fact until the end of
the story, thus deluding their
reader at the beginning and
surprising him at the finish, taking, as it
seems to me, an unfair advantage. I have
no such skill in compilation, and, even if I
possessed it, would not use it, for I love my
reader, and take him straightway into my
confidence. If details are in my holding
that are concealed from the general public I
hasten to inform my reader of them, and thus
there is no unnecessary secret between us.

At the very outset, then, I beg to state
a fact entirely unsuspected by Patriotic-
ville, that old Dugald McFarlane was in truth
a very rich man. He cordially hated his
neighbours, and had no hesitation in telling
them so, whenever opportunity offered. He
lived apparently in the depths of extreme
poverty, occupying a dilapidated wooden,
unpainted house at the northern outskirts of
the village of Patrioticville, Michigan. He
kept no servant, but cooked his own meals,
and if any trespassers dared to set foot on
his property, he threatened them with a shot¬
gun. He was a cantankerous, crabbed old

Scotsman, snarling like an unowned dog, and
going about dressed worse than the most
ragged tramp that had ever honoured
Patrioticville with his fleeting presence. He
was the meanest man in the State, and liked
to get the value of a nickel out of a cent,
and, as is usually the case, his neighbours
surmised everything about him except the
truth. Many sinister rumours were afloat
regarding him, all of which were untrue.

It was said that in his earlier days he had
kept a roadside tavern in a wild wood station,
a tavern that resembled Shakespeare’s bourne,
in that no traveller returned from it. If any
robbery occurred in the district old McFar¬
lane was suspected of having a hand in it,
but was too shrewd ever to be caught. It
was even darkly hinted that he had com¬
mitted murder. Years before, a wretched
little boy had lived with him, said to be his
nephew, but believed to be a white slave
held in iron bondage. It is true he had
sent the boy to school, because school cost
him nothing, and after a while the boy dis¬
appeared and left no trace behind him. He
was supposed to have been murdered by the
old man in a fit of temper and buried in the
cellar, but no one had the courage to go and
see, all fearing McFarlane’s shot-gun.

Copyright, 1899, by Robert Barr, in the United States of America.

THE ARRIVAL OF THE UNEXPECTED .

649

It may be wondered why the law was not
set in motion against the old reprobate, but
it must be remembered that the law requires
something tangible to go upon, while rumour
and gossip have no such necessity; and in
order, as I said at the beginning, that the
reader and myself may not drift unconsciously
into the swamp of mystery, I may set down
here at once that the boy was actually his
nephew, that he was not murdered, but had
been sent away to do for himself as soon as
he was able to earn money; for old McFarlane
grumbled much at the expense of keeping
him, and this expense had long been a dread¬
ful weight on the poor boy’s mind, saddening
his youth with helpless dependence, and
he had yearned for an opportunity to
earn money that he might help the un¬
worthy old man.

Dugald and his younger brother Neil,
the latter then newly married, came out
of the highlands of Scotland to the low¬
lands of Michigan.

It was not that the
life in the Ameri¬
can backwoods was
harder than life in
the northern part
of Scotland, but
the hardships were
different, and they
affected the health
of the young wife;
she died because
of a falling tree—a
tree she had never
seen, and whose
final crash she had
not heard. Her
husband was fell¬
ing oaks in the
forest, and one of
them lodged in
the branches of
another, resting
there at an angle
of 45deg. Neil,
unaccustomed to
forestry in its
gigantic American form, not knowing the
danger he ran, set himself to chop down
the impediment, when the half-fallen tree
suddenly completed its descent and crushed
him, face downwards and lifeless, into the
forest mould. To the elder brother fell the
grim task of chopping through the fallen
timber and rolling the log from off the dead
man. The wife died from the shock, and so
the tree as surely killed her as her husband,

Vol. xviii.—82.

and their little boy was left to the care of
his taciturn uncle.

No one is alive who knew Dugald McFar¬
lane in his youth, and so none can tell what
early experiences may have warped his
character. Perhaps the stinging poverty of
those days gave him an exaggerated idea of
the necessity of hoarding money; perhaps
the tragic death of his brother, whose rude
coffin he made with his own hands from
slabs of the tree that killed him, crushed out
his natural affections instead of ripening them;
but, be that as it may, he was, during the
latter part of his life, a hard man, whom no
tale of pathos could move into the expendi¬

ture of a penny : a gnarled, cross-grained,
twisted specimen of the race from whom all
human emotion, except that of hatred,
seemed to have departed.

. When he died a will was found leaving all
his property to a neighbouring town, simply,
as he said in the document written by his
own hand to save a lawyer’s fee, that he
might have revenge upon his neighbours,
who would understand, now that it was too

TO THE EI.DER BROTHER FELL THE GRIM TASK.”

650

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

late, what they had missed by not being
decent to him. But this will was invalidated
by a later one, which shows how a man with
a kind heart may sometimes do well for him¬
self when he little understands what he is
about.

Nemesis comes to all of us, and it is
strange that it should have rested on old
Dugald, not through any of the crimes that
he was supposed to have committed, but as
the result of the hard, honest work in his
young days. Seeing no smoke from his
chimney, a kindly woman neighbour, with
fear and trembling, penetrated to his dwell¬
ing, and found him knotted on the floor with
rheumatism, snarling and waspish as ever,
but helpless. The woman ran for assistance,
and he was lifted into his bed, where he lay
when the doctor came who had been sent
for, while the old man protested that he had
not money to pay him, and would not
pay him if he had. The doctor, however,
did the best he could for him, and told
the neighbours that the old man was stricken
with his last illness, which indeed proved to
be the case. The doctor said to his patient
that if he had any relatives he wished to see
he had better send for them, offering to write
if the old man gave him an address. All
his life Dugald McFarlane had distrusted
medical advice, but it is likely that on this
occasion something within him corroborated
the verdict which had been passed upon
him. He lay there for a long time in silence,
the doctor waiting, and at last he said, in
a hoarse whisper, that he would like his
nephew to know he was ill, giving the address,
44 Neil McFarlane, care of Hector Woods and
Company, importers and fancy goods dealers,
Broadway, New York ”; but, he added, with
a return of his cantankerousness, that the
doctor was to tell his nephew he need not
come unless he wanted to.

The letter arrived in New York, and was
forwarded to young Neil in Indiana, simply
because the forwarding cost the firm nothing,
for Hector Woods was, in his way, as hard a
man as Dugald McFarlane himself. When
the young commercial traveller received the
doctor’s letter he was deeply pained to learn
his uncle’s condition, and telegraphed at once
to the head of his firm asking permission to
go and see his relative, for his time did not
belong to himself, but to Hector Woods and
Company, of Broadway. When the reply
came it was a peremptory refusal. The firm
was not going to have its business interrupted
in the briskest season of trade merely because
a mythical uncle in Michigan was supposed

to lie ill. They were accustomed to excuses
which involved the illness and even the death
of relatives. Young Neil McFarlane was
helpless, but he promptly did the next best
thing : he inclosed two crisp ten-dollar bills
and also the telegram in a letter which he
wrote to his uncle.

44 Dear Uncle Dugald,” he wrote; 44 1
am deeply grieved to hear from the doctor of
your illness, and sincerely hope it is not
serious. I would come to you at once if I
could,, but I inclose you the reply which my
employers sent to my request for a few days’
leave. If I went without their permission
they would dismiss me, and so I should not
be in a position to help you. Please accept
the twenty dollars which I send you, and get
for yourself whatever you may need. Have
the best physician in the place, and a nurse.
I will send you more money right along, and
if it is not enough, refer creditors to my
employers, and they will, I think, guarantee
that I can pay any debt you may incur.
Please do not stint yourself, but order what
you want, or whatever the physician thinks
you should have, and do not imagine that
the spending of the money will leave me
short, for I have.several hundred dollars in a
New York bank, and will send it to you as
soon as I can get it. I shall work m) way
round to your part of Michigan earlier than
I intended, and be with you as soon as possi¬
ble, permission or no permission. So, dear
uncle, keep up a good heart, and take every
care of yourself.—Your loving nephew,
Neil.”

The woman sitting at the bed-head read
this letter to the old man, wondering if he
was paying attention, for his eyes were closed.
Presently she saw a tear trickle down his
withered cheek and she thought his heart
was softening, but the first remark he made
did not seem to verify that conclusion.

44 Give me the money,” he said, in a harsh
whisper.

The money was handed to him, and his
long, yellow fingers, like talons, closed avari¬
ciously upon the notes, lingeringly dwelling
on their smooth texture; thumb and finger
rubbed them up and down. FI is next remark
was more encouraging.

44 Read the letter again,” he said, and the
woman did so, although anger was in her
heart that affection should be wasted upon
one so unworthy. There was a long silence
after she had finished the second reading,
and at last she asked him :—

44 Shall I send for another doctor ? ”

cc No,” growled the old man, 44 doctors can

THE ARRIVAL OF THE UNEXPECTED.

65 1

“ HIS YELLOW FINGERS CLOSED AVARICIOUSLY UPON THEM.”

do me no good. Go and tell Lawyer Strath¬
more I want to see him. Tell him I have
just received twenty dollars, else he won’t
come.”

The lawyer came on the strength of the
woman’s assurance that the money had
arrived, and on his return to his office his
partner said: “ Well, what struck the old
Highlander? Wanted to make his will, I
suppose. I hope he hasn’t left his ancient
suit of clothes to me.”

“Oh, he’s gone clean crazy,” said Strath¬
more, “ but I secured ten dollars all right
enough, so it doesn’t matter. He seems to
think he owns Michigan. Two hundred and
seventy-five thousand dollars Michigan Cen¬
tral Railway stock are deposited in the safety
vaults of the Wayne County Savings Bank.
Seventy-nine thousand dollars Lake Superior
Copper Mining stock deposited somewhere
else. Detroit City bonds, fabulous amounts.
Cash in the bank over thirty thousand dollars
—counting up, all in all, something over six
hundred thousand dollars, which is left to a
drummer, a nephew of his.”

“ By Jove, Strathmore,” cried the partner,
who had been-a newspaper man in his youth
and saw a sensation in this, “ I wouldn’t take
my oath that it isn’t all right. He’s just the
sort of a dilapidated old miser who would
turn out like that.”

“ Impossible,” said
Strathmore.

“Well, now, a telegram
to Detroit would soon let
us know.”

And it did let them
know, and Patrioticville
learned next morning that
an old man had died in
one of their most ruinous
shanties, who could have
bought and sold every one
of them, and all of them
combined.

Dugald McFarlane’s
nephew was not at his
uncle’s funeral. The
lawyers telegraphed to the
firm in New York, asking
it to inform the young
man of the death of his
uncle, but old Hector
Woods thought this was
merely an elaborate plant
on the part of their
traveller, who evidently
wanted a vacation much;
so they did not communi¬
cate with him, but pigeon-holed the despatch
against his return. Thus it was that only
when Neil wrote to the doctor in Patriotic¬
ville did the firm of lawyers learn the young
man’s whereabouts. As soon as electricity
could carry it, he received a telegram that
made him open his eyes :—

“Neil McFarlane, Hudson House, Mill-
opolis, Indiana.—Your uncle, Dugald McFar¬
lane, died on the night of the 21st, and was
buried following Wednesday. We telegraphed
you New Y 7 ork; received no answer. He
leaves you six hundred and eighty thousand
dollars. We await instructions, and we hope
that the confidence reposed in us by your
late uncle may render our future services
acceptable to yourself.— Strathmore and
Hendrie.”

If the young man had only known it, the
latter part of this telegram was worth all it
cost in electricity, for the deceased had
reposed confidence in no one, least of all in
a firm of lawyers. Neil’s first thought was
that the message had been sent to him by
one of those jovial knights of the road whom
he met in business, who had often played a
practical joke upon him. His next feeling
was one of anger that anyone should find
amusement in making fun of an old man,
well known to be poverty-stricken, and at
that moment lying on what might prove to

652

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

be his death-bed, for Neil, remembering how
many gales his uncle, had weathered, did not
look for so sudden a termination to his ill¬
ness. All this time the idea that the des¬
patch might be true had not occurred to him.
He was above all things a practical young
man, quick and decisive, so he strode up to
the hotel office and said to the clerk :—

“ Have you a directory of Michigan here ? 77

The clerk handed him down the bulky
volume, and turning the leaves until he came
to the town of Patrioticville, he ran his fingers
down the column, and there, sure enough,
was the name of the law firm, Strathmore
and Hendrie. He looked again at the
telegram , which he held in his hand, and
saw that it was indeed sent from Patriotic¬
ville. Then it struck him that it would be
rather unusual for a practical joker to go into
the telegraph office at Patrioticville, where
the firm of lawyers must be well known, and
send off such a despatch, so his next step
was again practical. He went to the telegraph
office and paid his money for the following :—

“ Messrs. Strathmore and Hendrie, Patriotic¬
ville, Michigan. — Despatch just received.
Will be glad if you will act for me as you have
acted for my uncle. Please send me by
telegraph one thousand dollars. — Neil
McFarlane. 77

“ There,’ 7 he said, “ that will settle whether
it is a joke or not. 77

And, curiously enough, he was even more
bewildered than ever when, a few hours later,
he found the money at his disposal. There
is no joke about hard cash, and here was
the thousand dollars subject to his order.
He immediately wrote out part of a tele¬
gram to his firm asking permission to go to
Patrioticville, Michigan, for two or three
days; but when he had written down the
name of the firm and the address and the
word “ please, 77 he stopped, opened his eyes,
and gave a low whistle.

Heavens and earth ! He did not need to
ask anybody’s permission to do anything.
The fear of dismissal which had always been
upon him was now lilted ; he was a rich man.
He tore up the telegraph form, thrust his
hands in his pockets, and walked up and
down the hotel corridor to re-arrange his
mind for the reception of some compre¬
hension of the new state of things, and his
mind certainly needed re-adjustment, more
than he imagined perhaps, for turning, he
met in the hotel corridor one of his oldest
and most disagreeable customers, who said,
curtly :—

f ‘ Halloa, McFarlane ! You in town again? 77

Whereupon all thought of wealth fled
from his mind, and he cringed before this
man and smiled his most conciliatory smile.
The habits of years are not brushed away by
one fact, however startling that fact may be.
Jt was only after the disagreeable stranger
had disappeared out of the hotel door that
McFarlane thought of pulling himself up,
reminding himself that this sort of treatment
was for ever at an end, so far as he was con¬
cerned. He went again to the telegraph
office and sent a long message to a nice girl
at Haarlem, saying he would write further
particulars, but meanwhile he telegraphed
her five hundred dollars, and asked her to
get herself something nice with this. His
next move was to sit down in the writing-
room of the hotel and send the promised
letter to the nice girl in Haarlem. He knew
as much about the way the trains were run
as any man short of a dispatcher in the head
railway office, and so did not need to consult
a time-table in order to find out when he
could go to Patrioticville, Michigan. It was
a day’s ride.

64 Parlour car, sir ? 77 said the conductor.

“ No,” answered Neil; then suddenly his
face brightened up. “ Yes, by Jove ! 77 he
cried, “ I’ll take the parlour car,” and he
smiled genially at the conductor, who smiled
genially in return.

In the roomy easy-chair of the parlour car
he had time to collect his thoughts. He was
a young man, and did not intend to become
a loafer merely because a fortune had been
left him. He resolved to instruct the lawyers
to get into communication with some broker
in New York and buy out the firm of Hector
Woods and Company. He knew the business
could be had, and it was cheap at anything
under twenty thousand dollars. They would
probably ask fifty thousand, but he had little
doubt he could secure it for half the money
if the deal were gone about in the right way,
and his name, with the knowledge of his
windfall, kept out of the transaction. There
was always a danger, of course, that the un¬
expected legacy would become a newspaper
sensation, but perhaps he would reach
Patrioticville in time to prevent that, by
giving notice to his lawyers that he wished
to avoid publicity.

As it turned out, everything was arranged
to his satisfaction, and he began to have an
appreciation of how easy the world is when
a man is rich. In three days he was back once
more at Hudson House, Millopolis. There
was a very peremptory telegram awaiting him
from Hector Woods, asking why the firm had

THE ARRIVAL OF THE UNEXPECTED .

653

not heard from him since leaving Yincinnes.
The cutting words of this despatch sent a
cold chill up and down his back, and the old
trembling fear of his dismissal came over
him. Before he knew it he had replied that
he had been unable to do business for three
days, but would now make up for lost time.
He laughed when he reached the door of his
sample - room, but did not countermand
the message. After all, he was still in the
employ of the firm, and must deduct from
his salary three days’ pay, and do his best to
bring in business. Once inside the sample-
room all remem¬
brance of wealth
fled from him.

He arranged the
planks on the
trestles, unlocked
his huge, iron-
bound sample-
trunks, and flung
up the lids,
covered the bare
boards with cloth
of the right
colour for the
display of his
wares, and began
selecting them
with dainty
attractfulness,
whistling while
he worked, as
was always his
custom. When
he had com¬
pleted a display
that would have
done honour to
any shop-window
in New York, he
stood back and
looked at it with

the keen delight which an artist finds in a
completed picture. In order to save time,
he engaged a messenger boy to go round and
inform his customers of the exhibit that
awaited them in the sample - room of the
Hudson Hotel. As a usual thing, McFar-
lane had been extremely careful in sending
out his invitations, the big people of the
trade being served first, and their hours
of arrival arranged so that two large com¬
petitors in the same business should not
meet each other in the sample-room, and
thus the list was worked through down to
the smaller people, whose orders never
came to a large amount; but on this

occasion the recklessness of wealth again
momentarily overcame the young man, and
he sent out his list with no thought as to who
should meet whom. The comic element of the
situation began to impress him. All his life he
had been trodden under foot by his tyrannical
masters at home, and on the road he had
been brow-beaten by cranky customers. A
large buyer knows his own value, he knows
the esteem with which the head of the firm
in New York regards him, and he is well
aware that he may treat with contumely, if he
wishes to do so, the unfortunate hireling who
must smile and smile under his
*aunts, and pretend to be pleased
with them ; and
there are some
men in business,
as all commercial
travellers will in¬
form you, who are
craven enough to
take advantage of
the helplessness
of a man depen¬
dent upon their
favour. A com¬
mercial traveller
cannot afford the
luxury of a tem¬
per, and his use¬
fulness is gained
at the expense of
a crushed spirit.

Oscar Springer,
the chief man in
Millopolis in his
line of trade, was
the first to arrive,
for his success
largely depended
on his well-
known ability to
secure the novel¬
ties in the market. He was a man always
charming to his customers, but his beetle
brow frowned menace on his underlings.
McFarlane quailed as he entered.

“ Well, young man,” he cried, in his most
boisterous voice, “ the same old bag of tricks,
I suppose—bringing to Indiana trash you
can’t sell anywhere else.”

“ Oh, no, Mr. Springer,” said McFarlane,
with his customary suave accents, all his old
habit of deference coming over him in the
presence of a buyer ; “ we have some of the
latest novelties just over from Paris, and very
attractive they are.” He waved his hand
over a dainty assortment of goods that looked

HE ARRANGED THE PLANKS ON THE TRESTLES.

654

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

pauper.

“ So you don’t like this assort¬
ment, Mr. Springer?” he said,
straightening his back.

“ I never saw such a trashy
display of tawdry goods and
colours since the circus was here."

“ Then don’t buy them,” said
McFarlane.

“ What! ”

“ I say, let ’em alone. What’s
the good of your wasting my
time if you don’t know the latest
novelties ? Go and keep a junk
store, if you are such a good
judge of junk.”

“ What do you mean, sir ? ”

“ Can’t you hear what I mean ?
I’m talking plain enough.”

“ Talking plain enough ! ” cried
Springer, in anger. “ Do you
know who you are talking to ? ”

“there entered the sample-room a little old maid.”

new enough and fresh enough to have come
from France the day before.

“ Don’t think much of them,” said Springer.

“Well, here is a consignment from Berlin.
The Germans are really picking up in this
line of goods.”

“ They don’t pick up my money,” said
Springer.

“ Well, what do you think, Mr. Springer,
of home articles — domestic assortment ?
They’re attracting quite a lot of attention,
and a man in Vincinnes is going to .fill his
window with them just to see how they go.
You ought to do the patriotic racket, you
know, and encourage home industry. But
really, if you will allow me to say so, they
are well worth attention.”

“ Oh, we don’t follow Vincinnes fashions
here. Why, I never saw such a lay-out! I
thought you couldn’t bring much worse than
you brought last.time, but this lot looks as
if it had been bought up at some cheap
auction. I wonder you have the cheek to
unpack an assortment like this. And say,
where have you been this last three days ?
I called round after I saw you in the
Rotunda, and your room was locked up.”

“ Where had he been ? ” The
humble smile left McFarlane’s
face, and he braced up his
shoulders. Where had he been ?

By Jove! he said to himself, he
had been looking after his little
accumulation of more than half
a million dollars, and now was
cringingly standing the cheek of
this truculent ten-thousand-dollar

“Yes, I’m talking to the poorest judge of
goods either imported or domestic that there
is in the State of Indiana. I’m talking to an
old-clothes man who has got into the wrong
line of business, and I tell him further that
he hasn’t money enough to buy any single
article I show here; that I refuse to book a
single order from any man who is sneak
enough to talk like that to a commercial
traveller, who has always treated him decently.
Do you catch on to the meaning of my
words, Mr. Springer ? ”

Apparently, Springer did not, for he stood
there with jaw dropped, speechless. At this
moment the door opened, and there entered
the sample-room a little old maid, Miss
Brixton, in a small and struggling way of
business, in the same line of which Mr.
Springer was a distinguished ornament.

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” she gasped, draw¬
ing back at seeing her great competitor frown¬
ing there. “ I will call again, Mr. McFarlane.”

“ No, come right in, Miss Brixton. I’m
very glad to see you, and I want to tell you
right here and now, Miss Brixton, that your
order is good for any amount that you like to
place with our firm.”

THE ARRIVAL OF THE UNEXPECTED .

“ Oh ! ” cried the little old maid, frightened
and hesitating to advance.

“ Now, all you want to succeed is a com¬
plete line of these goods we have just brought
over from Paris, with a sprinkling of these
Berlin articles and some of domestic manu¬
facture. I’ll make the prices just right for
you, and I’ll give you all the time you want:
won’t ask you for a cent of money until you
have sold the goods, and I’ll guarantee that
you will sell them.”

“ Oh,” cried Miss Brixton again, her face
flushing scarlet, “ if I only dared ! I think I
know what the people want.”

“Of course you do. You’ve only just to
rely on your own good taste, which is perfect,
and any help I can give you is yours. And
as for the risk, there isn’t any, for I tell you
we won’t ask you for the money till the goods
are sold. A man can’t do fairer than that,
can he ? ”

The scandalized Mr. Springer shook him¬
self together like a big Newfoundland dog.
He cleared his throat hoarsely.

“ I’m to take it then,” he said, “ that you
don’t want my order ? ”

“ Much more emphatically than that, Mr.
Springer : you’re to take it that I won’t have
your order on any terms.”

“ Oh, very well, very well, we’ll see about
that. I’ll write to your firm, young man, a
letter that will make you sit up.”

“ Do, do,” said McFarlane; “and if you
don’t know how to write the letter yourself,
dictate it. You can put in a good word
for me by telling the firm I am getting on
swimmingly, and give ’em my kind regards,
will you ? ”

The ill-used Mr. Springer closed the door
after him with a crash that made the hotel
rattle.

In the next town McFarlane got a telegram
from his firm that in the old circumstances
would have raised his hair. They wanted to
know what he meant by his treatment of
Springer. They refused Miss Brixton’s order
and would not complete' it, unless she sent
the cash. He replied that he was their agent,
and that they could not legally refuse Miss
Brixton’s order while he remained in their
employ. This brought his instant dismissal
by telegraph. He was ordered to leave his
samples at the hotel, to be picked up by
his colleague Brown, then on his way from
Illinois to take McFarlane’s place. He
would get the money due him when he
called for it at New York, so Neil McFarlane
returned to the eastern coast by the first
train that gave him an opportunity of doing so.

655

There was an ominous calm in the office
of Hector Woods and Company when the
young man jauntily entered it, and one look
at the face of Hector Woods made him feel
that he needed every cent of the capital he
had to confront him.

“ So you’ve come back! ” roared Mr.
Woods, rising from his desk. “ Well, I
didn’t give you credit for impudence enough
to set foot in this office again.”

“ It needed impudence, didn’t it, Mr.
Woods ? But, you see, I wanted my pay, and
I thought I might get a recommendation
from you.”

“ Recommendation ! By the gods, you’ll
get one that you’ll never dare show : a
recommendation for the biggest lunatic that
ever left New York with a set of samples.
What do you mean by your actions, sir ? ”

“ Mean ? ” cried McFarlane. “ Why, I’ve
been selling a lot of goods, Mr. Woods;
never sold so much in my life before.”

“ Sold them, did you ? Gave them away,
you mean. Do you think I pay you to
play the deuce with my business ? ”

“You would be foolish to do that, Mr.
Woods, because you are quite capable of
playing the deuce with it yourself.”

Woods, still standing, glared at him
menacingly.

“ Now, what do you think you mean by
that, you imbecile ? ”

“ Well, I mean that this business was
worth fifty thousand dollars when you took
hold of it, and I understand it is now in the
market for twenty-one thousand.”

“ It’s a lie; it isn’t in the market.”

“All right, then, I’ve Been misinformed,
that’s all. I’m sorry to have displeased you
in getting rid of so much goods; I thought
I was doing splendidly until I got your
telegram. Miss Brixton and the others you
objected to are awfully nice people; it’s a
pleasure to deal with them.”

“ You numskull ! I don’t send you
on the road to deal with bankrupts, and
make us collect the debts. Get out of
here, and never show your face in this office
again.”

McFarlane went humbly to the pay-desk.
Everyone in the office had heard the uproar,
and even the typewriter girl sat quaking in
her chair. When the cashier handed him
his money he thrust his hand surreptitiously
through the arched opening in the wire screen
and shook his hand fervently.

“I’m awfully sorry, Neil, that you are
going. You must lie low for a while, and
then some day come down and apologize to

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

656

the old man. The firm can’t get on without
you.”

“Thanks, Jimmie,” said McFarlane, cor¬
dially, returning the handshake. “ I’ll think
about it. Good bye, Mr. Woods,” he called
to the head of the firm.

“ Get out of here ! ” was the surly response.

“ Good-bye, all,” cried Neil, waving his
hand.

When he got out on the pavement
McFarlane drew a handkerchief across a
brow that was damp with perspiration.

“ I couldn’t have done it with ten thousand
dollars less money,” he said to himself. And
so he took the elevated up to Flaarlem and
told the nice girl all about it, quaking even
then as he described the attitude of Mr.
Woods, but a visit to his broker the day
before had assured him that he was the
purchaser of the business, and so after all
there was nothing to fear.

Next morning Neil was the first in the
office, and he sat himself down in the veritable
chair of Mr. Hector Woods. As one by one
the employes came in, they were amazed at

finding him there, and they crowded round
him with their condolences and advice.

“ Knuckle down to the old man,” cried
Jimmie, the cashier. “Don’t have any false
pride about it, Neil. Get away before he
comes in. In a day or two he will find he
can’t get along without you, and if you play
the humble down low enough, you’ll
be all right. Never mind us ; do it
in our hearing, and that will please
the old man. We’ll know what you
are doing it for, and we’ll all sympa¬
thize with you. For Pleaven’s sake,
scuttle!” cried Jimmie; “that’s his
step on the stair. Cut for it; cut for
it; out of the back door ! ”

Each one ran for his place and
was instantly absorbed in work, but
Neil sat there smiling inscrutably,
and Hector Woods stood like one
thunderstruck on seeing who sat in
his chair.

“You impudent scoundrel!” he
cried; but Neil held up his hand.

“It’s all right, Mr. Woods. You
said yesterday that the business was
not in the market, and you were
quite right, for I have bought it. I
am the owner of the whole shooting
match, and if you’ve come to talk
in a conciliatory fashion, asking for a
job on the road, why, I think I’ll
give it to you ; but I must warn you
that a commercial traveller has to
suppress himself and be very diplo¬
matic if he is going to succeed.”
“You! You are the purchaser
of the business ? ” cried Hector, dum-
founded.

“Yes; twenty-one thousand dollars, cash
down. I wanted to tell you yesterday that
my uncle had left me nearly seven hundred
thousand dollars, so you need have no fears
but what I can run this business without
being very hard hit even if I should lose it
all, which I don’t think I’ll do.”

“ Oh, very well,” said Hector Woods,
shortly, turning on his heel and making for
the door.

Up to that moment the listening clerks did
not believe their ears, but as Mr. Woods was
half-way down the stair he heard a rousing
cheer such as had never before re-echoed
from the walls of Hector Woods and Com¬
pany, Broadway, New York.

“ GET OUT OF HERE !

Are Indian Jugglers Humbugs?

The Opinion of an Expert.

An Interview with Mr. Charles Bertram.

SIC the average man for what
India is most celebrated, and
the chances are ten to one
that he will ignore the glories
of the Taj Mahal, the benefi¬
cence of British rule, even
Mr. Kipling, and will unhesitatingly reply in
one word, “jugglers.” Yes, India’s jugglers
have been the wonder of India, as well as
of that greater India which lies outside its
borders and within the British Isles. Their
“ Jadoo,” or magic working, has resolved it¬
self practically into three great tricks. Every¬
body has heard of them. They are the basket
trick, the mango-tree trick, and the rope
trick ; while there are a lot of little tricks
which serve as interludes during the progress
of the greater ones.

There is nothing so interesting to the
average mortal after seeing a trick as know¬
ing the way it is done, and when opportunity
offered for me to learn about the way in
which the Indians perform their great tricks
I jumped at the chance. It was Mr. Charles
Bertram, the famous conjurer, who offered to
initiate me into the mysteries which he had
been studying during the six months' tour in
that land of magic from which he had just
returned, and to which by the time this
article appears in print he will have gone
back in order to make magic for the Indians
themselves. Somehow or other, as he talked,
one could not help unconsciously thinking of
the foremost figures of the Israelitish nation
when they appeared before the King of
Egypt, surrounded by his magicians, "and
whatever wonders in the way of magic these
performed, the other two were able to “go
them one better,” as the Americans suc¬
cinctly phrase it.

“I went to India to learn,” said Mr.
Bertram.

“ And you stayed to teach,” I intervened,
for I had heard and read in the newspapers
of the reception of this English entertainer
among the necromancers of the East.

Did they not refuse to acknowledge him a
“ Jadoo Wallah,” and declare unhesitatingly

Vol. xviii.—83

he was a “ Shaitan Wallah,” an emissary o(
his Imperial Majesty of the regions down
below, instead of a human being like them¬
selves, merely capable of mystifying other
mortals ?

“ I certainly did teach one or two of them
some of my tricks,” smiled Mr. Bertram, in
acquiescence, “for although Indian jugglery
has a great reputation in Europe, the Indian
jugglers are very keen on getting European
tricks. When they succeed, they ignore the
other jugglers as beneath them, and regard
them as much as magicians as we do the
thimble-riggers on any of our racecourses.
Indeed, I have no hesitation in saying that,
after seeing the performances of 176 different
conjurers, who were gathered together in
various parts of the country by the different
Rajahs before whom I performed during my
last tour, there is not a single trick which the
Indians perform that European conjurers
cannot do as well, and even better.”

“ What about the great rope trick ? ” I
asked ; “ that throwing up of a rope into the
air, up which a boy or man clambers, and is
seen no more until happily he arrives like
another Jack and the beanstalk in some un¬
discovered country in the upper air ? ”

Mr. Bertram smiled the smile of incredulity,
but answered in one word, “ Moonshine!
There is no such trick. During my tour I
asked for that trick, and not a single soul did
I find who could do that or who had ever
seen it. I heard of men who had heard of
others who had seen it, but I could get no
direct evidence, and all that I could discover
about it from the Indians themselves was
voiced by one man, who said to me in his
curious English, ‘All in imagination, all in
traveller tales. Eve been all over India look¬
ing for tricks; would 1 not have that if I
could get it ? ’

“ I shall try again to find someone who
can do that trick for me, or the related one
of throwing up a chain on which a goat, a
dog, and some other animals, and finally a
man climb; but until I have seen it with my
own eyes I adhere to my opinion, ‘ Moon-

6 5 S

THE STEAND MAGAZINE.

shine/ There is a rope trick which the
Indian jugglers do, and that is very dex¬
terous. It consists in taking a coil of rope
several feet long, throwing it up in the air,
and balancing it upon the open palm. The
rope, however, has a wire running down the
middle of it, so as to enable it to remain
stiff for the three or four seconds during
which it is balanced, and that is how that
trick is done, although a great deal of delicacy
is involved in throwing the rope up with
the exact amount of force to straighten out
the coils, for anything a shade over or under
would prevent the performance of the trick,
which at its best is a juggling feat.

“ As far as the other two great tricks are
concerned, everybody knows in general terms
what they are. In the basket trick a boy is
put into the basket, a sword is passed through
it in various directions, and the boy, is
seemingly killed, while later on he appears
either from the basket or else is discovered
some distance away, perhaps up a tree. The
mango-tree trick consists in planting a seed,
and showing the plant when it has grown a
certain height, and later on when it has
grown still more and has borne fruit. Now,
there is nothing simpler than the way in
which these tricks are done, as you will agree
when I have explained them step by step.

“ In the first place, it must be borne in
mind that Indian
conjurers travel in
little groups of four
or five, and each,
as a rule, does his
own trick. This
allows one man to
prepare his appa¬
ratus without ob¬
servation while
another one is
going through his
performance, so
that seemingly
these people do
their tricks without
any previous pre¬
paration. Again, they carry about with them
a lot of bags, bits of old cloth, and blankets,
which, although the uninitiated public does
not know it, are of the greatest service to
them in getting rid of things which have
served their purpose.

“ In the mango - tree trick the performer
first picks a piece of a mango tree about
6in. high, with a tuft of three or four little
leaves. This is pushed up inside the little
rag doll, which is hollow in the middle, and

which is always used by the Indian conjurer
instead of the magic wand of the European.
Then he gets a large piece of the tree, about
i8in. high, to which is attached by artificial
means a little green mango, or, if out of the
mango season, a green plum, which serves
the purpose equally well. This branch he
wraps tightly in a large piece of wet cloth,
to be used at the proper time. He also
provides himself with two mango seeds, one
of which is perfectly normal, and the other
as like it as possible in size. This latter he
slits in the centre, and puts in a little wedge
of wood to hold it open, while at the other
side he affixes three or four little bits of
string, and he pares down the end of both
the branches so that they will fit into the slit
in the prepared seed.

“Having made all his arrangements, the
conjurer advances with four little bamboo
sticks, tied round the top with a piece of
string, after having handed them round for
inspection. Round these he puts a piece of
thin material, which hangs over the top and
covers the front and two sides loosely, but
not the back, thus forming a sort of tent,
which is open behind. This tent is about
3ft. high, and the thinness of the cloth allows
the interior to be dimly seen through.

. “The juggler next gets a tin pot, like an
ordinary corned - beef can. This is filled
with earth, and is
handed round for
inspection. On
the earth he pours
water, so as to
make it wet — in
fact, a thick mud.
As soon as the
audience is satis¬
fied that the pot
contains nothing
but this mud, he
hands round the
first seed for exami¬
nation, and asks
someone to push it
into the wet earth.
He then comes to the front of the tent,
lifts up the cloth, puts the pot into the
tent, and lets the cloth drop over it. Sud¬
denly he appears to notice that the audience
can see through the cloth, so he takes up
a large piece of thick coloured cloth, in a
fold of which is the large piece of the

mango branch, and covers the thin cloth
with it. Then he lifts both cloths together,

and you see the pot still there and un¬
changed. He now procures a ‘ohatty,’ or

“ HE THEN COMES TO THE FRONT OF THE TENT AND
LIFTS Ul> THE CLOTH.”

ARE INDIAN JUGGLERS HUMBUGS'!

659

pot, of water, and sprinkles it with his
hand into the tent to water the seed, and
so hasten its growth.

“ Here ends the
first part of the
trick, for the seed is
supposed to take
some time to germi¬
nate and grow. To
pass the time the
conjurer comes in
front and begins
doing some other
tricks, for example,
the cups and balls,
or the diving duck,
or the transformation
of three seeds into

a scorpion or small snake, all very elemen¬
tary tricks, indeed, which I will tell you
about later. Having
done this trick, the
conjurer goes behind
the tent, taking his
mystic rag doll, in
which there is more
than meets the eye,
with him. Under
cover of the tent,
squatting on his
haunches, he pulls
out of the doll the
first little sprig of
mango with the three
or four leaves on it,
and inserts the pre¬
pared end of it into
the slit in the mango

seed. He then takes out the original seed
from the pot, stuffing in the other one into
its place. He next
lifts up the curtain
from the front,
waters the pot
again, and takes it
out to show to the
audience, which is
astonished to see
the original seed
has grown up in
so short a time.

He even takes the
old plant out of
the pot and shows
the bits of string
now covered with
mud, which to the

casual observer look like tendrils, or little
roots growing from the seed. He now re¬

plants the seed, putting the pot back by
way of the front of the tent, which he lifts
up for the purpose,
and takes the chatty
of water from the
front to the back of
the tent, and pre¬
tends to water the
plant from there.
This opportunity he
uses for taking out
the big piece of plant
from the cloth : after
removing the small
piece of mango, he
sticks the big bit into
the aperture in the
seed, for which pur¬
pose you will remember I told you he had
previously cut it to the right size. This
branch he now puts
into the pot, and the
little piece which he
has just shown he
wraps up in the
corner of the cloth
from which the
larger piece was
taken.

“Although the
tree could now be
shown full grown to
the audience, he does
not discover it yet,
but goes on with
another small trick
which may occupy
as much as ten
minutes. At the end of that time he takes
the chatty for the third time, as if to water the
plant, again lifts
up the front of the
tent, this time to
find, to his own
apparent amaze¬
ment, that the
plant has grown,
and on it there is
actually fruit.

“Here the
second part of the
trick may be said
to be finished.
The tree is now
as big as it will
grow, and the In¬
dian takes it and
shows it to the audience. Then he takes it
round to the back of the tent, and puts it in

HE FINDS TO HIS OWN AMAZEMENT THAT THE TREE
HAS GROWN.”

66o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

on that side. Once more he pretends to water
it, as if he thought it would grow more; but
while he is doing this he really pulls up the
plant, wraps it in the wet cloth again, and
throws a piece of carpet or a blanket care¬
lessly over it, and at a convenient moment
an accomplice, or member of the four or five
men working together, picks it up and gets it
away while the attention of the audience is
being held by some other trick. And that
is the whole of the famous mango trick,”
concluded Mr. Bertram.

“Then the idea that you see the tree
gradually growing-” I began.

“ Is all humbug,” said Mr. Bertram.
“There is no difficulty in the matter. I
myself do a modification of this trick, making
a rose tree grow and bear a couple of dozen
roses which I distribute among the audience,
so that there is no question as to their reality.
This trick amazed even the mango-tree trick
workers, who have not been able to discover
how it was done.”

“ How is it done ? ”

Very simply, indeed. Merely by long

that as simple as the mango-tree trick ? ” I
asked.

“Quite,” replied Mr. Bertram, “as I think
you will acknowledge when I have explained
it to you. The basket itself is peculiarly
shaped, being much larger at the bottom
than it is at the top. The lid is perhaps
3°in. by i8in., and is oval, while the
basket itself spreads out to 4ft. 6in. by
2ft. 6in. at the bottom. This is shown
empty to the audience, and a man or boy,
who invariably wears a turban and some
striking article of clothing—for example, a
scarlet-coloured jacket—is brought forward by
the conjurer. He is then put into the basket
and 'crouches down, doing everything to
emphasize the fact that it is only just large
enough for him, a fact insisted on later by
the lid when put on the basket not being
allowed to fit closely.

“ Now the conjurer takes a large piece of
thick cloth or blanket, 6ft. square, and
covers the basket entirely. The boy is, of
course, in the basket now. The moment he
gets in he has taken off his turban and any

“ HE DRIVES A SWORD THROUGH THE BASKET FROM TOP TO BOTTOM.”

practice and sleight of hand. Conjuring,
however, is only, in my opinion, a raison
d'etre for entertaining, and though it involves
a certain amount of dexterity and a good
deal of ability to make people believe things,
yet it is not difficult in itself, and there is no
reason why, with a certain degree of aptitude,
and with sufficient practice, anyone should
not be able to perform many of the illusions
which startle an audience.”

“And what about the basket trick? Is

little article of clothing he can spare—for
example, the bright-coloured jacket. Then
he lies at the bottom of the basket and curls
round it—eelwise. The performer now re¬
moves the cloth and drives a sword tljrough
the front of the basket, and then through the
top to the bottom ; but, of course, he takes
good care to miss the boy, as he does when
next he drives the weapon through the back,
high up and diagonally to the front. Mean¬
time, the boy wriggles round from one side

ARE INDIAN JUGGLERS HUMBUGS ?

661

to the other, the basket being held down by
the other men in order to prevent it moving.
The business with the sword is repeated
several times so that it seems to go through
every part of the basket.

“The cloth is now put over the basket
again, and the
conjurer, plac¬
ing his hand
under it, re¬
moves the lid,
takes out the
turban and the
jacket, and
throws them
away. Then, as
if enraged at
some remark
which is made
by one of his
comrades, he
jumps into the
basket, but as
the cloth covers it it is impossible for any
of the audience to see inside it, and the
people believe that it is empty, while, of
course, the boy remains curled up along one
side. The conjurer now gets out of the
basket, leaving the cloth over it, and puts the
lid back under it. Suddenly he darts forward,
taking with him the cloth
from off the basket, which
is now covered with the
lid, and under cover of it
picks up the jacket and
turban from the ground
where he has thrown
them, and snatches in
the air with the blanket
as if catching the body,
and goes back with much
excitement and much
jabbering to the basket,
which he covers with
the blanket, when sud¬
denly something is seen
moving under the cloth.

Immediately the lid of
the basket goes up. In
another moment the boy,
having replaced his tur¬
ban and put on his jacket under cover of the
cloth, which is snatched away, makes his
smiling reappearance.

“ There is another way, however, of doing
this trick, by which the boy is discovered
out of the basket in some other part of the
ground where the show takes place, but this
requires a background in the shape of a wall

or corner of some sort for its proper
carrying out. The basket is put down as
before, with the boy in it, and the sword
passed through, with the result that he is
seemingly killed, even blood being allowed
to flow to add to the realism, while the

youth’s screams
are made either
ventriloquially
by the conjurer
himself or by
the boy in the
basket. The
bringing of the
blood is a very
simple matter,
for the handle
of the sword is
made hollow,
and contains
some red liquid.
On being pressed
the liquid flows
down a groove in the sword, and comes
out near the point, so that it really
appears as if the boy had been stabbed.
Having got so far, the conjurer brings
four poles, 4ft. or 5ft. high, which are stuck
up in the ground around the basket. The
audience is, of course, in front,, but the
conjurer has two or three
confederates on each side
at the back near the wall.
As soon as the boy is put
into the basket he takes
off his brightly coloured
jacket and cap, which
are covered with a cloth,
and are got hold of by
one of the men.

“ Presently the con¬
jurers begin to quarrel
among themselves, and
an awful noise is made
with tom - toms, which
distracts the attention of
the audience. The con¬
jurer gets a great piece of
cloth and puts it on the
front pole, where it is
held by one of the con¬
federates. Then he brings the other end
of the cloth in front of the basket for an
instant on its way to the third stick. During
that moment the boy jumps out of the basket,
runs along the back of the cloth, dodges
between the legs of one of his confederates in
the crowd, and under cover of the passing of
the cloth to the fourth pole, taking with him

“ SNATCHES IN THE AIR WITH THE
BLANKET AS IF CATCHING A BODY.”

662

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the doth in which are his cap and jacket,
climbs a tree, if there is one handy, puts
on his cap and coat, and is ready for the
conjurer to call atten¬
tion to him at the given
moment.”

“ And that is all ? ”

“ That is all.”

“ The little tricks are
equally simple, and any
schoolboy might do
them. The changing of
the three beans into a
scorpion or snake, for
instance, is done merely
with a box which has
two compartments. In
the upper one the beans
are kept, while the
lower contains the
scorpion or the little
snake. These com¬
partments are separate,
and either can be
opened at will. The
conjurer puts the three
beans into the hand
of one of the audience,
and tells him to hold them. Then he
makes him open his hand to show they
are still there. The conjurer takes them
out of the person’s hand to exhibit to the
audience, and puts them back into the box.
He asks the person to again hold his hand
out; the conjurer then deftly opens the
lower box and lets the snake or scorpion fall
into the person’s hand. The man himself is
naturally startled, and, jumping back, believes
the conjurer really
changed the beans
into the reptile.

“Another of
these little tricks is
the jumping rabbit.

For this purpose
the conjurer takes a
shallow tin, about
3in. deep and 7m.
across, which he
shows empty; then
fills with water, on
which he sprinkles
some red powder
until the water be¬
comes thick and
opaque, so that
anything in it cannot be seen. He then
shows a little china rabbit, about an inch
long, which he drops into the water, and

draws a circle on the ground about i8in. in
diameter, in the centre of which he places
the tin. Then he takes the rabbit out of
the water to show it is
still there, and replaces
it immediately. Out¬
side the circle he drops
a fetish in the shape
of a monkey’s skull,
or some other uncanny
object, declaring
‘rabbit him go mon¬
key, monkey him call
rabbit.’ ‘Jadoo
Wallah do makee
rabbit jump,’ and so
on. Suddenly with a
spring the rabbit jumps
out of the tin and
drops by the side of
the fetish outside the
ring.

“The whole of this
trick consists in the
conjurer putting into
the tin a little spring
which is fastened to¬
gether by means of
some gummy material. This he inserts when
he takes out the rabbit to show that it is in
the water, and when he puts the rabbit back
he is careful to put it on the spring. The
water dissolves the gum, the spring acts, the
rabbit is forced out of the tin, and that is
the way that trick is done.

“ Similarly, with regard to the little diving
duck. The same kind of pot is used, filled
with water, but filled so full that a good
deal overflows and
makes a mess on the
ground. A little red
stuff is sprinkled on
the top, but the
water is not made
thick as in the pre¬
vious case. A little
china duck is placed
on the surface,
which at the word
of command dives
head foremost, and
does not come up
again to the surface
until bidden. This
again is mere child’s
play, for there is a
little hole in the bottom of the pot through
which a very fine hair runs. This hair is
fastened by means of a blob of wax to the

WITH A SPRING THE RABBIT JUMPS OUT
OF THE TIN.”

THE CONJURER SECRETLY PULLS THE STRING AND
MAKES THE DUCK DIVE.”

663

ARE INDIAN JUGGLERS HUMBUGS?

duck, and at the word of command the
conjurer secretly pulls the string and makes
the duck dive. The object of spilling the
water on the ground is to disguise the fact
that the pot leaks through the little hole
through which the hair runs, and which of
course it is quite easy to cover up with a
finger while the pot is being filled.

44 Another favourite trick which they do
is to take a basket about i8in. in diameter,
and 4in. high,
which is turned
upside down
and a stone put
under it.

“ 4 Make ten
rupees come/
the Indian will
declare; but on
lifting up the
basket there are
no coins, but
perhaps a little
scorpion or a
snake. This he
picks up and
throws into the
bag which he always carries. After some
more manipulation the basket is lifted
again, and twenty little averdavats emerge
from under it. This certainly looks startling
enough, but the execution is mere child’s
play, for it is perfectly easy in putting the
basket down the
first time to remove
the stone and put
the scorpion in its
place; while the
amount of fumbling
which goes on to get
in the little birds,
which are all in¬
closed in a black
bag, is such as never
would be dreamed
of by any man
whose ambition it
was to be able to
appear before a
European audience.

44 The most start¬
ling trick which I
ever saw was done
by a man who was
performing some
of the little tricks while the mango tree
was growing. He took a little ball of rough
cotton, about the size of a walnut, and threw
the ball to a woman who formed one of the

party of those who were assisting him. The
jerk unravelled about two yards, and she
broke the end off and kept the ball. The
conjurer placed the end which he held into
his mouth, and by a deep breath the cotton
flew into his mouth, and he appeared to
chew it. Then he borrowed a penknife from
me, and with a big blade made as though he
would stab himself in the throat, the woman
preventing him with some show of excite¬
ment; but pre¬
sently turning
her back, the
man seized the
opportunity to
plunge the
knife into his
stomach, and
that he did
very well. He
then put his
hand under the
loose linen shirt
he was wearing
and began to
draw out a
piece of cotton.

44 When he had drawn out nearly as much
as the length of the piece which had been
broken off, he lifted his shirt slightly and
showed the end of the cotton apparently
embedded in the skin. He then took the
knife and moved it upward against the skin,
as if he were press¬
ing out the last bit
of thread, which was
tinged with red as
if with blood. This
was really an ad¬
mirably executed
little trick, although
by no means diffi¬
cult. The sucking
in of the cotton is
skilful, but with a
very little practice I
was able to do the
same thing, and so
can anyone else, the
only precaution to
be taken being to
prevent the end
coming into contact
with the back of
the throat, for if it
did it would bring on an attack of coughing.

44 Of course the chewing of the cotton is
merely a method of secreting it, and another
piece of cotton of similar length is rolled up

TWENTY LITTLE AVERDAVATS EMERGE FROM UNDER IT.”

“ THE WOMAN PREVENTING HIM WITH SOME SHOW
OF EXCITEMENT.”

664

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

previously and put in its place with the end
coloured with some paint. A little brown
material is put over the skin with a scrap of
cotton, perhaps a quarter of an inch attached
to it, so that it really looks as though it were
sticking up out of the skin, and the upward
movement of the knife scrapes this off and it
can easily be got away at a convenient time.
This is hardly a trick for an English drawing¬
room.

“Another of their favourite tricks is to
take a lot of powdered chalks, which are
sprinkled into a
chatty of water, and
the conjurer drinks
it. Then he asks
what colour you
would like him to
bring. According
to the word he
blows on to a white
plate the required
tint. For this trick
all the colours are
merely wrapped up
separately in a small-
quantity of skin like
goldbeater’s skin,
and secreted under
the lips. Of course,
as soon as each
little packet has
been broken, it is
quite easy to swal¬
low the skin if it
cannot be got rid of in any other way, and
conjurers, 1 may tell you, often swallow more
things than they care to digest.

“ I myself perform a modification of this
trick, but in a much more intricate manner,
and certainly no one has yet been able to
discover how it is done. I take an ordinary
decanter and glass, wash them in the sight of
the audience, and fill the decanter with water.
Then I pour port, sherry, absinthe, whisky,
and milk from it in turn at the desire of
anyone in the audience. Then I wash glass
and decanter again, and repeat the trick,
which I finish by producing champagne,
the goodness of which I attest by drinking
it myself.”

“ That goes more than one better than the
Indian,” I suggested.

“ I am glad you think so,” said Mr.
Bertram, “for that is the opinion of the
Indian jugglers themselves. As for the other
little tricks that they do, they are all of them
as simple as they can be, one of the most
marvellous being the cutting of a turban into
two pieces and renewing its length. Every
schoolboy, however, knows how to cut a
piece of string and apparently bring it back
to its original condition, so that I need not
go into the details
of this explanation,
for the principle is
exactly the same,
although, I may
add, that when I
did the string trick
for a party of native
conjurers they were
completely aston¬
ished, and did not
recognise it as
another form of the
turban trick, which,
however, is far
easier to do than
the string.”

“A word about
snake-charming,” I
asked.

“All I can tell
you,” said Mr. Ber¬
tram, “is that one
of the greatest authorities in India on animals,
a gentleman who has a natural history museum
worthy of a nation, assured me that all the
snake-charmers use snakes from which the
fangs have been taken, so that there is abso¬
lutely no danger in their manipulation.”

With that our interview closed; but a few
days after, meeting a friend who had been in
India at the same time, he told me what Mr.
Bertram had omitted, or was too modest to
state—that the jugglers were so overcome
with astonishment at his performances, that
they frequently fell down on the ground
before him and kissed his feet in token alike
of admiration and acknowledgment of his
superiority.

“ SHOWED THE END OF THE COTTON.”

Stories of the Sanctuary Club.

By L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace. Told by Paul Cato.
VI.—THE SECRET OF THE PRISON HOUSE.

S Chetvvynd and I were
leaving Ray Park on the
night which followed poor
Sutherland’s death, Kort ac¬
companied us.

“ I will come with you if
you have no objection,” he said. “As far
as I can tell there is nothing more for me
to do here, but if necessary 1 can return
to-morrow.”

Neither Chetwynd nor I found ourselves
able to utter a word. Kort seemed to take
our silence for consent, and we three went
back to the Club. We did not reach our
destination until between nine and ten
o’clock. Dinner was over, and many of the
members were scattered in different quarters
of the large central hall. Cards and games
of all sorts were the order of the hour;
everything looked peaceful and quite as
usual. Not one of our guests suspected
through what cC time of tragedy and strain
we three medical men had just passed.

Chetwytod and I said a few words to our
different guests, and presently found ourselves
in the corridor which led to our consulting-
rooms. These happened to be close together.

“ I am coming with you, Cato,” said
Chetwynd, “ there is much to talk over.”

There was a ring in his voice which I
recognised. My friend was roused at last,
roused with a vengeance. The moment we
entered my consulting-room he turned the
key in the lock, and then came and stood
near me.

“ Pray sit down,” I said.

“ I cannot sit,” was his answer. “ You
know what I think of this.”

“ How can I guess your thoughts? ”

“ Good God ! Cato, you can, and you do.
This is no time for subterfuge. We have
both the same thought, we both know that
the man Kort is guilty.”

“ Guilty of many things, doubtless,” I
answered ; “ but scarcely of the crime which
we thought he had participated in early in
the day.”

“ I do not believe in Sutherland’s confes¬
sion,” was Chetwynd’s answer. “ I have
seen Sutherland’s writing several times, and
my impression is that what we read to-day
is nothing more or less than a clever forgery.

Vol. xviii.—84.

Kort was desperate and would stick at
nothing. Cato, he must resign his partner¬
ship immediately. If he refuses we must
close the Club.”

“ Ah,” I said, “ you are coming to my
conclusion ; it is a relief to hear you. You
agree with me fully ? ”

“ I agree with you. This is the third shady
affair in which Kort has been implicated
during the last few months. For the reputa¬
tion of the Club, to say nothing of your
reputation and mine, we must put things
straight without the possibility of further
mistake, and our only way, so far as I can
see, is through Mrs. Kort. There is not the
slightest doubt that she is cognisant of her
husband’s character. The few words she
has dropped to you are sufficient to prove
this. There was a time when I believed her
insane, led to my belief Kort’s specious
words. I no longer hold that theory. There
is something wrong with the' woman—what,
God only knows—but, at least in the Davos
rooms, she is in full possession of her
faculties. We have got to discover what
awful hold her husband has over her.
Our next interview must be under official
authority. I propose that we have it early
to morrow morning. It is too late to-night
to do anything, but I shall telephone as soon
as ever I can to-morrow to Inspector Clark¬
son, put the whole thing before him, and beg
him to take up the matter privately and at our
expense. Each individual occurrence may
be insufficient for our purpose, but linked
together they make a formidable chain to
break.”

“ I echo your words, Chetwynd,” I replied ;
“matters cannot go on as they are doing. If
for no other reason, for the sake of that
wretched woman upstairs, we must take the
bull by the horns.”

We talked a little longer and afterwards
retired to our rooms, but 1 for one could not
sleep. The catastrophe which hung over our
heads was all too imminent. It needed but
a breath of the truth to get abroad for each
member of the Club to resign. In any
case now, I greatly feared that we were
scarcely likely to save ourselves.

At an early hour on the following morning
Chetwynd telephoned to Clarkson.

666

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

The reply came back that the inspector
would be with us in an hour.

I had many patients to see that morning,
and, after attending them, passed through
the laboratory on my way to Chetwynd’s
room. As I entered the large outer labora¬
tory I found Kort engaged in conversation
with an elderly, Jewish-looking man, evidently
a foreigner. The moment Kort saw me he
came forward in his usual deliberate and
perfectly calm manner, and introduced the
stranger as Mr. Myerstein.

“ My lawyer,” he added.

I rather wondered why Kort was seeing

his lawyer that morning, but had not time to
give serious thought to the matter. The
sound of wheels on the gravel sweep
arrested my attention, and I recognised
Clarkson as he dismounted from the dog¬
cart which we had sent to the station to meet
him. I myself conducted the inspector to
Chetwynd’s room, and we there began to
discuss the whole case.

After listening to our story, Clarkson said,

quietly : “ I may as well inform you that for
a long time the house has been under obser¬
vation on account of Mr. Kort, but we could
take no action until you called one of us in
to investigate. From what you have told me
I am now quite justified in demanding one
thing.”

“ What is that ? ” I asked.

“An interview with Mrs. Kort. I wish to
interview the lady without a moment’s delay.
You, Dr. Cato, are practically certain that
Mrs. Kort is in possession of information
as to her husband’s character which she
is anxious to divulge?”

“Yes,” I replied. “From
the occasional short interviews
I have had with her, I am
certain on this point.”

“ Then matters are sim¬
plified at once,” said Clark¬
son. “ If both you gentlemen
are prepared to certify to the
lady’s sanity while in her own
apartments any evidence ob¬
tained there will be valid.
Now, from what you have
told me I shall insist on
such an interview. We will,
therefore, hold it at once.
If the result should occa¬
sion it I can soon get the
necessary warrant to arrest
Mr. Kort. Is he in the house
at present ? ”

“He is,” I answered. “I
saw him just before you
arrived. Shall I send for him
to come here ? ”

“ I should be glad to see
him,” replied the inspector.

I pressed the bell.

“ Tell Mr. Kort that his
presence is required here at
once,” I said to the servant,
who bowed and withdrew.

“He will do what he can
to prevent our interviewing
his wife,” I said. “ That goes
without saying. He will make
his usual excuse that she cannot stand excite¬
ment.”

The inspector smiled drily but said
nothing. We waited in silence. It was clear
to all of us that we were at last on the verge
of the great crisis to which events had been
gradually leading up. There was no pos¬
sible loophole for the truth to escape. I
felt sure that we could bring the authority
of the law into requisition and demand a

“ ‘ MY LAWYER,’ HE ADDED.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

667

full explanation from Mrs. Kort. Once this
was given the rest would be easy. Only one
misgiving had 1 now, and that was caused
by Kort’s own extraordinary self-possession,
and also by his presence in the Club.

“ He must have returned to guard his
wife,” I said to myself; “he has come back
to keep her in check. It is impossible that
he should not be aware of his own danger.
But what hold can he possibly have over her
which would prevent her telling us the truth
when we interview her alone ? ”

Suddenly the handle of the door clicked,
and I involuntarily started in my seat. Kort
quietly entered the room. He was holding
himself erect as usual, his face looked quite
calm, and his dark, somewhat melancholy
eyes glanced from one of us to the other
with an expression of well-assumed surprise.
When his gaze fell upon Inspector Clarkson
I saw him lift his heavy eyebrows just for a
moment, and the dawn of a smile flitted
round his lips.

Meanwhile the officer’s keen grey eyes
fixed themselves on his face with an im¬
patient and penetrating look.

“You wished to see me ? ” asked Kort, in
a low voice. He glanced at each of us in
turn.

“ We do,” I answered, “pray sit down.”

He sank into an easy chair and folded his
arms.

“You are of course aware, Mr. Kort,” I
began, and as I spoke I rose to my feet,
“ that the position in which we in this Club
are placed, owing to the continued occurrence
of events of a suspicious nature, admits of
only one line of action. Waiving for the
moment the fact that nothing has been
actually proved against you, Dr. Chetwynd
and I have decided to request you to resign
your partnership with us, on account of the
strong circumstantial evidence against you.
Further, since it is directly due to your
instrumentality that the reputation of the
Club and our own reputations are seriously
involved, we desire to arrive at some ex¬
planation of this mysterious business. We
have, therefore, decided to invoke the aid of
the authorities.”

“I fully comprehend you,” answered Koit,
quietly, “ and I also entirely sympathize with
your intentions.”

“ There is one point it is necessary to deal
with without further delay,” I continued.
“ From short and interrupted interviews with
your wife”—as I uttered the latter words I
noticed the slightest contraction of the man’s
folded arms and the faintest hardening of

the lines round his mouth. I went on
quickly—“ I am driven to believe that she
can explain a good deal to us of what is still
dark as regards these matters, and we, in the
company of Inspector Clarkson, have decided
to see her this morning in her own apart¬
ments. On more than one occasion she has
been on the point of making some disclosure
to me, but was prevented from doing so
owing to her extraordinary attacks of lapses
of memory, attacks which I fail to under¬
stand.”

“ I am not surprised that you cannot
understand them,” was Kort’s answer. “ I,
who have watched her so closely, have utterly
failed to come to any explanation myself.
But with regard to your previous re¬
marks. I am glad to have the opportunity
of saying that I intend to resign my partner¬
ship and to leave England. But as to this
interview which you propose holding with
my wife, before you do so I must give you a
word of warning.” His eyes brightened with
a deadly glitter as he looked full at me.
“ My wife’s condition is a very precarious
one. She is, as I have told you before,
insane”*—here he glanced at Chetwynd.
“ This wholesale invasion of her private
rooms will be fraught with the utmost
danger to her, and I refuse to let you see
her.” And he abruptly left the room.

The inspector shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing can be done,” he said, “unless
Mr. Kort will leave his wife free for us to see
her.”

“ There is little hope of that, I fear,” I
said. “ But we will watch for every chance,
and let you know at once should any oppor¬
tunity occur. Do not rest over this matter,”
I continued, to the inspector, “ employ your
keenest wits upon it, your most able detec¬
tives, make every inquiry in your power.”

“I will, sir, and if you want me ring me
up and I’ll be here as soon as ever I can.
At present I am afraid there is nothing
further that I can do.”

d he man left the room. When we found
ourselves alone 1 turned to Chetwynd.

“ This is maddening,” I cried. “ The face
of that unhappy woman upstairs haunts me.
Have you not noticed her yourself, Chet¬
wynd ? While her lips refuse to betray that
fiend, her eyes speak volumes^ and when¬
ever we have seen her, her misery has been
apparent. If she is not already insane she
soon will be, driven to it by that man’s
villainies. Fie is a monster in human
shape.”

“ Like the Evil One, he has brains and knows

668

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

how to use them,” said Chetwynd, gloomily.
“Yes, I sympathize with every word you say,
Cato, but how to solve the mystery, how to
get at the truth is the puzzle. If Mrs. Kort
cannot help us, to whom are we to apply?”

“ Have you nothing to suggest?” I asked.
“You don’t mean to say you will let him go,
you will let him take his miserable wife away
without settling his heavy account with us
and with her, and with the law of the land ?
Chetwynd, I have often heard you boast that
you never yet were beaten by a problem.
Turn your mind on this. Break through this
horrible suspicion and anxiety.”

He made no answer. To and fro he paced
the room in silence. His hands were thrust
deep into his pockets, his head bent down.

“ Has Kort said when he is leaving ? ” he
suddenly asked.

“ Not a word.”

“Very well, I have an idea. It is this. I
will go immediately and try to find out some¬
thing of his past and of his wife’s past. It is
possible, through channels now at the
disposal of everyone, to get information about
her prior to her marriage. I am certain that
it is only by going back and taking up the
threads of his earlier days and then following
them carefully that we shall get a solution of
the present mystery. Will you, Cato, stay
quietly here and watch events while I go and

make inquiries? If I am not back to-night,
you will hear from me.”

“Very well,” I answered, “anything you
think best. Up to the present the mem¬
bers suspect nothing. There is no one
specially ill ; you can be spared without
exciting suspicion.”

The rest of the day passed without any¬
thing fresh occurring. At dinner Kort and I
sat, one at the head, the other at the foot of
the long dining-table. Conversation of the
usual kind went on. Outwardly, all was sun¬
shine, for the day happened to have been
particularly fine, and some of the members of
the Club were in specially high spirits. One
lady in especial told me that she herself was
deriving so much benefit by our treatment
that she intended to bring her
daughter to the Club the
following week. As she said
the latter words, she slightly
dropped her voice.

“ Why does not Mrs. Kort
take her rightful position in
this establishment?” she asked.
“ I met her for the first time
last night. What a very beau¬
tiful young woman she is, but
she looked ill. Is she ill ? ”

“ I am sorry to tell you that
Mrs. Kort is a chronic in¬
valid,” was my reply.

“ She told me last night that
she occupied the Davos suite.
Is she consumptive ? ”

“ Not that I know of,” I
said.

“ But why does she stay in
those rooms ? She scarcely ‘ever leaves them.
I thought they were intended for consumptive
patients.”

“ Primarily so, but they are also suitable
for other maladies.”

“ And what is hers ? May I know? ”

“ I wish I could tell you,” I answered.
“ Her illness puzzles us all not a little.” As
I spoke I raised my voice, and just at that
moment encountered the keen, cold glance
of Kort. We rose from the table without any¬
thing further being said with regard to Mrs.
Kort.

Between nine and ten that evening Kort
entered my sitting-room.

“ I shall not keep you a moment,” he said.
“ This is Wednesday ; my wife and I intend
leaving here on Friday morning.”

“You make a hasty exit,” was my answer.

“ I could not stay an hour longer than
absolutely necessary under this roof,” was his

“ HE LACED THE ROOM IN SILENCE.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

669

reply. “ I shall be glad to go. With regard
to money matters and the terms of my
partnership, I have placed all my affairs in
the hands of my lawyer, Mr. Myerstein; he
will correspond with you on these subjects.”

I made no answer and
merely bowed as he left
me. He closed the door,
and I sat on by the fire.

What was the mystery ?

Beyond doubt Mrs. Kort
held the key of the situa¬
tion which for some in¬
explicable reason she
refused to render up.

Would those two go out
of our lives, and the
tragedy which concerned
them remain for ever
unsolved ?

At eleven o’clock that
night a messenger brought
me a short note from
Chetwynd.

“ Getting nearer. Not
home to-night. Stay in
to-morrow.”

I burned the note in
case it should fall into
other hands, and then
went to bed.

In spite of my depres¬
sion Chetwynd’s words
had cheered me. I had
every faith in his sagacity,
and I knew that his note
was pregnant with mean¬
ing. The following day
passed quietly. Chetwynd
did not return nor did I
get any tidings of him.

Kort was busy as usual,
just as though he intended to remain at the
Sanctuary Club for ever. I heard nothing
with regard to Mrs. Kort, and a wild desire
to enter her presence and force the truth.from
her was abandoned as soon as it occurred
to me.

In the afternoon I met Kort in the hall.
I now observed with a certain degree of
pleasure a strange restlessness in his manner;
his face, too, was pale. He inquired at once
where Chetwynd was. I replied briefly that
he had left the Club on special business.

At a quarter past four that afternoon, as
the usual custom was, the servant entered
my sitting-room with the post-bag to ask for
the country letters. I noticed as he spoke
that he had several letters in his hand, and,

as I put mine into the bag, he added the
pile which he held. When he did this I
happened to notice one in Kort’s handwriting.
It was addressed to his lawyer, Myerstein, at
some place in the south-west district. I

gave it a passing thought, and then forgot it.
The man left the room, and I sat on by the
fire. Hours passed, I felt more and more
depressed, and less and less inclined to
move. Suddenly I started to my feet. How
the time had gone by ! It was nearly seven
o’clock. I was about to leave the room to
dress for dinner when the door was quickly
opened and Chetwynd walked in.

“ My dear fellow,” I cried, grasping his
hand, u what news ? ”

He closed the door, locked it, and returned
to the middle of the room. His face was
calm, but I knew him well enough to be
sure that beneath his apparent coolness a
terrible furnace of excitement was consuming
him.

“ I PUT MINE INTO THE HAG.”

6 jo

THE S TEA HD MAGAZINE,.

“ I have discovered information of the
utmost importance with regard to Mrs. Kort,”
he said, quietly.

“ What is it ? ” I asked.

“ I will tell you,” he continued. “ It may
explain a good deal. Her maiden name was
Elkington. She was the only daughter of a
certain Captain Elkington, who died when
she was quite a girl, leaving her, however,
sufficient money to maintain her in comfort.
She was fond of science, and elected to take
a medical course. She went to Vienna to
study medicine in the schools there, and
took her degree. While there she became
engaged to our poor young friend, Philip
Sherwin. Ah, you start ! ”

“ I have reason to,” I replied ; “ I cannot
forget poor Sherwin’s dying words : 4 Ask

him (Kort) about Isobel when I am gone? ”

Chetwynd was silent for a moment.

“Pray listen,” he said then; “there is
more to follow. Miss Elkington was engaged
to Sherwin. Kort appeared upon the scene.
He was also studying medicine, and, doubt¬
less, met his wife at the medical schools.
The next event in the chain of circumstances
was this. Miss Elkington broke off her engage¬
ment to Sherwin and married Kort. A few
months afterwards the husband and wife left
Vienna under extraordinary circumstances.
These circumstances are not divulged. It is
certain that Kort had done something in the
highest degree discreditable if not felonious.
There were, it appears, three people who knew
his secret—his own wife, Philip Sherwin,
and poor Ridley. As we know, Ridley died
under, to say the least of it, suspicious circum¬
stances. Sherwin has also died ; there is now
only the wife whose lips Kort by some
fiendish means has sealed.”

“But,” I interrupted, “ if any such danger
were to be apprehended from his wife’s
speaking, and he is the black villain we have
every reason to believe him to be, why has he
not made an attempt on her life ? ”

“That I cannot tell you. There is no
doubt a reason why he does not dare to kill
her. From our interviews it is evident that
she is under the influence of some terrible
fear. Our only chance is to see her when
her husband and maid are out of the house,
and the cause of terror, whatever it may be,
withdrawn.”

“ Btit that will be impossible,” I replied.
“If things are as you suggest, he will take
very good care not to leave her.”

Chetwynd put his hand to his brow with a
restless gesture;

“That is so,” he answered, slowly. “We

are indeed beset with difficulties. I wish I
could learn what special business Kort is
now transacting with that rascally lawyer.
Myerstein. I have inquired about him, and
he bears a character, to say the least, shady.
If we knew that we might get a clue. .Well,

I have done my best, and yet, now that I
review all, we seem to have got no further.
If we could only get the slightest idea of what
this business is between Myerstein and Kort
our way might be clear.”

“ Kort told me,” I replied, “ that he was
leaving here on Friday, that is to-morrow
morning. He further said that his affairs in
connection with the Club were being wound
up by Myerstein, and that Myerstein would
communicate with us on the matter.”

“ There is more behind,” said Chetwynd.

“ I wish I knew ; I earnestly wish I knew.”

“ Kort wrote to Myerstein by the post
which left here soon after four o’clock,” I
said, suddenly.

“ Fie did ? I would give my hand to see
that communication. How do you know he
has written ? ”

“ I saw the letter when the servant brought
me the post-bag.”

Chetwynd lay back in his chair and clasped
one of his hands across his eyes. The
silence lasted a long time, so long that at
first I thought my friend had fallen asleep;
but a glance at him and the taut tendons of
his hand clasped across his eyes told me that
he was thinking long and deeply.

“ Cato,” he said, at last.

“ Well ? ” I replied.

“ Are you prepared in the cause of that
unhappy woman to play a daring, underhand
game, as well as to commit an indictable
offence ? ”

“ What do you mean ? ” I asked.

“There is no help for it,” said my friend.
He sprang suddenly to his feet. Flis face
was all alive, his eyes shone with intense
excitement. “ We have got but two hours,”
he added ; “ if we do not succeed now all is
lost.”

“ Explain yourself,” I said.

“We must get possession of the letter
which has been posted to Myerstein this
afternoon.”

“My dear fellow,” I exclaimed, “that
really is impossible.”

“ It is not impossible, but it is of course
improbable, and we shall be running a great
risk; but in view of the tremendous issues
at stake, and the almost certainty that the
letter contains a clue which would put the
position into our hands, it is worth the

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

671

attempt. My conscience allows me to make it.
Will you come with me, and will you join me?”

“ I dislike the thought of it,” I said.
“ Hitherto, we at least have been-”

“ Oh, pooh ! ” interrupted Chetwynd,
“ there are times when a man must sacrifice
his so-called honour. The woman upstairs
demands that of us. She is Kort’s dupe,
his victim ; she must be rescued. I am not
ashamed of what I mean to do. Will you
join me or not ? ”

“ I will join you,” I said, slowly.

“ Then stay here till I come back. Time
is short. It is a quarter to eight now. I
will return as soon as ever I can.”

He hurried out of the room, leaving me
alone. I rang the bell and told the servant
who appeared that neither Dr. Chetwynd nor
I would be able to be present at dinner.

“ Ask Mr. Kort from me to take the head
of the table,” I continued.

The man received my message, bowed,
and withdrew. I spent the time of
Chetwynd’s absence pacing up and
down the room. At half past eight
he returned with a small, black
bag.

“ Come now, quickly,” he said ;

“we must have a hansom. I have
got the address. It is number
thirty - eight, Gledham Gardens,

South Kensington.”

“ Tell me, what is your scheme ? ”

I asked.

“A bold and risky one. You
shall soon know.”

Outside we hailed the nearest
hansom.

“South Kensington Museum,”
whispered Chetwynd to the driver,

“and a sovereign to yourself if
you do it in three-quarters of an
hour.”

The man nodded and away we
sped at a spanking trot.

“ We will get out at the Museum
and walk the rest of the way,” said
Chetwynd. “I find the letter will
be delivered at half-past nine. We
shall be just in time.”

He made no further remark till
we alighted close to the Oratory.

He then paid the man and we
hurried off in the direction of
Gledham Gardens.

“ Are you going to bribe the
postman ? ” I asked.

“ No, hush ! we are here.” As
he spoke we turned the corner of a

large square, in the centre of which stood the
usual garden.

“ That is the house,” he said, pointing in
a certain direction. He glanced at his watch.
“Twenty minutes past nine. Stand here
and wait for me in the shade of this tree,” he
continued. He crossed the road and went
up the steps of number thirty-eight to the
hall door, where he stood for a minute or
two. Then he again crossed the road and
waited in the shade of the garden. Several
people passed, and a policeman on his beat
went slowly by. Chetwynd never stirred,
and I watched him wondering. A double
knock at a door close by caused me to start
and turn round. The postman delivering
the last post at the various houses was coming
down the road. Outside number thirty-eight
he stopped for a moment or two, drew some
letters from his bag, glanced at them, ran up
the steps, put them in the letter-box, and
came down again. The moment, he did so

ROUND HERE, QUICK !

672

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Chetwynd glided softly across the road and
ran up the steps of the house. In less than
a minute he was hurrying towards me.

“ Round here, quick ! ” he said, catching
my arm, and drawing me down a turning.

“ What in the name of Heaven have you
been doing ? ” I said.

“ I have got it,” he answered, as he raised
his hand to a crawling four-wheeler. Directly
we were inside he drew forth, to my utter
amazement, the same letter which I had seen
go into the post a few hours back.

“ One moment before we read it, Cato,”
he said. He opened his little bag and took
out a strange-looking sort of black silk pouch
—the orifice oblong, and held in that shape
by a band of copper wire.

“ My post-bag,” he whispered, “ my own
little patent post-bag, very simple. I passed
this through the flap of Mr. Myerstein’s
letter-box, leaving these two little black silk
threads hanging out and quite invisible. The
postman put in his letters, four altogether,
this one and three others. I then drew out
my bag by the silk threads—it of course
contained the letters. I remove^., the one
and returned the others. Cato; we are
thieves, but upon my word it is a lucky coiip.
There was just the chance of course of a
servant happening to be in the hall. This I
had to risk, but we are safe, I have succeeded.
Now for the contents.”

I had scarcely time to recognise the subtle
ingenuity of his plot before he had torn open
the envelope and glanced at the contents.

“ By Jove ! ” he cried, “ see here ! ”

I bent forward and in breathless excite¬
ment glanced over the page. It contained
the following words :—

“ Just a line to say all well. She did
not dare to speak. Don’t forget 11.45 t0 :
night. Burn this. H. K.”

“ You see it is to-night, whatever it is,” I
said. “ My theory is right: there is a double
game playing. We must get back with all
possible speed. We must be in time to
prevent the catastrophe, whatever it may be.
There is no stopping now. We must act on
this letter.”

We left the four-wheeler, got into a
hansom, and, offering the driver anything he
wished to ask,told him to take us with all
possible speed to fhe Sanctuary Club. The
horse was a good one, and it was scarcely
half-past ten when we dashed in through the
gates.

“Straight up ; we will take the bull by the
horns,” exclaimed Chetwynd, and we both
raced up the stairs. In the corridor which

led to the Davos suite we met Kort, evidently
coming from his wife’s rooms. Chetwynd
immediately stepped up to him.

“ Cato and I wish to see your wife at
once,” he said. “ We will take no denial;
we must see her now without an instant’s
delay.”

“You cannot,” replied Kort. He quickly
retreated and stood before the door. His
face was livid with suppressed fear.

“ Stand aside, Mr. Kort,” I said, briefly;
“ your game is up.”

“You are both mad,” he almost shouted,
quivering with fury. “ I tell you if you
enter that room her death will be on your
hands.”

Chetwynd pushed him aside and laid his
hand on the hasp of the outer door.

“All right, go!” cried Kort. He sprang
suddenly aside and shot down the corridor.

We opened the door and entered the ante¬
room, but before we reached the inner door
a rush of air through the valves fell on our
ears. We dashed into Mrs. Kort’s room.
She was standing in the middle of the floor,
her eyes were fixed on the door by which we
entered, but I do not think she saw either of
us. She was breathing quickly and clutching
her head with both hands. Suddenly, with a
hoarse cry she fell to the floor, struggling and
writhing as if in a death agony, her features
twitched and her left hand clutched con¬
vulsively at her head. In an instant we were
both kneeling beside her. With her hand
she pulled aside a mass of her thick black
hair, and a loud cry burst from Chetwynd’s
lips. What he had seen I did not know.
He cried out:—

“ The lever ! the lever ! Go and exhaust,
man. She is dying, quick ! ”

I sprang to the door, closed it, and rushed
downstairs into the room where stood the
great lever that worked the exhaust apparatus.
In five minutes the sweat was pouring from
every pore in my body. I knew nothing save
that a life hung on my efforts, nor did I cease
working the great lever till the mercury in the
barometer stood at fifteen inches. Then I
felt a hand on my shoulder.

“ Well done ! You have saved her.”

I looked into Chetwynd’s eyes, and their
expression froze the bloocj at my heart.

“ I said before that Kort was a fiend,” he
continued, “ but my wildest dreams never
guessed the depths of his iniquity. Come.”

“ What is wrong ? Can you not explain ? ”
I cried.

“ There is no time yet, I will tell you
presently. Watch this lever,” he continued,

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

673

turning to two men-servants who had followed
him. “ If anyone approaches it or attempts
to tamper with it, keep him off and send for
us.”

We both returned to the Davos suite.
We entered Mrs. Kort’s sitting-room. She
was there and alone. Someone had raised
her from the floor. She was
lying on a sofa. Her face was
utterly white and exhausted.

When she saw us she stretched
out both her hands.

“ I am better; I can breathe
again,” she said.

“ The danger is past now,”
said Chetwynd ; “ but stay quiet,
do not attempt to speak.”

“ But am I safe ? Has he
gone ? ”

u You are quite safe,” an¬
swered Chetwynd.

She gave a deep sigh.

“ I can live,” she said, in a
low voice, u the agony is over,
but I nearly died. 5 ''

tc It was touch and go,” said
Chetwynd, briefly, “ but never
mind, do not say anything just
yet.”

She closed her eyes. In a
moment or two she opened them.

“ He tried it once before,” she
said, in a dreamy voice, “ once
when I would not do what he
wished. It was soon after my
marriage, when Philip Sherwin
threatened to expose him.”

Again she closed her eyes,
she seemed too weak for further conver¬
sation.

“ We will not disturb her for a few
moments,” said Chetwynd to me; “ she has
gone through agony which only she can
fathom.”

“ But what about Kort? ” I inquired. “ Is
he likely to come back? Is he likely to do
her a further injury ? ”

“ He must have seen that his game was
up and has probably left the Club,” was
Chetwynd’s answer; “ but if you will stay
here with Mrs. Kort I will go and inquire.”
He went out of the room. In a few moments
he returned with a strong restorative in his
hand.

“ I guessed aright, the man has already
left the Club,” he said, looking at me, then
kneeling beside Mrs. Kort he slightly raised
her head. “ Drink this off,” he said, ££ you
will be better afterwards.” He held the glass

Vol. xviii.—85

to her lips. She drained the contents to the
last drop and then sat up on her sofa.

“ Oh, I am much better,” she said, with a
deep sigh, ££ much stronger.”

££ You need not fear your husband’s
return,” said Chetwynd then, ££ we have
taken measures to secure you against the

“ HE HELD THE GLASS TO HER LIPS.”

recurrence of the horrible torture to which
he has just subjected you. Why he did this
horrible deed we have yet to learn, but you
need fear no repetition of it.”

££ Has he left the house ? ” she asked.

££ Yes, he will never come near you again,
Mrs. Kort. Dr. Cato and I are both deter¬
mined men, and we would give our lives to
help you. Now pray tell us all you can of
your most miserable story.”

She looked full at us, the pupils of her
eyes began to darken, she breathed more
quietly, then she sat up once more on
her sofa.

££ I will tell you,” she said. ££ Something
seems to assure me that the danger is over;
it will be a relief to speak.”

Neither Chetwynd nor I said a word. She
began the recital of her terrible wrongs in a
low voice.

££ Five years ago I married Mr. Kort in

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

674

Vienna. I was studying medicine there at
the time. 1 had always a great love for
science, and for medical science in particular.
I was thought clever, I had brains, and I
longed to use them. I was particularly
interested in everything which related to
psychological research. The relation of mind
to matter was a problem to which I hoped to
devote my life. When I first met Mr.
Kort I was engaged to a man whom 1 then
sincerely loved, and who most passionately
loved me. His name was Philip Sherwin.”

Neither Chetwynd nor I spoke a word.
She looked up at us with a half questioning
glance, and then continued: —

“I was engaged to him—would that I had
married him ! Since then he has died.”

“ Pie died in this house,” I said, slowly.

“ Ah ! you know about him,” she ex¬
claimed. “Ofcourse, I heard that he died
here. You will tell me of his last hours
presently.”

“ We will,” said Chetwynd, “ but pray
proceed now with your own story, it is of
paramount importance for the time being.”

She went on quietly.

“Mr. Kort had a wonderful manner, a
strange and overpowering fascination. He
soon exercised an extraordinary influence
over me. He often talked to me on the
subject which interested us both. How each
pearly cell in the brain, to the sight the
merest protoplasm, is really the agent through
which the lives, thoughts, and emotions of
all humanity are manifested, and in which
the greatest sacrifices, renunciations, vices,
and virtues have their origin. One day he
asked me if I would be his wife. I told him
that I was engaged to Philip Sherwin. That
fact seemed not to affect him in the least.
Pie pursued his attentions, and one night in
the presence of several friends he mesmerized
me. After that my will seemed weakened,
he put me into the mesmeric trance from
time to time, and at last I was completely in
his power. I gave up the man to whom I
was engaged for the other man who had
completely won what I supposed was my
heart. I thought of no one but him. He
had so transformed my nature that Mr.
S her win’s most passionate appeals had not
the slightest effect upon me. It did not
seem to me a sin to break his heart. I little
knew to what all this was leading up. Mr.
Kort and I were married, and a month or
two later my husband gave me a glimpse into
his true mind. I had always thought that
his love of science was one of the strongest
motives of his nature. I now saw that

there was something else even stronger.
Pie was intensely, cruelly ambitious. He
wanted to be a great discoverer; he wished
his name to be handed down to the race
as the man who had proved one of the
most abstruse and, to my thinking, appalling
theories that ever dawned upon the human
mind. Pie told me on one special awful
night that it was his belief that every thought
or motion arises, not from a spiritual source,
but merely from a physical change in certain
cells in the brain. He said it would be
possible to prove this by stimulating these
cells, so that character, moral sense, even
conscience itself, and all that had hitherto
been accepted as belonging to the spiritual
part of our nature, would be really at the
mercy of the physiologist. He said this
could only be proved by experiment; that
such an experiment could not be tried on the
animal world, but only on a human subject.
I listened to him with horror at his words,
but still without following their main adrift.

“‘Then thank God you can never prove
your theory,’ was my remark.

“‘Do you say so?’he answered, and he
fixed his eyes on my face. ‘I can by experi¬
ment on a human subject.’

“ I turned from him when he said this, with
a sense of sudden and sick fear. We were
both in his laboratory. I rose and attempted
to leave the room. He called me back in
that voice which I was powerless to resist.

“‘You can be that subject,’ he said, and
he put his hands on my shoulders and looked
into my eyes.

“ ‘ I ! Never ! Never ! Are you mad ? ’
was my reply.

“ ‘ I am not mad, I am sane. I repeat my
words. You can be my subject.’

“There was an expression in his eyes
which drove me to my knees.

“ ‘ What do you mean ? ’ I cried. ‘ You
terrify me, you frighten me. You would not
hurt me, your wife ? Oh, Horace ! give this
ghastly thing up ! Leave it in the secret
rooms of God’s treasure house. We are
better off with the old beliefs.’

“ He laughed a cruel laugh.

“ ‘ Come, Isobel,’ he said, ‘ I have not
mesmerized you for a long time, I mean to
do so now.’

“I cried aloud in my terror. He held both
my hands and stooping looked into my eyes.
I struggled against his influence. I think I
screamed, then memory and sensation faded
and I remembered nothing more. When I
came to myself all was changed. I felt sick
and bewildered, and with great difficulty could

S TO SUES OE THE SANCTUARY CLUB.

675

recall what had happened before I had sunk
to sleep. My husband was in the room with
me. He was holding both my hands
and telling me to keep calm. After a
time I found to my horror that I was
wearing a small metal cap on a part of
my head. I asked him what it meant and
he told me.

‘“I have made the experiment on you,
Isobel,’ he said. ‘To you is given the
honour of being the means of proving the
most marvellous theory in all the world. For
the purpose of my experiment I was obliged
to trephine a certain portion of your skull.
I was not able to bring you back to con¬
sciousness after the operation, and only
succeeded in doing so by preventing the
normal atmospheric pressure of fifteen pounds
to the square inch from pressing upon your
brain. The exhaust cup which you are
wearing relieves that pressure, and as long as
you wear it your life is safe.’

“‘But am I never to be well again?’ I
asked.

“ k That depends,’ he answered, and ho gave
a cruel smile.

“Time went on, but there was no
improvement in my condition. Once
I tried myself to remove the ex¬
hausted metallic cup. I immediately
fainted, and should have died had
my husband not rapidly replaced it.

But even when wearing it my memory
often failed me. About a month
after my husband’s awful experiment
we made the acquaintance of a cer¬
tain Mr. Charles Ridley. He often
came to see us, and my husband and
he became great friends. On the
occasion of one of his visits I sud¬
denly fainted in his presence. He
was alone with me, and I never could
tell what he discovered or what he
did not. My husband rushed into
the room and soon put me right, but
after that I knew that Mr. Ridley
suspected my husband.

“ A few weeks went by, when one
day Philip Sherwin, the man whom
I had once loved and so cruelly
deserted, burst into my presence.

He told me that Mr. Ridley had
spoken to him ; that he had put two
and two together and knew all. He
said that my husband was in reality a
murderer. He uttered words which
really opened my eyes. He declared
that he meant to proclaim my hus¬
band’s infamy to ail the world. Into

the midst of this scene Horace himself
entered. He spoke quietly, kept his temper,
and presently got Mr. Sherwin to leave
me. What followed that night I find almost
impossible to describe. My husband had
me completely in his power both soul and
body.

“‘Sherwin must hold his tongue,’ he said.

‘ As to Ridley, he does not know all. He
has not got Sherwin’s scientific knowledge,
and can never absolutely guess at the truth ;
but with Sherwin to aid him the thing will
be common talk. I shall be ruined; I shall
never be able to complete my discovery. I
am desperate and would stop at nothing.
You, Isobel, must wring a promise from him.
If he does not swear to you that he will
never reveal what he knows I will remove
the metallic cup.’

“As he spoke I looked into his eyes and
read my fate.

“ ‘ What is your life ? ’ he said. ‘What is
the life of any woman, any man, compared
to the knowledge which through you I am
gradually obtaining? I shall be the greatc: l

1 LOOKED INTO IIIS EYES AND HEAD MY KATE.

676

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

psychological discoverer of my day. You
must do what I wish and at once.’

“ I yielded to his demands, for terror made
me. I saw Philip and begged of him, be¬
cause of our old love, to remain silent. I do
not knowhow I spoke or how I argued; but,
at last, driven to despair by my entreaties, he
made the promise. Until 1 gave him leave
he would not betray my husband.

“ A week afterwards Horace and I left
Vienna. We went at once to Davos. When
there, to my great astonishment, I became
perfectly well, strong, and vigorous. I was
not even obliged to wear the cup, and I
much rejoiced at being able to do without it.
My husband was more kind than he had
been. 1 began to feel almost my usual
health, but as soon as I went down into die
valleys the oppression, loss of memory, and
faintness returned. One day my husband
told me that he had heard of your Club. He
said that by special mechanical arrangements
an artificial suite of rooms had been made
here in which the atmospheric pressure could
be kept the same as that of the mountain
air at Davos. My husband was extremely
anxious to become one of your partners. I
had a few thousand pounds which my father
left me. He asked me if I would give it
to him in order that he might buy a share
in the Sanctuary Club. This I was willing to
do, as I wanted to return to England. He
then brought me to England, and eventually
I came here ; but although I could live in
comparative comfort in the Davos suite, the
horror of my mind can never be described.
More and more, day after day, my eyes were
opened to the brutal character of the man to
whom I had been united. He never minded
what he said to me, and always explained his
plans and intentions, assuring me as he
watched my face that nothing was better for
the success of his experiments than the manner
in which I received them. Thus I knew all
about him and all about his victims. It was he
who incited Mr. Banpfylde to break the Prince
Rupert’s Drop, thus causing his death, while
my husband rushed into the room in the
dark and removed the jewel. Then most
unexpectedly Mr. Charles Ridley appeared
upon the scene. He knew enough about my
husband’s secret to make things unpleasant
for him. My husband therefore devised
his ruin and then his death. Fie put
atropine into the bottle which contained the
soda-water. Some of the contents got into
the jockey’s eyes with the usual result, a
temporary paralysis of the pupils ol the eyes.
The jockey could not guide his horse, and

thus the race was lost and Mr. Ridley ruined.
But this was not enough. The next day the
unfortunate man was supposed to have died
by suicide. This was not the case. My
husband shot him and proved an alibi in a
most cunning way. O11 the previous day he
himself took the photograph which, as you
remember, saved him, and he put the plate
into Mr. Ridley’s camera in order that
it should appear that Mr. Ridley had
taken the photograph at a certain hour. It
had in reality been taken twenty-four hours
earlier, and Mr. Ridley had not taken any
photograph that morning.

“ Once again,it was my miserable husband
who was in league with Mr. Sutherland to
get the insurance money on the life of
Harold Beauchamp. It was he who ad¬
ministered the poison to Mr. Beauchamp,
and Mr. Sutherland and he were to divide
the spoils between them. This scheme, as
you know, failed owing to Dr. Chetwynd’s
genius. Mr. Sutherland, getting news of the
removal of the ashes from Woking, com¬
mitted suicide in terror, and my husband
afterwards forged his confession, thus exonera¬
ting himself from all blame. Yes,few men have
been so wicked, and the extraordinary thing
is that he should have confided in me in the
way he did; but he felt certain of my silence,
knowing what the consequences would be to
myself if I ever revealed the truth. There
were moments, however, when I was so mad
with misery and anguish, that I determined
to risk all in order to let you know; but he
invariably prevented me, and at last, seeing
that I would creep away from my prison when¬
ever I got the chance, he removed the cup.
After this, my position became too awful. I
was confined a close prisoner in my own
rooms. My maid, Susan, was,* of course, in
his pay, and was in some ways a worse tyrant
than even my husband himself. You have
wondered, I dare say, why I did not send
for you, why I did not speak. I dared
not; I was in the utmost danger. My
maid would have been listening by means
of a tube which my husband had himself
inserted into the wall between this room and
my bedroom. She was ready the moment
she heard me utter a word of our ghastly
secret to communicate with him. He was
then to release the valve and I should fall
dead in this room. Now you know all.
When you two forced your way in here an
hour ago my husband saw that all was up, but
at any cost he would seal my lips. He released
the valve. But for Dr. Cato’s quickness I
should have been a dead woman.”

STORIES OF THE SANCTUARY CLUB .

677

She paused. For a time Chetwynd and I
were silent, rooted to the spot by this horrible
tale. Chetwynd was the first to speak; he
turned to me.

“ Stay with her, Cato, I must not waste a
moment in loosing the hounds on Kort ; he
cannot have got far yet. He did not count
on my inspiration when I sent you to the
lever just in time.”

“ No, he thought the grave would cover
the most ghastly part of his secret,” was my
answer ; “ but all is up with him now. Don’t
lose a moment, Chetwynd. That man must
suffer the full penalty of his crimes.”

Chetwynd went away. Two or three hours
afterwards he came back. I was still in Mrs.
Kort’s room. She was lying on the sofa, her
eyes closed. What her thoughts were I
could not say. He handed me a telegram
which he had just received. It was from

he said ; “ your husband has left the Club and
your wicked maid has also vanished. You
need never fear seeing either of them
again.”

We went into the anteroom, as we did not
like to leave Mrs. Kort too long alone.

“ Can anything be done for her ? ” I
asked.

“ I hope so,” he answered, briefly, “ but do
you know what has occurred ? ”

“ I can partly guess, but I have not
examined the skull.”

“ I have,” he answered. “ A portion of
the right parietal bone has been depressed,
which, as of course you know, would
in ordinary circumstances cause all the
symptoms of compression of the brain, stupor,
lethargy, passing into coma, which unless
relieved passes into death. To relieve this
at the time was simple enough. Kort had

“chetwynd explained everything to her.”

Inspector Clarkson : “ Have arrested Horace
Kort at Southampton.”

“ Thank God ! ” was my exclamation.

“ The law will punish him,” said my friend.
“ We will leave him for the present to his
God and to the law of the land. I want to
talk to you about someone else.” As he
spoke he looked at Mrs. Kort.

“ I am sending a nurse to look after you,”

merely to raise the bone and keep it raised
till it had united with the surrounding bone.
This he did not do, for it would have foiled
his purpose and made experiments impos¬
sible, and so long as this state of things per¬
sisted, the ordinary atmospheric pressure
would cause the natural train of symptoms of
compression. But under a minus pressure,
such as in our Davos suite, or under an

678

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

apparatus locally applied, such as the
metallic cup, Mrs. Kort would be well, as
the portion of the bone would be raised and
the pressure relieved.”

“But what about the unhappy girl now?
Is she to be a prisoner ail the rest of her
days ? ” I cried.

“ We must do what we can for her,”
answered Chetwynd; “ but the condition of
things is formidable. Our only chance is to
raise the semi-detached bone, break away
the callus that has formed, in order to give
a fresh surface for healing, and trust to nature
to unite it to the surrounding bone. The
Davos rooms are excellently suited for our
purpose, and she can remain there during
convalescence. Then in a few weeks, if all
goes well, we will gradually let in more and
more atmospheric pressure and see how the
bone stands it. If it has united and she
suffers no uncomfortable symptoms, she can
step out into the world a free woman.”

“Will you undertake it?” I cried. “It
will be the crowning triumph of your life.”

“If she gives her consent,” answered
Chetwynd.

That evening we had another interview
with Mrs. Kort. Chetwynd explained every¬
thing to her with the utmost fulness.

“ With your medical knowledge you must
understand what we mean,” he said. “ I will
undertake the operation, and Cato will give
you chloroform, provided you .are willing;
but I must frankly tell you that the danger
is great, you may never come out of it
alive.”

“But if I do?” she asked, raising those
wonderful sapphire eyes to his.

“If all goes well,” he replied, “and I
firmly believe and hope that all will go well,
you will be a free woman once more.”

“ Then I consent,” she answered. “ How
soon will you give me back my liberty?”

“To-morrow morning,” said Chetwynd.

The operation was performed, and proved
a complete success. In three weeks Mrs.
Kort was convalescent. We gradually let in
the atmospheric pressure. She showed no
signs of distress, and came out of her prison
well and eternally grateful. Nevertheless, a
curious thing had happened. As she went
into that awful prison house she did not
return. She was a changed woman—strong
and blooming, no doubt, but without any
memory of the awful thing which had
happened to her. Never from the day of
her recovery has she been heard to inquire
for her husband or to mention his name.
All the memory of that fearful time in her
life was blotted out as if it had never
existed.

This was indeed well, for Kort was brought
to trial and received the extreme penalty of
the law for his awful crimes.

As to the maid, the police failed to find
her, and she has doubtless long since left
England.

Kort is dead. He lies in his dishonoured
grave, and the world is all the better for his
removal. But the Sanctuary Club lives and
flourishes. Mrs. Kort is still a member, and
the most invaluable help to Chetwynd and
myself. Her lost memory she will never get
again, but her wit, her brightness, and her
beauty are the delight and surprise of all who
come to the Club.

Conclusion.

A Burlesque Bull-Fight.

By Albert H. Broadwell.

N ugly rumour had spread its wings
over Southend in general and the
Corporation in particular. In fact,
some wicked fairy had spread a
tale of horror ; it ran to the effect
that the popular seaside resort would hence-

DRESSING THE **BULL.’

fact remains nevertheless, that Englishmen
as a body abhor a bull-fight and everything
connected therewith, and though this fact may
have been pointed out times without number,
it is pleasing to reiterate the sentiment, inas¬
much as in this particular case it is indorsed in

the most emphatic
manner by Her
Majesty the
Queen.

As will be seen
in the telegram
which, by kind per¬
mission, we are
allowed to reprint
in full, Her
Majesty takes the
liveliest interest in
any movement
that touches upon
the welfare and
self-respect of her
subjects.

On hearing of
the proposed bull¬
fight at Southend,
Her Majesty tele¬
graphed through
the Home Office
as follows:—

forth become the
scene of bloody
Southern bull¬
fights. Though
much banter and
something worse
originated with that
rumour, all doubts
and fears were
quickly quelled by
the Mayor and
other local author¬
ities, who promptly
put their foot
down in the most
determined man¬
ner, which praise¬
worthy action
should meet with
universal approval.

T hough the
rumour may have
been treated some¬
what lightly in
certain quarters,
the undoubted

NEARLY READY.

68o

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE INFURIATED ANIMAL ENTERS
THE ARENA.

enabled to convey to
millions of readers the
righteous indignation
felt by the Queen at the
very proposal of a bull¬
fight taking place on
English soil.

There is something
more, however, in Her
Majesty’s words—some¬
thing sweet and womanly.
Infinite care and tender-

On Iier Majesty’s
Service.

Parliament Street.
Town Clerk,
Southend,

The Queen is in¬
quiring about ru¬
moured bull - fight.
Please telegraph
precisely what is
proposed. Even if
the intention is only
burlesque with dogs,
Queen is anxious
there should be no
cruelty. Town
Council have taken
some action, I think.
Would be glad of
full report following
telegram. Pedder,
Private Secretary to
Secretary of State,
Home Office.

We are proud
of thus being

ness for the weak and the defenceless are
revealed in the few words that follow: “ Even
if the intention is only burlesque with, dogs ,
Queen is anxious there should be no cruelty .”

Now, we have made a point of investigating
this matter thoroughly. Let it be said at
once that there is no cruelty whatever in this
burlesque performance. As a matter of fact,
the clever dog whose task it is to imper¬
sonate the bull enjoys the fun as much as
the audience itself.

The Brothers Boston, well known for their
clever performances the world over, are full
of original ideas. One of these consists in
dressing up a favourite dog of theirs as a
bull, and going through a burlesque bull-fight,
to the intense enjoyment of everybody.

The first two pictures which we reproduce
here represent the dressing of the “ bull.”
Though corrida bulls are usually “ dressed ”
after the performance, our particular bull is

WITH A BOUND AND A RUSH THE BULL IS UPON HIM.

THERE IS AN UGLY GLEAM IN HJS MURDEROUS EYE,

dressed before, and, let it be said, in a more
pleasing manner altogether.

For expediency’s sake, the usual para¬
phernalia of regular bull-fights is dispensed
with, and defenceless horses are an unknown
quantity.

Both Shutthatdor and Bangthatdor are
busily engaged in slipping on the various
garments which are to transform a very good
and obedient dog into the fiercest of diminu¬
tive bulls.

The bull’s head, which is made of the
lightest material, is firmly tied on to the
artificial hide, and so as to take all the
weight, such as it is, entirely off the plucky
dog’s head. Moreover, the inside of the
mask or head is carefully padded, so that
no harm could possibly befall its wearer.

In the next picture the audience is spell-

A BURLESQUE BULL-FIGHT.

681

HIS FRANTIC EFFORTS TO ESCAPE ARE UNAVAILING.

no time to regain
his feet; another
blood-curdling roar
(or bark), and a
fresh charge is
made. With a
bound and a rush
the bull is again
upon him. The
audience crowding
the benches in the
background grows
frantic ; no cigars,
fair duenna’s
gloves, or other
second-hand
articles are thrown

bound. The “ bull ” makes
his first appearance in the
ring, and very terrible does
he look, too. His blood¬
shot eyes roll from side to
side even as balls of fire;
he is cautiously followed by
the very man deputed to
spell his doom by means of
the ghastly tin sword firmly
gripped in his right hand.

For a moment the bull
stands terrible yet un¬
decided. There is an ugly
gleam in his murderous
glass eye; there is some¬
thing uglier still awaiting
his bold antagonists.

Watch! What
will happen now ?

He charges with
fury indescrib¬
able ; he gains in
impetus as he
rushes madly at
one of his oppo¬
nents. There is
arv angry roar (or
bark), and Shut-
thatdor is felled
to the ground.

Will he ever rise
again? Will
Bangthatdor suc¬
ceed in attracting
the infuriated
animal’s atten¬
tion ? No ; all
efforts are un¬
availing. The
doomed man has

VoI 4 xviii. — 8G.

' •

.

AN EXCITING BIT OF BY-PI.AY,

—the tension is
too great.

The second
onslaught is more
disastrous than
the first. Shut-
thatdor is help¬
less ; he struggles
vainly; his frantic
efforts to escape
are unavailing.
He is done, and
like a wise man
he at last resorts
to a well-known
dodge: he feigns
death. The sub¬
terfuge succeeds
amazingly well.
His victorious
enemy sniffs once
or twice, and at-

682

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

AN ATTEMPT TO PLACE THE BANDFRILLEROS,

tracted by the red rag of Bangthatdor he
leaves his victim for a moment, bent upon
more slaughter.

They are away and out of the picture.
Shutthatdor rises quickly and flies to the
rescue of his comrade in danger. He
succeeds in bringing the infuriated beast
once more into focus, and here we
have an exciting bit of by-play.

The bull is
checked, but for
an instant only.

There is an at¬
tempt to place
the banderilieros,
but it fails. Once
more Bangthatdor
comes to the
rescue and attracts
the bull’s atten¬
tion to himself.

Shutthatdor re¬
covers from his
temporary dis¬
comfiture. He
intends to place
those banderil-
leros sooner or
later, and he will.

Now on two legs,
now on three, and
sometimes on all
fours, the angry
bull charges again
and again. The

audience on the
benches grows
more frantic than
ever. The very
seats shake as thfcy
have never shaken
before, and the
applause becomes
deafening.

A fresh attempt
is made to stick
the maddening
banderilieros deep
into the shoulders
of the . bull. The
second attempt
fails also. It is
tried again and
again. Shutthat-
dor’s pluck is truly
amazing. Now !
look, he has ac¬
complished that
most mighty of
feats. No; he has not! But he has ! One
magnificent lunge, requiring much pluck
and dexterity, and the deed is done. The
bull has stayed his mad flight for an instant
only—silent and irresolute he wavers in his
attack—that is enough. Shutthatdor is upon
him with a will, and the dreaded bande¬
rilieros sink deep-into the horse-hair

cushion specially provided for the purpose.

THE BANDERILLEROS SINK DEEP.

A BURLESQUE BULL-FIGHT.

683

the sight is refreshing, indeed, after
so much excitement. The bull is
busily engaged in the rapid consump¬
tion of numerous well-earned biscuits,
and we take our leave, much pleased
with each other and with that clever
dog in particular.

I We are indebted to Mr. George Scott, general mana¬
ger of the palatial Southend Kursaaland Marine Park,
and his assistant Mr. Leslie, for their kind assistance
in connection with the above article and photos.]

THEY RUN FOR THEIR LIVES.

This is overdoing things altogether, our jg
plucky “ bull ” seeks vengeance, and his an¬
tagonists run for their lives. He is in quest
of blood : he charges madly right and left.

He is sightless, and it is pitiful to notice that
somehow he knows that his doom is near.

Bangthatdor returns with an ugly gleam
in his left eye, and awaits his opportunity.

It comes at last: the fatal thrust is given,
and the fight is ended for ever (that is, of
course, until the next performance).

Cheers upon cheers ring loud; they shake
the very foundations of the edifice as the
conquered hero is dragged lifeless from the
arena on a sack borrowed for the purpose.

They are all out of focus now, and

“ THE FIGHT IS ENDED FOR EVER.”

!

DRAGGED LIFELESS FROM THE ARENA.’

Hilda Wade.

By Grant Allen.

X.—'THE EPISODE OE THE GUIDE WHO KNEW THE COUNTRY.

E toured all round India with
the Meadowcrofts : and really
the lady who was “so very
exclusive ” turned out not a
bad little thing when once one
had succeeded in breaking
through the ring-fence with which she sur¬
rounded herself. She had an endless, quench¬
less restlessness, it is true : her eyes wandered
aimlessly: she never was happy for two
minutes together, unless she was surrounded
by friends, and was seeing
something. What she saw
did not interest her much :
certainly her tastes were on
a level with those of a very
young child. An odd¬
looking house, a queerly-
dressed man, a tree cut into
shape to look like a pea¬
cock, delighted her far more
truly than the most glorious
view or the quaintest old
temple. Still, she must be
seeing. She could

no more sit still
than a fidgety child
or a monkey at the
Zoo. To be up and
doing was her nature
—doing nothing, to
be sure; but still,
doing it strenuously.

So we went the
regulation round of
Delhi and Agra, the
Taj Mahal and the
Ghats at Benares, at
railroad speed, ful¬
filling the whole
duty of the modern globe-trotter. Lady
Meadowcroft looked at everything—for ten
minutes at a stretch ; then she wanted to be
off, to visit the next thing set down for her
in her guide-book. As we left each town
she murmured mechanically, “ Well, we’ve
seen that, thank Heaven ! ” and straightway
went on, with equal eagerness and equal
boredom, to see the one after it.

The only thing that did not bore her,
indeed, was Hilda’s bright talk.

“ Oh, Miss Wade,” she would say, clasping
her hands, and looking up into Hilda’s eyes
with her own empty blue ones, “ you are so

YOU ARK SO RUNNY

funny ! So original, don’t you know ! You
never talk or think of anything like other
people. I can’t imagine how such ideas
come up in your mind. If I were to try all
day, I’m sure I should never hit upon them ! ”
Which was so perfectly true as to be a trifle
obvious.

Sir Ivor, not being interested in temples,
but in steel rails, had gone on at once to his
concession, or contract, or whatever else it
was, on the north-east frontier, leaving his
wife to follow and
rejoin him in the
Himalayas as soon
as she had exhausted
the sights of India.
So, after a few dusty
weeks of wear and
tear on the Indian
railways, we met him
once more in the
recesses of Nepaul,
where he was busy
constructing a light
local line for the
reigning Maharajah.

If Lady Meadow¬
croft had been bored
at Allahabad and
Ajmere, she was im¬
mensely more bored
in a rough bungalow
among the trackless
depths of the Hima¬
layan valleys. To
anybody with eyes in
his head, indeed,
Toloo, where Sir Ivor
had pitched his head¬
quarters, was lovely
enough to keep one interested for a twelve-
month. Snow-clad needles of rock hemmed
it in on either hand : great deodars rose like
huge tapers on the hillsides : the plants and
flowers were a joy to look at. But Lady
Meadowcroft did not care for flowers which
one could not wear in one’s hair: and what
was the good of dressing here, with no one
but Ivor and Dr. Cumberledge to see one ?
She yawned till she was tired : then she
began to grow peevish.

“ Why Ivor should want to build a railway
at all in this stupid, silly place,” she said, as
we sat in the veranda in the cool of evening,

HILDA

WADE.

68 S

“ I’m sure I can’t imagine. We nnist go
somewhere. This is maddening, maddening !
Miss Wade—Dr. Cumberledge- I count
upon you to discover something for me to do.
If I vegetate like this, seeing nothing all day
long but those eternal hills ”—she clenched
her little fist—“ I shall go mad with ennui.”

Hilda had a happy thought. “ I have a
fancy to see some of these Buddhist monas¬
teries,” she said, smiling as one smiles at a
tiresome child whom one likes in spite of
everything. “You remember, I was reading
that book of Mr. Simpson’s on the steamer
—coming out—a curious book about the
Buddhist Praying-Wheels : and it made me
want to see one of their temples immensely.
What do you say to camping out ? A few
weeks in the hills ? It would be an adventure,
at any rate.”

“Camping out?” Lady Meadowcroft ex¬
claimed, half roused from her languor by the
idea of a change. “Oh, do you think that
would be fun ? Should we sleep on the
ground ? But, wouldn’t it be dreadfully,
horribly uncomfortable ? ”

“ Not half so uncomfortable as you’ll find
yourself here at Toloo in a few days, Emmie,”
her husband put in, grimly. “The rains will
soon be on, lass : and when the rains are on,
by all accounts, they’re precious heavy here¬
abouts—rare fine rains, so that a man’s half-
flooded out of his bed o’ nights—which won’t
suit you ) my lady.”

The poor little woman clasped her twitch¬
ing hands in feeble agony. “ Oh, Ivor, how
dreadful! Is it what they call the mongoose,
or monsoon, or something? But if they’re
so bad here, surely they’ll be worse in the
hills—and camping out, too—won’t they?”

“Not if you go the right way to work.
Ah’m told it never rains t’other side o’ the
hills. The mountains stop the clouds, and
once you’re over, you’re safe enough. Only,
you must take care to keep well in the
Maharajah’s territory. Cross the frontier
t’other side into Tibet, an’ they’ll skin thee
alive as soon as look at thee. They don’t
like strangers in 'Tibet: prejudiced against
them, somehow : they pretty well skinned that
young chap Landor who tried to go there a
year ago.”

“ But, Ivor, I don’t want to be skinned
alive ! I’m not an eel, please ! ”

“ That’s all right, lass. Leave that to me.
I can get thee a guide, a man that’s very
well acquainted with the mountains. I was
talking to a scientific explorer here t’other
day, and he knows of a good guide who can
take you anywhere. He’ll get you the chance

of seeing the inside of a Buddhist monastery
if you like, Miss Wade. He’s hand in glove
with all the religion they’ve got in this part o’
the country. 'They’ve got noan much, but
at what there is, he’s a rare devout one.”

We discussed the matter fully for two or
three days before we made our minds up.
Lady Meadowcroft was undecided between
her hatred of dulness and her haunting fear
that scorpions and snakes would intrude
upon our tents and beds while we were
camping. In the end, however, the desire
for change carried the day. She decided to
dodge the rainy season by getting behind the
Himalayan passes, in the dry region to the
north of the great range, where rain seldom
falls, the country being watered only by the
melting of the snows on the high summits.

This decision delighted Hilda, who, since
she came to India, had fallen a prey to the
fashionable vice of amateur photography.
She took to it enthusiastically. She had
bought herself a first-rate camera of the
latest scientific pattern at Bombay, and ever
since had spent all her time and spoiled her
pretty hands in “developing.” She was also
seized with a craze for Buddhism. 'The
objects that everywhere particularly attracted
her were the old Buddhist temples and
tombs and sculptures with which India is
studded: of these she had taken some
hundreds of views, all printed by herself
with the greatest care and precision. But in
India, after all, Buddhism is a dead creed:
its monuments alone remain ; she was anxious
to see the Buddhist religion in its living state ;
and that she could only do in these remote
outlying Himalayan valleys.

Our outfit, therefore, included a dark tent
for Hilda’s photographic apparatus ; a couple
of roomy tents to live and sleep in ; a small
cooking stove : a cook to look after it; half-
a - dozen bearers; and the highly recom¬
mended guide who knew his way about the
country. In three days we were ready, to
Sir Ivor’s great delight. He was fond of his
pretty wife, and proud of her, I believe; but
when once she was away from the whirl and
bustle of the London that she loved, it was
a relief to him, I fancy, to pursue his work
alone, unhampered by her restless and
querulous childishness.

On the morning when we were to make
our start the guide who was “ well acquainted
with the mountains ” turned up—as villainous-
looking a person as I have ever set eyes on.
He was sullen and furtive. I judged him at
sight to be half Hindu, half Tibetan. He
had a dark complexion, between brown and

686

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

tawny: narrow slant eyes, very small and
beady-black, with a cunning leer in their
oblique corners ; a flat nose much broadened
at the wings ; a cruel, thick, sensuous mouth,
and high cheek-bones ; the whole surmounted
by a comprehensive scowl, and an abundant
crop of lank black hair, tied up in a knot at
the nape of the neck with a yellow ribbon.
His face was shifty : his short, stout form
looked well adapted to mountain climbing,
and also to wriggling. A deep
scar on his left cheek did not help
to inspire confidence. But he
was polite and civil-spoken. Alto¬
gether a clever, unscrupulous,
wide-awake soul, who would serve
you well if he thought he could
make by it, and would betray you
at a pinch to the highest bidder.

We set out, in merry mood,
prepared to solve all the abstruse
problems of the Buddhist religion.

Our spoilt child stood the camping
out better than I expected.

She was fretful, of course,
and worried about trifles :
she missed her maid and her
accustomed comforts; but
she minded the roughing it
less, on the whole, than she
had minded the boredom of
inaction in the bungalow;
and, being cast on Hilda
and myself for resources, she
suddenly evolved an un¬
expected taste for producing,
developing, and printing
photographs. We took
dozens, as we went along, of
little villages on our route, wood-built villages
with quaint houses and turrets; and as Hilda
had brought her collection of prints with her,
for comparison of the Indian and Nepaulese
monuments, we spent the evenings after our
short day’s march each day in arranging and
collating them. We had planned to be away
six weeks at least: in that time the monsoon
would have burst and passed : our guide
thought we might see all that was worth
seeing of the Buddhist monasteries, and Sir
Ivor thought we should have fairly escaped
the dreaded wet season.

“ What do you make of our guide ? ” I
asked of Hilda on our fourth day out. I
began somehow to distrust him.

“ Oh, he seems all right,” Hilda answered,
carelessly—and her voice reassured me.
“ He’s a rogue, of course: all guides and in¬
terpreters, and dragomans and the like, in

out-of-the-way places, always are rogues: if
they were honest men they would share the
ordinary prejudices of their countrymen, and
would have nothing to do with the hated
stranger. But in this case our friend Ram
Das has no end to gain by getting us into
mischief: if he had, he wouldn’t scruple for
a second to cut our throats : but then, there
are too many of us. He will probably try
to cheat us by making preposterous charges
when he gets us back to
Toloo: but that’s Lady
Meadowcroft’s business. I
don’t doubt Sir Ivor will be
more than a match for him
there: I’ll back one shrewd
Yorkshireman against any
three Tibetan half-castes, any
day.”

“You’re right that he
would cut our throats if it
served his purpose,” I
answered. “ He’s servile,
and servility goes hand in
hand with treachery. The
more I watch him, the more
I see ‘ scoundrel ’ written in
large type on every bend of
the fellow’s oily shoulders.”

“ Oh, yes; he’s a bad lot,

I know. The cook, who
can speak a little English
and a little Tibetan, as well
as Hindustani, tells me Ram
Das has the worst reputation
of any man in the mountains.
But he says he’s a very good
guide to the passes for all
that, and if he’s well paid
will do what lie’s paid for.”

Next day but one we approached at last,
after several short marches, the neighbour¬
hood of what our guide assured us was a
Buddhist monastery. I was glad when he
told us of it, giving the place the name of a
well-known Nepaulese village; for, to say
the truth, I was beginning to get frightened.
Judging by the sun, for I had brought no
compass, it struck me that we seemed to
have been marching almost due north ever
since we left Toloo: and I fancied such a
line of march must have brought us by this
time suspiciously near the Tibetan frontier.
Now, I had no desire to be “skinned alive,”
as Sir Ivor put it: I did not wish to emulate
St. Bartholomew and others of the early
Christian martyrs : so I was pleased to learn
that we were really drawing near to Kulak,
the first of the Nepaulese Buddhist monas-

“ THE GUIDE.”

HILDA WADE.

687

teries to which our well-informed guide, him¬
self a Buddhist, had promised to introduce
us.

We were tramping up a beautiful high
mountain valley, closed round on every side
by snowy peaks. A brawling river ran over
a rocky bed in cataracts down its midst:
crags rose abruptly a little in front of us.
Half-way up the slope to the left, on a ledge
of rock, rose a long, low building with curious,
pyramid-like roofs, crowned at either end by
a sort of minaret, which resembled more than
anything else a huge earthenware oil-jar.
This was the monastery or lamasery we had
come so far to see. Honestly, at first sight,
I did not feel sure it was worth the trouble.

Our guide called a halt, and turned to us
with a sudden peremptory air. His servility
had vanished. “ You stoppee here,” he said,

slowly, in broken English, “ while me-a go on
to see whether Lama-sahibs ready to take
you. Must ask leave from Lama-sahibs to
visit village : if no ask leave ”—he drew his
hand across his throat with a significant
gesture — “ Lama - sahibs cuttee head off
Eulopean.”

“Goodness gracious,” Lady Meadowcroft
cried, clinging tight to Hilda. “ Miss Wade,
this is dreadful! Where on earth have you
brought us to ? ”

“ Oh, that’s all right,” Hilda answered,
trying to soothe her, though she herself
began to look a trifle anxious. “ That’s

only Ram Das’s graphic way of putting
things.”

We sat down on a bank of trailing club-
moss by the side of the rough track, for it
was nothing more, and let our guide go on
to negotiate with the Lamas. “ Well, to¬
night, anyhow,” I exclaimed, looking up,
“ we shall sleep on our own mattresses with
a roof over our heads. These monks will find
us quarters. That’s always something.”

We got out our basket and made tea. In
all moments of doubt, your Englishwoman
makes tea: as Hilda said, she will boil her
Etna on Vesuvius. We waited and drank
our tea : we drank our tea and waited. A
full hour passed away. Ram Das never came
back. I began to get frightened.

At last something stirred. A group of
excited men in yellow robes issued forth

from the monas¬
tery, wound their
way down the
hill, and ap¬
proached us,
shouting. They
gesticulated as
they came. I
could see they
looked angry.
All at once
Hilda clutched
my arm : “ Hu¬
bert,” she cried,
in an under¬
tone, “we aie
betrayed! be¬
trayed ! I see it
all now. These
are Tibetans, not
Nepaulese.” She
paused a second,
then went on:
“ 1 see it all—
all, all. Our

guide — Ram
Das—he had a reason after all for getting us
into mischief. Sebastian must have tracked
us : he was bribed by Sebastian ! It was he
who recommended Ram Das to Sir Ivor!”

“ Why do you think so ? ” I asked, low.

“ Because—look for yourself: these men
who come are dressed in yellow. That
means Tibetans. Red is the colour of the
Lamas in Nepaul; yellow in Tibet and all
other Buddhist countries. I read it in the
book—‘ The Buddhist Praying-Wheel,’ you
know. These are Tibetan fanatics, and as
Ram Das said, they will probably cut our
throats for us.”

688

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

I was thankful that Hilda’s marvellous
memory gave us even that moment for pre¬
paration and facing the difficulty. I saw in
a flash that she was quite right: we had
been inveigled across the frontier: these
moutis were Tibetans—Buddhist inquisitors
—enemies. Tibet is the most jealous country
on earth ; it allows no stranger to intrude
upon its borders. I had to meet the worst.
I stood there, a single white man, armed
only with one revolver, answerable for the
lives of two English ladies, and accompanied
by a cringing out-caste Ghoorka cook and
half-a - dozen doubtful
Nepaulese bearers. To
fly was impossible. We
were fairly trapped.

There was nothing for it
but to wait and put a
bold face on our utter
helplessness.

By that time the men in yellow robes had
almost come up to us. It was clear they
were boiling over with indignation ; but they
still did everything decently and in order.
One, who was dressed in finer vestments
than the rest—a portly person, with the fat,
greasy cheeks and drooping flesh of a celibate
church dignitary, whom I therefore judged
to be the abbot, or chief Lama of the monas¬
tery—gave orders to his subordinates in a
language which we did not understand. His
men obeyed him. In a second they had
closed us round, as in a ring or cordon.

WE WERE FAIRI.Y TRAPPED.

I turned to our spoilt child. “ Lady
Meadowcroft,” I said, very seriously, “ this is
danger, real danger. Now listen to me. You
must do as you are bid. No crying: no
cowardice. Your life and ours depend upon
it. We must none of us give way. We must
pretend to be brave. Show one sign of fear,
and these people will probably cut our throats
on the spot here.”

To my immense surprise, Lady Meadow-
croft rose to the height of the situation.
“ Oh, as long as it isn’t disease,” she answered,
resignedly, “ I’m not much afraid of anything.
I should mind the plague a great deal more
than I mind a set of howling savages.”

Then the chief Lama stepped forward,
with an authoritative air, like Pooh Bah in
the play, and said something in the same
tongue to the cook, who spoke a little
Tibetan. It was obvious from his manner
that Ram Das had told them all about us ;
for the Lama selected the cook as interpreter
at once, without taking any notice of myself,
the ostensible head of the petty expedition.

“ What does he say ? ” I asked, as soon as
he had finished speaking.

The cook, who had been salaaming all the
time, at the risk of a broken back, in his
most utterly abject and grovelling attitude,
made answer tremulously in his broken

HILDA WADE.

689

English, “ This is priest-sahib of the temple.
He very angry, because why ? Eulopean-
sahib and mem-sahibs come into Tibet-land.
No Eulopean, no Hindu, must come into
Tibet-land. Priest-sahib say, cut all Eulopean
throats : let Nepaul man go back like him
come, to him own country.”

I looked as if the message were purely
indifferent to me. “Tell him,” I said,
smiling—though at some little effort—“ we
were not trying to enter Tibet. Our rascally
guide misled us. We were going to Kulak,
in the Maharajah’s territory. We will turn
back quietly to the Maharajah’s land if the
priest-sahib will allow us to camp out for the
night here.”

I glanced at Hilda and Lady Meadowcroft.
I must say their bearing under these trying
circumstances was thoroughly worthy of two
English ladies. They stood erect, looking as
though all Tibet might come, and they would
smile at it scornfully.

The cook interpreted my remarks as well
as he was able—his Tibetan being probably
about equal in quality to his English. But
the chief Lama made a reply which I
could - see for myself was by no means
friendly.

“ What is his answer ? ” I asked the cook,
in my haughtiest voice. I am haughty with
difficulty.

Our interpreter salaamed once more,
shaking in his shoes, if he wore any. “ Priest-
sahib say, that all lies. That all dam-lies.
You is Eulopean missionary, very bad man :
you want to go to Lhasa. But no white
sahib must go to Lhasa. Holy city, Lhasa ;
for Buddhists only. This is not the way to
Kulak : this not Maharajah’s land : this place
belong-a Dalai-Lama, head of all Lamas;
have house at Lhasa. But priest-sahib know
you Eulopean missionary, want to go Lhasa,
convert Buddhists, because .... Ram Das
tell him so.”

“ Ram Das ! ” I exclaimed, thoroughly
angry by this time. “ The rogue ! The
scoundrel! He has not only deserted us,
but betrayed us as well. Pie has told this
lie on purpose to set the Tibetans against
us. We must face the worst now. Our one
chance is, to cajole these people.”

The fat priest spoke again. “ What does
he say this time ? ” I asked.

“ He say, Ram Das tell him all this
because Ram Das good man—very good
man: Ram Das converted Buddhist. You
pay Ram Das to guidee you to Lhasa. But
Ram Das good man, not want to let Eulo¬
pean see holy city : bring you here instead ;

Vol. xviii.—87.

then tell priest-sahib about it.” And he
chuckled inwardly.

“ What will they do to us ? ” Lady Meadow¬
croft asked, her face very white, though her
manner was more courageous than I could
easily have believed of her.

“ I don’t know,” I answered, biting my lip.
“But we must not give way. We must put
a bold face upon it. Their bark, after all,
may be worse than their bite. We may still
persuade them to let us go back again.”

The men in yellow robes motioned us to
move on towards the village and monastery.
We were their prisoners, and it was useless
to resist. So I ordered the bearers to take
up the tents and baggage. Lady Meadow¬
croft resigned herself to the inevitable. We
mounted the path in a long line, the Lamas
in yellow closely guarding our draggled little
procession. I tried my best to preserve my
composure, and above all else not to look
dejected.

As we approached the village, with its
squalid and fetid huts, we caught the sound
of bells, innumerable bells, tinkling at regular
intervals. Many people trooped out from
their houses to look at us, all flat-faced, all
with oblique eyes, all stolidly, sullenly,
stupidly passive. They seemed curious as
to our dress and appearance, but not
apparently hostile. We walked on to the
low line of the monastery with its pyramidal
roof and its queer, flower-vase minarets.
After a moment’s discussion they ushered us
into the temple or chapel, which was evi¬
dently also their communal council-room
and place of deliberation. We entered,
trembling. We had no great certainty that
we would ever get out of it alive again.

The temple was a large, oblong hall,
with a great figure of Buddha, cross-legged,
imperturbable, enthroned in a niche at its
further end, like the apse or recess in a
church in Italy. Before it stood an altar.
The Buddha sat and smiled on us with his
eternal smile : a complacent deity, carved
out of white stone, and gaudily painted ; a
yellow robe, like the Lamas’, dangled across
his shoulders. The air seemed close with
incense and also with bad ventilation. The
centre of the nave, if I may so call it, was
occupied by a huge wooden cylinder, a sort
of overgrown drum, painted in bright colours,
with ornamental designs and Tibetan letters.
It was much taller than a man, some 9ft.
high I should say, and it revolved above and
below on an iron spindle. Looking closer, I
saw it had a crank attached to it, with a
string tied to the crank : a solitary monk,

690

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

absorbed in his
devotions, was
pulling this string
as we entered, and
making the cylin¬
der revolve with a
jerk as he pulled
it. At each revo¬
lution a belt above
rang once: the
monk seemed as if
his whole soul was
bound up in the
huge revolving
drum and the bell
worked by it.

We took this all
in at a glance,
somewhat vaguely
at first, for our
lives were at
stake, and we were
scarcely in a mood
for ethnological
observations. But
the moment
Hilda saw the
cylinder her
eye lighted
up. I could
see at once
an idea had
struck her. “ This is a praying-wheel! ” she
cried in quite a delighted voice. “ I know
where I am now, Hubert — Lady Meadow-
croft—I see a way out of this ! Do exactly
as you see me do, and all may yet go well.
Don’t show surprise at anything. I think
we can work upon these people’s religious
feelings.”

Without a moment’s hesitation she pros¬
trated herself thrice on the ground before
the figure of Buddha, knocking her head
ostentatiously in the dust as she did so. We
followed suit instantly. Then Hilda rose
and began walking slowly round the big
drum in the nave, saying aloud at each step,
in a sort of monotonous chant, like a priest
intoning, the four mystic words, “ Aum,
mani, padme, hum,” “Aum, mani, padme,
hum,” many times over. We repeated the
sacred formula after her, as if we had always
been brought up to it. I noticed that Hilda
walked the way of the sun : it is an important
point in all these mysterious, half-magical
ceremonies.

At last, after about ten or twelve such
rounds, she paused, with an absorbed air of
devotion, and knocked her head three times

on the ground
once more, doing
poojah, before the
ever - smiling
Buddha.

By this time,
however, the
lessons of St.
Alphege’s rectory
began to recur to
Lady Meadow-
croft’s mind. “Oh,
Miss Wade,” sire
murmured, in an
awestruck voice,
“ ought we to do
like this ? Isn’t it
clear idolatry ? ”
Hilda’s common
sense waved her
aside at once.
“Idolatry or not,
it is the only way
to save our lives,”
she answered, in
her firmest voice.

“But — ought
we to save our
lives ? Oughtn’t
we to be ... . well, Christian
martyrs ? ”

Hilda was patience itself.
“ I think not, dear,” she replied, gently but
decisively. “ You are not called upon to be
a martyr. The danger of idolatry is scarcely
so great among Europeans of our time that
we need feel it a duty to protest with our
lives against it. I have better uses to which
to put my life myself. I don’t mind being a
martyr—where a sufficient cause demands
it. But I don’t think such a sacrifice is
required of us now in a Tibetan monastery.
Life was not given us to waste on gratuitous
martyrdoms.”

“ But . . . really . . . I’m afraid . . .”

“ Don’t be afraid of anything, dear, or you
will risk all. Follow my lead : I will answer
for your conduct. Surely, if Naaman, in the
midst of idolaters, was permitted to bow down
in the house of Rimmon, to save his place at
court, you may blamelessly bow down to save
your life in a Buddhist temple. Now, no
more casuistry, but do as I tell you ! 4 Aum,

mani, padme, hum,’ again ! Once more
round the drum there ! ”

We followed her a second time, Lady
Meadowcroft giving in after a feeble protest.
The priests in yellow looked on, profoundly
impressed by our circumnavigation. It was

HILDA WADE.

691

clear they began to reconsider the ques¬
tion of our nefarious designs on their holy
city.

After we had finished our second tour
round the drum, with the utmost solemnity,
one of the monks approached Hilda, whom
he seemed to take now for an important
priestess. He said something to her in
Tibetan, which, of course, we did not under¬
stand ; but as he pointed at the same time
to the brother on the floor who was turning
the wheel, Hilda nodded acquiescence. “If
you wish it,” she said in English—and he
appeared to comprehend. “ He wants to
know whether I would like to take a turn at
the cylinder.”

She knelt down in front of it, before the
little stool where the brother in yellow had
been kneeling till that moment, and took the
string in her hand, as if she were well accus¬
tomed to it. I could see that the abbot gave

SHE TOOK THE STRING IN HER HAND.”

the cylinder a surreptitious push with his left
hand, before she began, so as to make it
revolve in the opposite direction from that in
which the monk had just been moving it :
this was obviously to try her. But Hilda let
the string drop, with a little cry of horror:
that was the wrong way round—the unlucky,
uncanonical direction : the evil way, widder-
shins, the opposite of sunwise. With an
awed air she stopped short, repeated once
more the four mystic words, or mantra, and
bowed thrice with well-assumed reverence to
the Buddha. Then she set the cylinder
turning of her own accord, with her right

hand, in the propitious direction, and sent it
round seven times with the utmost gravity.

At this point, encouraged by Hilda’s
example, I too became possessed of a,
brilliant inspiration. I opened my purse
and took out of it four brand-new silver
rupees of the Indian coinage. They were
very handsome and shiny coins, each im¬
pressed with an excellent design of the head
of the Queen as Empress of India. Holding
them up before me, I approached the Buddha,
and laid the four in a row submissively at his
feet, uttering at the same time an appropriate
formula. But as I did not know the proper
mantra for use upon such an occasion, I
supplied one from memory, saying, in a
hushed voice, “ Hokey — pokey—winky—
wum,” as I laid each one down before the
benignly-smiling statue. I have no doubt
from their faces the priests imagined I was
uttering a most powerful spell or prayer
in my own language.

As soon as I retreated, with my face
towards the image, the chief Lama glided up
and examined the coins carefully. It was
clear he had never seen anything of the sort
before, for he gazed at them for some
minutes, and then showed them round to his
monks with an air of deep reverence. I do
not doubt he took the image of her gracious
Majesty for a very mighty and potent
goddess. As soon as all had inspected
them, with many cries of admiration,
he opened a little secret drawer or
relic - holder in the pedestal of the
statue, and deposited them in it with
a muttered prayer, as precious
offerings from a European
Buddhist.

By this time we could easily
see we were beginning to pro¬
duce a most favourable impres¬
sion. Hilda’s study of Bud¬
dhism had stood us in good
stead. The chief Lama or
abbot motioned to us to be seated, in a much
politer mood : after which, he and his princi¬
pal monks held a long and animated discus¬
sion together. I gathered from their looks
and gestures that the head Lama inclined to
regard us as orthodox Buddhists, but that
some of his followers had grave doubts of
their own as to the depth and reality of our
religious convictions.

While they debated and hesitated, Hilda
had another splendid idea. She undid her
portfolio, and took out of it the photographs
of ancient Buddhist topes and temples which
she had taken in India. These she produced

692

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

triumphantly. At once the priests and monks
crowded round us to look at them. In a
moment, when they recognised the meaning
of the pictures, their excitement grew quite
intense. The photographs were passed round
from hand to hand amid loud exclamations
of joy and surprise : one brother would point
out with astonishment to another some
familiar symbol or some ancient text; two or
three of them even in their devout enthusiasm
fell down on their knees and kissed the
pictures.

We had played a trump card. The .monks
could see for themselves by this time that we
were deeply interested in Buddhism. Now,
minds of that calibre never understand a
disinterested interest; the moment they saw
we were collectors of Buddhist pictures, they
jumped at the conclusion that we must also,
of course, be devout believers. So far did
they carry their sense of fraternity, indeed,
that they insisted upon embracing us. That
was a hard trial to Lady Meadowcroft, for
the brethren were not conspicuous for per¬
sonal cleanliness : she suspected germs, and
she dreaded typhoid far more than she
dreaded the Tibetan cut-throat.

The brethren asked, through the medium
of our interpreter, the cook, where these
pictures had been made. We explained as
well as we could by means of the same
mouthpiece, a very earthen vessel, that they
came from ancient Buddhist buildings in
India. This delighted them still more,
though I know not in what form our Ghoorka
retainer may have conveyed the information :
at any rate, they insisted on embracing us
again : after which the chief Lama said some¬
thing very solemnly to our amateur interpreter.

The cook interpreted. “ Priest-sahib say,
he too got very sacred thing, come from
India. Sacred Buddhist poojah-thing. Go
to show it to you.”

We waited, breathless. The chief Lama
approached the altar before the recess, in
front of the great cross - legged, vapidly-
smiling Buddha. He bowed himself to the
ground three times over, as well as his portly
frame would permit him, knocking his fore¬
head against the floor, just as Hilda had
done : then he proceeded, almost awestruck,
to take from the altar an object wrapped
round with gold brocade, and very carefully
guarded. Two acolytes accompanied him.
In the most reverent way, he slowly unwound
the folds of gold cloth, and released from its
hiding-place the highly sacred deposit. He
held it up before our eyes with an air of
triumph. It was an English bottle !

The label on it shone with gold and
bright colours. I could see it was figured.
The figure represented a cat, squatting on
its haunches. The sacred inscription ran,
in our own tongue, “Old Tom Gin,
Unsweetened.”

1 he monks bowed their heads in profound
silence as the sacred thing was produced.
I caught Hilda’s eye. “ For Heaven’s sake,”
I murmured low, “ don’t either of you laugh.
If you do, it’s all up with us.”

They kept their countenances with admir¬
able decorum.

Another idea struck me. “ Tell them,” I
said to the cook, “ that we too have a similar
and very powerful god, but much more
lively.” He interpreted my words to them.

Then I opened our stores, and drew out
with a flourish—our last remaining bottle of
Simla soda-water.

Very solemnly and seriously I unwired the
cork, as if performing an almost sacrosanct
ceremony. The monks crowded round with
the deepest curiosity. I held the cork down
for a second with my thumb, while I uttered
once more in my most awesome tone the
mystic words, “ Hoke) 7 —pokey—winky—
wum ! ” then I let it fly suddenly. The
soda-water was well up. The cork bounded
to the ceiling: the contents of the bottle
spurted out over the place in the most
impressive fashion.

For a minute the Lamas drew back,
alarmed. The thing seemed almost devilish.
Then slowly, reassured by our composure,
they crept back and looked. With a glance
of inquiry at the abbot, I took out my pocket
corkscrew, and drew the cork of the gin-
bottle, which had never been opened. I
signed for a cup. They brought me one,
reverently. I poured out a little gin, to
which I added some soda-water, and drank
first of it myself, to show them it was not
poison. After that, I handed it to the chief
Lama, who sipped at it, sipped again, and
emptied the cup at the third trial. Evidently
the sacred drink was very much to his taste,
for he smacked his lips after it, and turned
with exclamations of surprised delight to his
inquisitive companions.

The rest of the soda-water, duly mixed
with gin, soon went the round of the expectant
monks. It was greatly approved of. Un¬
happily, there was not quite enough soda-
water to supply a drink for all of them : but
those who tasted it were deeply impressed.

I could see that they took the bite of the
carbonic-acid gas for evidence of a most
powerful and present deity.

HILDA

WADE.

693

That settled our position. We were
instantly regarded not only as Buddhists, but
as mighty magicians from a far country.
The monks made haste to show us rooms
destined for our use in the monastery. They

pictures were produced : and Hilda, to keep
up the good impression, showed them
how she operated. When a full-length
portrait of the chief Lama in his sacri¬
ficial robes was actually printed off and

“ THE SACRED DRINK WAS VERY MUCH TO HIS TASTE."

were not unbearably filthy, and we had our
own bedding. AVe had to spend the night
there, that was certain : we had at least
escaped the worst and most pressing danger.

I may add that I believe our cook to have
been a most arrant liar—which was a lucky
circumstance. Once the wretched creature
saw the tide turn, I have reason to infer that
he supported our cause by telling the chief
Lama the most incredible stories about our
holiness and power. At any rate, it is cer¬
tain that we were regarded with the utmost
respect, and treated thenceforth with the
affectionate deference due to acknowledged
and certified sainthood.

It began to strike us now, however, that
we had almost overshot the mark in this
matter of sanctity. We had made ourselves
quite too holy. The monks, who were eager
at first to cut our throats, thought so much
of us now that we grew a little anxious as to
whether they would not wish to keep such
devout souls in their midst for ever. As a
matter of fact, we spent a whole week against
our wills in the monastery, being very well
fed and treated meanwhile, yet virtually
captives. It was the camera that did it.
'I he Lamas had never seen any photographs
before: they asked how these miraculous

exhibited before their eyes, their delight knew
no bounds. The picture was handed about
among the astonished brethren, and received
with loud shouts of joy and wonder. Nothing
would satisfy them then but that we must
photograph every individual monk in the
place. Even the Buddha himself, cross-
legged and imperturbable, had to sit for his
portrait. As he was used to sitting—never,
indeed, having done anything else—he came
out admirably.

Day after day passed : suns rose and suns
set : and it was clear that the monks did not
mean to let us leave their precincts in a
hurry. Lady Meadowcroft, having recovered
by this time from her first fright, began to
grow bored. The Buddhists’ ritual ceased to
interest her. To vary the monotony, I hit
upon an expedient for killing time till our
too pressing hosts saw fit to let us depart.
They were fond of religious processions of
the most protracted sort—dances before the
altar with animal masks or heads, and other
weird ceremonial orgies. Hilda, who had
read herself up in Buddhist ideas, assured
me that all these things were done in order
to heap up Karma.

“ What is Karma ? ” I asked, listlessly.

“ Karma is good works or merit. The

694

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

more praying-wheels you turn, the more bells
you ring, the greater the merit. One of the
monks is always at work turning the big
wheel that moves the bell, so as to heap up
merit night and day for the monastery.”

This set me thinking. I soon discovered
that no matter how the wheel is turned, the
Karma or merit is equal. It is the turning
it that counts, not the personal exertion.
There were wheels and bells in convenient
situations all over the village, and whoever
passed one gave it a twist as he went by,
thus piling up Karma for all the inhabitants.
Reflecting upon these facts, I was seized
with an idea. I got Hilda to take instan¬
taneous photographs of all the monks during
a sacred procession, at rapid intervals : in
that sunny climate we had no difficulty at
all in printing off from the plates as soon as
developed. Then I took a small wheel,
about the size of an oyster-barrel—the monks
had dozens of them—and pasted the photo¬
graphs inside in successive order, like what
is called a zoetrope, or wheel of life. By
cutting holes in the side, and arranging a
mirror from Lady Meadowcroft’s dressing-
bag, I completed my machine, so that, when
it was turned round rapidly, one saw the pro¬
cession actually taking place as if the figures
were moving. The thing, in short, made a
living picture like a cinematograph. A
mountain stream ran past the monastery and
supplied it with water. I had a second
inspiration. I was always mechanical. I
fixed a water-wheel in the stream, where it
made a petty cataract, and connected it by
means of a small crank with the barrel of
photographs. My zoetrope thus worked off
itself, and piled up Karma for all the village
whether anyone happened to be looking at it
or not.

The monks, who were really excellent
fellows when not engaged in cutting throats
in the interest of the faith, regarded this
device as a great and glorious religious
invention. They went down on their knees
to it and were profoundly respectful. They
also bowed to me so deeply, when I first
exhibited it, that I began to be puffed up
with spiritual pride. Lady Meadowcroft
recalled me to my better self by murmuring,
with a sigh, “ I suppose we really can’t draw
a line now; but it does seem to me like
encouraging idolatry ! ”

“ Purely mechanical encouragement,” I
answered, gazing at my handicraft with an
inventor’s pardonable pride. “You see, it
is the turning itself that does good, not any
prayers attached to it. I divert the idolatry

from human worshippers to an unconscious
stream—which must surely be meritorious.”
Then I thought of the mystic sentence,
“ Aum, mani, padme, hum.” “ What a pity
it is,” I cried, “ I couldn’t make them a
phonograph to repeat their viantra ! If I
could, they might fulfil all their religious
duties together by machinery ! ”

Hilda reflected a second. “ There is a
great future,” she said at last, “ for the man
who first introduces smoke-jacks into Tibet!
Every household will buy one, as an auto¬
matic means of acquiring Karma.”

“ Don’t publish that idea in England ! ” I
exclaimed, hastily—“if ever we get there.
As sure as you do, somebody will see in it
an opening for British trade, and we shall
spend twenty millions on conquering Tibet,
in the interests of civilization and a smoke-
jack syndicate.”

How long we might have stopped at the
monastery I cannot say, had it not been for
the intervention of an unexpected episode
which occurred just a week after our first
arrival. We were comfortable enough in a
rough way, with our Ghoorka cook to prepare
our food for us, and our bearers to wait: but
to the end I never felt quite sure of our
hosts, who after all were entertaining us
under false pretences. We had told them,
truly enough, that Buddhist missionaries had
now penetrated to England : and though they
had not the slightest conception where Eng¬
land might be, and knew not the name of
Madame Blavatsky, this news interested
them. Regarding us as promising neo¬
phytes, they were anxious now that we
should go on to Lhasa, in order to receive
full instructions in the faith from the chief
fountain-head, the Grand Lama in person.
To this we demurred: Mr. Landor’s expe¬
riences did not encourage us to follow his
lead : the monks for their part could not
understand our reluctance. They thought
that every well-intentioned convert must wish
to make the pilgrimage to Lhasa, the Mecca
of their creed: our hesitation threw some
doubt on the reality of our conversion. A
proselyte above all men should never be
lukewarm. They expected us to embrace
the opportunity with fervour. We might be
massacred on the way, to be sure; but what
did that matter? We should be dying for
the faith, and ought to be charmed at so
splendid a prospect.

On the day-week after our arrival the chief
Lama came to me at nightfall. His face
was serious. He spoke to me through our
accredited interpreter, the cook. “Priest-

HILDA WADE.

695

sahib say, very important; the sahib and
mem-sahibs must go away from here before
sun get up to-morrow morning.”

“Why so?” I asked, as astonished as I
was pleased.

“Priest-sahib say, he like you very much :
oh, very, very much : no want to see village
people kill you.”

“ Kill us ! But I thought they believed
we were saints ! ”

“ Priest say, that just it : too much saint

altogether. People hereabout all telling that
the sahib and the mem-sahibs very great
saints: much holy, like Buddha. Make
picture; work miracles. People think, if
them kill you, and have your tomb here, very
holy place : very great Karma : very good for
trade : plenty Tibetan man hear you holy
men, come here on pilgrimage. Pilgrimage
make fair, make market, very good for village.
So people want to kill you, build shrine over
your body.”

This was a view of the advantages of

sanctity which had never before struck me.
Now, I had not been eager even for the dis¬
tinction of being a Christian martyr : as to
being a Buddhist martyr, that was quite out
of the question.

“ Then what does the Lama advise us to
do ? ” I asked.

“ Priest-sahib say he love you : no want to
see village people kill you. He give you
guide—very good guide—know mountains
well: take you back straight to Maharajah’s
country.”

“Not Ram Das?”

1 asked, suspiciously.

“ No, not Ram Das.
Very good man :
Tibetan.”

I saw at once this
was a genuine crisis.
All was hastily
arranged : I went in
and told Hilda and
Lady Meadowcroft.
Our spoilt child cried
a little, of course, at
the idea of being
enshrined, but on the
whole behaved admir¬
ably. At early dawn
next morning, before
the village was awake,
we crept with stealthy
steps out of the monas¬
tery, whose inmates
were friendly. Our
new guide accom¬
panied us. We avoided
the village, on whose
outskirts the lamasery
lay, and made straight
for the valley. By six
o’clock we were well out
of sight of the clustered houses and the pyra¬
midal spires. But I did not breathe freely
till late in the afternoon, when we found our¬
selves once more under British protection in
the first hamlet of the Maharajah’s territory.

As for that scoundrel, Ram Das, we heard
nothing more of him. He disappeared into
space from the moment he deserted us at
the door of the trap into which he had led
us. The chief Lama told me he had gone
back at once by another route to his own
country.

“ SAHIB AND MEM-SAHIBS MUST GO AWAY.”

J

Heroes of i8gg.

By Alfred T. Story.

EACE has its heroes and

heroines as well as war. We
hear enough of the brave
deeds done on the field of

battle ; but many an act, show¬
ing equal courage and calling
for as great risk of life, is performed in the
ordinary walks of life of which little and
sometimes nothing is heard. They are the
deeds of obscure people, boys and girls,

lowly men and women, individuals not

usually regarded as in the line of heroes.
They are not committed in the eye of day,
so to speak, as are the brave deeds of the
soldier. Few behold them; they are the
talk of a handful for perhaps a couple of
days, and then, as likely as not, they pass
into oblivion. And yet many of them are
eminently worthy of record — they are so
bright, so cheering, amid the ordinary hum¬
drum and melancholy self-thoughtfulness of
life.

The whole of The Strand Magazine for
the present month would not contain a full
account of half the brave deeds done during
the year 1899—reckoning those performed in
civil life alone. However, some of the most
striking instances have been selected by way
of example, and, where it has been found
possible, portraits have been procured to
illustrate them. The selections have been
made with a view to show as many phases of
life as might be, and how the ennobling
quality of self-forgetfulness shines and makes
itself felt in all ranks and stations.

Where the seed is, there the deed will be.
It will manifest itself even in the little child.
Even as I write, the record comes of a child
of four, Ernest Hooper by name, dying in
Bartholomew’s Hospital from injuries re¬
ceived through being run over by one of
Pickford’s vans. He tried to save another
little child from being run over by the same
vehicle, but, getting the other little one safely
away, he was himself knocked down and
fatally injured. One would have liked to
give the portrait of this little hero, but it was
not to be had. He must live in the beauty
of his deed alone.

It is with especial regret too that the same
has to be written of the next heroic soul to
come into the record. 1 his was the case of a
blind man who, on the occasion of a dis¬
astrous fire in the Brixton Road, in January

last, distinguished himself by a conspicuous
act of bravery. According to the South
London Press , Mr. J. B. Ortton, who is
totally blind, was sleeping on the third floor,
and at about two o’clock in the morning dis¬
covered by difficulty in breathing that the
room was full of smoke. He at once awoke
his wife, and hastened to the assistants’ room
on the same floor, then to the manager’s, and
with great difficulty aroused them. Then,
hastening to the room of another family on
the first floor, he banged at their locked
door, and assisted a gentleman to lead
his wife down into the street. After this
he hastened upstairs and assisted his own
wife to safety. In all seven persons were
able to get out of harm’s way through his
courage, self-possession, and promptness.
The last person to leave the burning building
was Mr. Ortton himself, and he had to pass
over a staircase which was fully alight within
three minutes of his descent. Mr. Ortton,
by so promptly looking after the lives of Iris
fellow-inmates, lost all his personal belong¬
ings, everything he had indeed in the world.
A local committee was formed to raise a
small fund to recoup him for his loss, and it
is to be hoped it was successful.

A gallant rescue from drowning was effected
by Mr. Alfred Joly, an Englishman, at
Smyrna, on the 3rd of March. A friend
thus describes the affair : “ Whilst walking
on the quay about 2 p.m., he saw two boys
hauling at the shore-mooring of a cask.
After having passed on some ten or fifteen
paces, he heard the cry in Greek, 4 A child in
the sea ! ’ On looking round he saw one of
the boys running away, whilst the other,
about eight years of age, was struggling in
the water. Three or four persons were on
the spot, and one held his stick out to the
boy. Thinking that the boy was sure to be
got out, Mr. Joly continued his walk for
another ten or fifteen paces, and then had
the curiosity to look back. To his great sur¬
prise and disgust, he saw the boy’s head dis¬
appearing under the water. Feeling sure
then that the child would be drowned, and
finding there was no boat near and no other
sign of help, he dropped his stick, ran back,
and, with all his clothes on, plunged in
longitudinally, so as to cross the sinking lad.
When he got to the bottom he saw the boy
sinking, on his back, face upwards and arms

697

HEROES OF 1899.

From a] mr. Alfred joly. [Photogntph.

outstretched. Grasping the lad by the arm,
he swam with him to the quay, and handed
him up to a man who hung over the edge.
Then he was with great difficulty hauled up
himself, Mr. Joly being a big, heavy man,
and suffering with cramp in one of his legs.”

Mr. Joly was cheered heartily by a crowd
of people who had gathered during the
rescue, and who were greatly amused to find
that the sturdy Briton had performed his
gallant feat with all his
clothes on, including his
hat; indeed, just as he
appears in our photograph.

It is worthy of remark that
Mr. Joly had not swum for
twenty years, he having given
up the exercise, on his
doctor’s advice, because it
produced headache and
cramp. Mr. Joly belongs
to an English family long
established at Smyrna and
engaged in the shipping
business.

Heroism still more admir¬
able — heroism perhaps of
the very highest kind —
recently came under the
notice of King Leopold,
and was by him suitably
honoured and rewarded.

Sister Teresa Hickey, an
English nun of the Aposto-
line community established
in Belgium, was presented
with a Civic Medal of the

Vol. xviii.—88.

First Class (a decoration instituted as a
reward of conspicuous civic merit), in recog¬
nition of her heroic services to the people
during the outbreak of a terrible epidemic
which ravaged the district of Oordeghem, in
Flanders. So great was the consternation of
the inhabitants that no one would venture to
approach the houses in which the victims
lay dying. During the panic Sister Teresa
volunteered to go and tend the unfortunate
sufferers, for whom nurses could not be
found. For several weeks she devoted her¬
self, day and night, to the noble work of
ministering to the sick and flying, receiving
no other assistance than that given by the
clergy of the parish. With unflagging devo¬
tion the brave woman remained unflinchingly
at her post of duty until the epidemic abated,
although almost broken down by her untiring
efforts. Public manifestations of gratitude
for her inestimable services were rendered
by the people ; and her conduct having come
under the notice of the Government, the
King has rewarded her self-sacrifice by
bestowal of the honour mentioned. Sistei’
Teresa has been in Belgium for nearly thirty
years.

It is in scenes such as the above that the
heroism of women most conspicuously shines,
although it not infrequently displays itself
in a more physical manner. In the month
of June two little women showed both

VIOLET MOORE. ETHEL WILLIAMSON. HELEN WILLIAMSON.
From a Photo, by J. H. Addison.

6 9 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

courage and spirit in the rescue of a sister
and companion from drowning. It took
place in some meadows near Bungay, Suffolk.
The two daughters of Mr. Williamson, of the
Falcon Inn, Ditchingham, aged ten and
eight, were returning home from school in
the afternoon, accompanied by another
scholar named Moore, aged eleven. In
passing over the foot-bridge (a single plank)
which crosses the River Waveney, Helen
Williamson slipped into the water, which at
this spot is about 6ft. deep. Moore held on
to the bridge with one hand, and grasped
the third child with the other, whilst the
latter got into the water
and clutched her elder
sister, and succeeded in
rescuing her. When got
out of the river Helen
was in an unconscious
condition, and the brave
little rescuers, to com¬
plete their work, carried
her home between them.

After three hours she
recovered.

During the storms of
the end of March and
the early part of April
the newspapers signal¬
ized a number of brave
rescues; but none
showed more hardihood
and daring than the
rescue of nine persons
from an open boat in
the Bristol Channel by Captain Thomas,
of the Sea Swalloiv , a steam trawler, of
Milford. The nine persons consisted of
the captain of the steamer Cato, of Bristol;
W. G. Whyatt, his wife, and seven firemen
and sailors, who were found tossing at the
mercy of the waves off the Longships.
Captain Whyatt’s account of the affair was
as follows :—

“On Friday morning our port bows sprang
a leak, and the forecastle deck started. The
sea poured in through the open places, and
the pumps had to be kept continuously at
work. At about 5 p.m. a heavy sea washed
aboard, knocking down a man and breaking
both his legs. I picked him up and carried
him into the chart-room, where I set the
broken limbs as well as I could.

“ Subsequently the vessel began to settle
down stern first, and seeing that nothing
could be done to save the craft, I ordered
the boats to be lowered. Several of the crew
jumped in, while I went and found my wife,

and together with others put her in the boat.
I proceeded to get in myself, but the sea
carried me overboard. I swam about, but
was utterly unconscious of all that was going
on.

“ Upon recovering myself I sighted the
lifeboat, bottom-up, with its precious occu¬
pants clinging to it. I exerted all my strength
and succeeded in reaching the craft. Soon
afterwards we managed to right her; but
when we got into her she was still full of
water. In our boat were nine persons.
About seven o’clock on P'riday night we were
drifting helplessly about, having undergone
great privation already,
but at eleven o’clock we
were, thank God, picked
up by the Sea Swalloiv
(Captain Thomas),
owned by Mr. T. R.
Oswald, of Milford, who
brought us into the
docks and landed us
here.”

Speaking of the rescue
Captain Whyatt said :—
“ I never saw any¬
thing smarter in my life.
The Sea Swallow was
coming along in a tre¬
mendous sea, and I
myself was snatched
out by my collar. If
the trawler had not
come along so oppor¬
tunely lam positive we
should all have been drowned, as our boat
was completely waterlogged.”

The disastrous wreck of the Stella , off the
Casquettes rocks, on her way to Jersey, in
the early part of April, will be still in the
memory of most. The coolness and courage
of nearly all, both seamen and passengers,
on that terrible night was in striking contrast
to what we had read only a little while before
of the scenes of cowardice and brutality that
took place in connection with a French
steamship in a similar moment of peril. It
is needless to attempt a description of what
took place. Suffice to point out that, then
as ever on a British ship, the captain set
the example of calm, heroic courage—an
example that was followed by every man
under his command, yes, and by the passen¬
gers, too, even with death staring them
blankly in the face.

A passenger who was on board the unfor¬
tunate boat told the writer he should never
forget the sight of Captain Reeks as he stood

CAPTAIN THOMAS, OF THE “ SEA SWALLOW.”
From a Photo, hi/ 1). Bowen <b Son , Haverfordwest.

HEROES OF 1889.

699

CAPTAIN REEKS, OF THE “STELLA.”
From a Photo, bn the Globe Photo. Co., Southampton.

on the bridge, giving his orders with calm¬
ness and decision, and apparently showing
no loss of composure when the ship made
her final plunge.

Equally worthy of mention was the heroic
conduct of Mrs. Rogers, one of the steward¬
esses of the Stella , to whom many owed their
lives. One lady who acknowledged her in¬
debtedness in this respect to the brave
stewardess stated that the
latter, with great presence
of mind, got all the ladies
from her cabin to the side
of the ship, and, after
placing life-belts on as
many as were without
them, she assisted them
into the small boats.

Then, turning round, she
noticed that the narrator
was without a belt; where¬
upon she insisted on plac¬
ing her own belt upon
the lady, and led her to
the fast-filling boat. The
sailors called out, “Jump
in, Mrs. Rogers ! ” but she
replied, “No, no ! If I
get in, the boat will sink.

Good - bye, good - bye
and with uplifted hands
she cried, “ Lord have

me ! ” and immediately the Stella sank
beneath her feet.

Among the acts of heroic courage con¬
nected with shipwrecks may be mentioned
the cool daring of Quartermaster J. W. A.
Juddery on the occasion of the wreck of
the Mohegan , when he was the means of
saving twelve or thirteen lives. For these
acts he was presented, at a meeting of
the Y.M.C.A., of which he is a member,
at the Conference Hall, Stratford, on the
8 th of April, with the silver medal of the
Board of Trade and with a certificate
and silver medal from Lloyd’s. When the
Mo began went on to the Manacle Rocks,
Mr. Juddery, after clinging to the mast for
several hours, and being as a result half
dead with cold, repeatedly dived into the
sea to carry a line to the lifeboat, which
could not get near enough to take off
those on the wreck. By means of this line
thirteen persons were drawn into the boat.
But it parted two or three times, again
necessitating a dive and a swim for life
through the boiling waves.

After four or five persons had been passed
from the rigging to the lifeboat the connect¬
ing line again broke. By this time Juddery was
too much done up to make the attempt again.
At this unfortunate juncture he found a
valuable ally in an American cattleman named
Mitchell—one would like to have given his
portrait here—who, seeing the officer “ played
out,” volunteered to take the line to the life¬
boat, and with splendid pluck swam out and
made good the connection, so that the work
of rescue went on afresh.

It is pleasing to be able
to say, on the authority of
one of the saved, that
here, too, “ the behaviour
of passengers and crew
alike, all through the
terrible affair, was a credit
to the English-speaking
race.”

One hears from time to
time of many cases of
heroic rescue from fire
and drowning by members
of the police force in one
part or another. One
striking act of the kind
was the descent by a
policeman, not many
weeks ago, into a man¬
hole, in which a labourer
had been overcome by
sewer-gas. He brought

QUARTERMASTER J. \V. A. JUDDERY, OF THE
“ MOHEGAN.”

From a Photo, by L. S. White, New York,

700

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the poor fellow up, but he
was already dead, and the
constable himself was half
so. Many similar instances
could be given, but it is
not often that one man
succeeds in saving two per¬
sons from drowning within
a week. This, however,
occurred to P.C. Charles
Rogers, of the Metropolitan
Police, in July. His own
account of the two rescues
is as follows :—

“ I was on fixed point
duty at St. Mark’s Church
on the 17th of July, and
about ten minutes past
seven I heard some people,
who were passing the
Regent’s Canal Bridge in
the [Albert Road, shouting
that a boy had fallen into
the water. I at once ran
down the approach to the
canal, and saw a lad, named
Herbert Wicks, aged nine
struggling in about 10ft. of
water, and about 12ft. from the bank,
plunged into the water without removing any
part of my uniform, and succeeded in
catching hold of him, and brought him to
the towing-path very much exhausted. For¬
tunately he proved none the worse for his
ducking when I got him home.

“Again, on the 21st, I was on duty at the
same place at 5.30 p.m., when I was in¬
formed by a passer-by that a lad had fallen
into the canal in the Albert Road. I ran to
the spot, but could see no trace of the boy.
I got the drags and began
to drag for him, and soon
found him and had him out.

He was quite unconscious.

I at once placed him on
his back on the towing-path,
and, after removing the
clothes from about his neck
and chest, I commenced to
use Dr. Sylvester’s method
for restoring animation, and,
after a short time, was
rewarded by seeing the boy
gasp for breath. Just as
he began to show signs of
life, Dr. Usher, who hap¬
pened to be passing, came
and helped me, and soon we
had the pleasure of seeing

the boy fully restored to
animation. I conveyed him
to the North-West London
Hospital, where he was
detained for a while suffer¬
ing from shock. But in
the end he, like the other
boy, took no hurt from
his dip.”

A story of a splendid
bit of pluck on the part
of a police-constable comes
from India. Bawaji Jusaji,
of the Ahmedabad district
police force, descended a
well 47ft. deep in which
there was 30ft. of water,
and rescued a Hindu
woman who had thrown
herself down. The gallant
fellow overcame her strug¬
gles and supported her
nearly half an hour before
further help came and
they were drawn up.

One might easily greatly
increase the list of police¬
men heroes, to whom so
many boys who go the way to be drowned owe
their lives; but it will suffice to mention a
gallant rescue from the Regent’s Canal, near
the Albert Bridge, by Constable W. Morely,
on July 1 st, and then pass on to several cases
in which boys were the heroes. And first
of all comes a case from Plymouth, where,
on the 12th of February, a schoolboy named
Arthur Barham saved the life of Charles
May, who had fallen from the rocks under
The Hoe, and was being rapidly carried out
by the undertow. Barham exhibited great
pluck, and was much ex¬
hausted before reaching the
beach.

Another instance of boy-
bravery occurred at Long
Sutton, Lincolnshire, where,
on the 10th of April, a child
was saved from drowning
by a boy of ten, named
Bracking. The brave little
fellow, while playing in his
father’s garden, heard
screams coming from an
adjoining field. He im¬
mediately forced his way
through a hedge, and ran
to a pit' which was there.
Finding that a child of two
and a half years old, named

P.C. CHARLES ROGERS, OF THE
METROPOLITAN POLICE.

From a Photo, by Fred Staples, Camden Town.

I

GEORGE FORD BRACKING.

From a Photo, by J. Bond, l^ong Sutton.

HEROES OF 1899.

701

brought him to the surface, and then to the
bank. The Avon at this point is very
dangerous, even to practised swimmers,
owing to a thick growth of weeds.

In the other case of medals being awarded
for rescue from drowning, the recipients were
Daniel O’Donovan and Thomas Gregory,
the latter a boy of ten. Gregory bravely
attempted to rescue a youth named Good-
land, from the Taff, at Cardiff, on the 3rd
of August, but being clutched and dragged
under water he nearly lost his own life.
O’Donovan then came to the rescue, and

DANIEL O’DONOVAN.

From a Photo, by S. Bowen Bravery ,
Cardiff.

both the boys were
saved. The Head Con¬
stable of Cardiff says
that the rescue was
effected twelve yards
from the bank in 15ft.
of water, and that the
pluck displayed by
Gregory was very re¬
markable.

A very striking case
of rescue from drown¬
ing took place at
Mohonagh, near Crook-
haven, County Cork,
Ireland, on the 13th of
February, and we are

SIDNEY C. JONES.

From a Photo, by G. H. Dunmore , Doivnton.

Luff, had fallen into the pit,
there was 3ft. or 4ft. of water
went in and got the child out.

E q u a 11 y
worthy of re¬
cord are the
two follow¬
ing rescues.

Medals of the
Royal Hu¬
mane Society
were awarded
in both these
cases. Sidney
C. Jones,
s c h o o 1 boy,

Downton, Sal¬
isbury, got his
medal for his
plucky rescue
of Harold
Alford from
the Avon, at
Downton, on
July 16 th.

Alford sank
before being
reached, but
Jones dived,

although
in it, he

THOMAS GREGORY.

From a Photo, by S. Bowen Bravery , Cardiff.

702

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

sorry not to be able to
give the portrait of the
plucky performer of the
deed, Mr. F. McCarchy,
merchant, of Crookhaven.

Great risk was incurred,
the depth of the water
being from ioft. to 12ft.,
and Mr. McCarthy had
to effect the rescue single-
handed, as others who were
present refused to lend any
assistance.

Among the many noble
deeds of the year none
stands out more brightly
than the act of heroism by
which Tom Griffin, a fitter’s
labourer, lost his life in
going to the assistance of
his fellow-workman. Fie
was employed at Messrs.

Carton, Hill, and Com¬
pany’s, engineers, Battersea,
and on the 12th of April,
while Griffin and others
were preparing for work
in the boiler-room, a main steam-pipe
burst with a loud explosion in an adjoin¬
ing room. Frederick Briggs, with whom
Griffin worked, was in the room at the time,
and the latter, knowing this, immediately
after the explosion rushed to his assistance,
crying out, “My mate ! my mate ! ” He
received such fearful injuries from the steam
that he died in the Wandsworth Hospital
the same day. Five days
after his death Griffin was
to have been married. He
was twenty-one years of age.

Most of our readers will
remember the disaster of
the Bullfinch torpedo de¬
stroyer in July last, when
nine men lost their lives
through the bursting of a
steam-pipe, and the brave
deed of the builders’
engineer, Mr. A. H. Tyacke,
in going down into the
engine-room to the assist¬
ance of those who were
injured, at the imminent
peril of his life. The Bull¬
finch was on one of her trial
trips when the accident
occurred—on her final trial,
in fact, before being taken
over by the Admiralty. On

MR. TOM GRIFFIN.

From a Photo, by Messrs. Ward , Brixton.

From a Photo, by Alfred Honey & GoChatham-

such occasions the vessel’s
engines are worked by the
builders’ men, although a
naval engineer is always
present, and generally some
Navy stokers to help. The
engines were going at their
greatest speed when the ac¬
cident happened. As soon
as Tyacke saw what had
happened he descended
through the trap-door which
gives admission to the
engine-room, and though
the place was full of scald¬
ing steam, he stopped and
rendered assistance until all
the injured men were got
out.

A story of splendid gal¬
lantry and daring must be
given from Braemar. On
the 31st of July a party of
tourists, consisting of seven
ladies and three gentlemen,
set out from Braemar to
climb the Ben Muich Dhui.
They arrived at the top without mishap, in
the face of a strong wind. Unfortunately,
the party elected to return, by the Glen Lui
steep, a very rugged and insecure face of the
mountain. By doing so they hoped to
shorten the distance home, and, as was their
ambition, eclipse the feat of the ordinary
Ben Muich Dhui mountaineer. An experi¬
enced man might accomplish such a task,
but it was madness for the
ordinary tourist to attempt
it. The result was that the
entire party were more or
less shaken or injured.

When once they were
launched in the yielding
mass of boulders and stones
of which the steep is com¬
posed the whole surface
seemed to slide with them.
They were obliged to keep
a certain distance from each
other, and no one to get in
advance of the line, as the
stones and boulders were
rolling and leaping in front.
It was at this point that a
young lady from the North
of England was noticed to
be making little progress,
and seemed to be in pain.
Two of the gentlemen,

HEROES OF 1899.

7°3

therefore—Mr. John M. Mackay, of King¬
ussie, a student, and Mr. Smith, of Aberdeen
—agreed to stay behind and assist her
in the descent, while the rest of the party
made their way to Derry Lodge, the nearest
habitation to Glen Lui, a distance of seven
miles.

As soon as these
had reached the foot
of the steep the
others started on
their descent. But
the effect of the three
being so close to¬
gether was that the
stones were set mov¬
ing with greater
momentum than if
each person had gone
singly. The result
was that Mr. Smith
fell over, and the
young lady got her
foot so tightly
squeezed in between
two boulders that her
ankle was dislocated.

She fainted, and the
gentlemen were in
the unfortunate posi¬
tion of not having
any means of restor¬
ing her. However,
after a little while she came to, but was
suffering excruciating pain. Mr. Smith there¬
fore volunteered to hasten forward to Derry
Lodge and bring assistance.

Darkness was now setting in, and the
sudden gusts of wind presaged a stormy night.
Assistance could not be expected for hours ;
the young lady’s condition became more and
more serious. The cold, combined with
utter exhaustion, began to tell on her. Young
Mackay did his best to protect her from the
cold by wrapping his Norfolk about her; but
by-and-by he could not get an articulate word
from her. .She seemed to be sinking into a
stupor. They were, moreover, in such an
unapproachable spot that assistance could
with difficulty be sent, and it was questionable
whether anyone would find them easily.

Taking these things into consideration,

Mackay resolved to attempt to carry his
friend down the mountain. Strapping her,
therefore, to his shoulders with a waterproof,
he began the descent. In former years
he had had a great deal of experience in
climbing crags, and he thought if he would
venture with confid¬
ence he might get
down safely. The
descent took a long
time, as he had to
balance himself every
few steps. He was
made to feel very
anxious by the quiet
state the young lady
had fallen into, and
was beginning to
think that her mis¬
hap might prove fatal.
It was this thought
that, as he confessed,
made him attempt,
and successfully ac¬
complish, what,
under ordinary cir¬
cumstances, he would
not think of attempt¬
ing.

It is the wonder
of experienced moun¬
taineers how the
young man succeeded
in reaching the foot of the mountain with his
charge, when one false step might have ended
two youthful lives. Having got clear of the
steeper part of the mountain, Mackay carried
the young lady four and a half miles over one
of the roughest parts of the Highlands. Here
a party of Glen Derry gamekeepers, who had
been apprised of the accident, met them.
The lady was laid on a stretcher in an un¬
conscious condition, and carried by willing
hands to Derry Lodge, where her ankle was
set. Her gallant preserver, who was dread¬
fully done up by the physical strain, had to
be assisted to proceed the rest of the way.
Mackay is described as a tall, slenderly-built
youth, but he must have a frame of iron. At
Aberdeen University, where he is studying,
he has the reputation of being one of the
most versatile of athletes.

MR. JOHN M. MACKAY.

From a Photo, by IF. B. Anderson, Aberdeen.

By Tom Gallon.

g! A U N T, and
grey, and piti¬
ably lonely it
stood, in the
deepening
December twilight, with
its towers and turrets
black against the sky. A
poor apology for a wind,
with nothing cheery or
boisterous in its composi¬
tion — a very ghost of
a wind, that fitted to a
nicety the ghostly thing about which it
moaned—swept up from the woods, and
feebly rattled the casements, and tried the
grim-looking doors. Away in some distant
deserted stable-yard the melancholy baying
cf a hound could be heard.

Within, the desolate old pile was scarcely
more cheerful than without. In the huge
hall a fire crackled and spluttered on the
hearth ; but it was a fire with no life or
animation about it—a fire that burned under
protest, as it were, with no real heart in the
business. And before the fire, with one
heavy riding boot kicking uneasily and im¬
patiently at the logs, stood a young man,
wearing as desolate an air as his surroundings.

Yet, had there been anyone there to
observe him, he might have been pro¬
nounced a well set-up fellow, strong-limbed
and goodly to look upon. The long brown
riding coat, with its high collar, could not
quite conceal the outlines of his figure; the
hair which escaped from under the three-
cornered hat was thick, and black, and curly.
But the handsome face wore a petulant frown
upon it, and he thrashed his boot now and
again savagely with the riding-whip he carried.
On a table near at hand stood two candles,

in high, old-fashioned
candlesticks; save for
these and the light
of the fire the great
sombre place was in
darkness.

He turned away im¬
patiently from the fire
at last, and poured out
a glass of wine from a
bottle which stood on
the table, and drank it
off.

“Poor sport,” he muttered, “drinking to
oneself. Poor sport, one’s own company.
Gad, what a deuce of a gloomy hole this is !
My worthy father—peace to his bones!—
little thought what he was doing when, in the
pride of his heart and his big purse, he pur¬
chased this for me. A castle, indeed ! What
the dickens do I want with a castle ? ”

He took another impatient turn about the
room, and then, with a whimsical laugh,
caught up one of the tall candlesticks, and
held it high above his head. By the dim
light of it could be seen various old pictures
in their faded frames, staring down at him —
pictures of dead and gone men and women
to whom this place had been a home. Stiff
and courtly dames were there, with long
waists and expansive skirts; dames ogling
him archly in powder and patches; gallant
men in armour, frowning down upon him;
gallants in laces and lovelocks, who had per¬
chance fought for that ill-fated king who lost
his head one snowy morning at Whitehall.

“ Ah ! I wonder what you’d say to me
if you could speak — some of you up
there. You belong here ; this is your natural
home; you quite appropriately come out of
your frames, and dance here at night in the

THE MAN WHO STOLE THE CASTLE.

705

moonlight, and flirt, and love, and kill each
other, just as merrily as I’ve no doubt you
did in the flesh. You go back for more
years than I could count—and, oh, God !
the respectability of you all! The glorious,
unimpeachable aristocracy of you ! While I

-that’s it, have a good look at me, my

starched old dame in the long waist and the
ruff”—he flared the candle towards one of
the canvases as he spoke : “ look well on
me ! My father was a linen-draper—a very
respectable old man—
a stout citizen of London
town, and nothing
better; and as for my
grandfather, I’m afraid
he wasn’t even quite so
good as that. But this
is the turn of the wheel;
while my worthy parent
was piling up the golden
pieces steadily, the last
of your old race was
spending them ; so that
it came to pass, at last,
that honest Jacob Dal-
wyn—citizen and linen-
draper of London Town
—was able to fulfil his
ambition — poor foolish
old man !—and try to
make a gentleman of his
son, by buying from a
bankrupt nobleman the
castle and estates which
that worthy had gambled
away. So wags the
world ! ”

He walked across to
the table, and set down
the candle, and flung
himself into a great, high-
backed old chair near
the fire.

“Jack Dalwyn with
a castle!” He burst
into a roar of laughter.

“Jack Dalwyn a lord
of the manor — squire
and what - not ! Was
ever any unfortunate fish more completely
out of the water? Why, the thing hangs
about me like a millstone. The old
servants who have been here all their lives
eye me distrustfully ; • I am nothing to them
but the man who pays their wages. The
very dogs are chained up lest they should
tear me to pieces, as they would any other
stranger who ventured within the gates.

Vol. xviii.—89.

The county people who call upon me are
civil only in proportion to the weight of my
dead father’s money-bags. A miserable
usurper, without even the grace to wear his
honours decently ; a gentleman in name—a
thing that sprang up like a mushroom in a
night ! ”

In his restless impatience he got up again
and strode up and down the hall. A shaft
of moonlight, coming suddenly in at an
upper window, shone full upon two pictures,
more modern in tone
and colouring than the
others—the pictures of
two children, a boy and
a girl. The originals
must have been quite
young when the portraits
were painted — mere
babies, in fact, although
the boy had a gallant
little riding-coat on, and
the girl, for all her smil¬
ing, childish face, the
long, straight, demure
gown of a woman.

“And who were you,
I wonder ? ” muttered
Jack Dalwyn, coming to
a halt before them. “Did
your merry laughter
ring through these old
rooms ? Perhaps—who
knows ?—you’ve danced
in the firelight here
many and many a time.
Poor babies, even you
would understand the
trick of the business
better than I do. These
walls were home to you,
not the dreary strange
place I find them. Gad,
I’ll have no more of
this,” he exclaimed, sud¬
denly, turning away, and
going back to the fire.
“ I want light — and
warmth—and pleasant
faces—and someone to
talk with. I won’t stay here. I’ll get me
down to the Elverton Head in the village;
mine host will be glad of a chat, and maybe
a drop of his ale will be more to my liking
than the wine from the dark, musty cellars of
this place. Besides, the Elverton Head is
more fitting a place for me, I think, than
Elverton Castle ; I’ll warrant I’m more at
home in taverns than in mansions.”

“‘AND WHO WERE YOU, I WONDER,’ MUTTERED
JACK DALWYN.”

706

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

With a reckless laugh he strode across the
hall, and threw open a door which admitted
him into a smaller hall, giving on to a great,
bare, echoing court-yard. The moon was
high, and the wind had dropped ; a few light
flakes of snow were falling. Shivering a little,
and drawing his coat more closely about him,
he walked rapidly on, down the broad avenue
which led to the house, and out through the
great gates, which the lodge-keeper opened.
Once outside, on the moonlit road, he
seemed to breathe more freely; shook him¬
self, laughed a little, and turned in the
direction of the village.

The bell-ringers were at work lustily in the
belfry of the little village church, and the
bells rocked and flung out the music of their
chiming towards him as he walked. But
even the music of the bells brought no
solace; they seemed to roar out at him
plainly, “ Go away ; you don’t belong here !
Go away; we don’t want you ! Go away;
you don’t belong here!” Over and over
again through his head they seemed to
drive that pitiless tune. The light shining
through the red blinds of the Elverton Head
seemed more inviting, and he thrust open
the low swing-door with his foot, and stalked
moodily into the place.

To a man in any other frame of mind the
room in which he found himself would have
seemed cheerful enough, with its low ceiling,
crossed by beams blackened with age; its
dark oak panels reflecting every glancing
gleam of firelight from the broad hearth ;
the well-sanded floor, and the two enormous
old settles drawn up in comfortable proximity
to the blazing logs. The room was empty
save for the landlord, who stood in his shirt¬
sleeves leaning over the back of one of the
settles, puffing at a long clay pipe, and
meditatively watching the fire. He moved
with alacrity as Dalwyn came towards him,
and motioned with homely courtesy to the
settle.

“ Good evenin’, sir—your sarvant, sir.
Weather promises fine for Christmas, sir.”

“ Oh—bother the weather,” growled Jack,
as he threw himself upon the settle. “ Bring
me some ale, will you—and a pipe? ”

The landlord, somewhat abashed, moved
away to do his guest’s bidding, and Jack
Dalwyn, leaning back in a corner of the
settle, looked at the fire with a rueful laugh.
“ Christmas, indeed ! Gad !—I’d forgotten
all about it. There’s a merry Christmas
before me, I’ll warrant, in that stone vault.
I’Jl get back to town to-morrow, and have a
merry time in the old fashion.”

The landlord, entering at this moment
with a tankard of ale and a long clay pipe
and tobacco, put an end to Jack’s further
self-communing. The man was about to
withdraw, having doubtlessly observed the
humour of his visitor, but Jack called him
back.

“ You’re quiet here to-night, landlord ? ”

“Aye, master; they begins their Christmas-
sing early i’ these parts. What wi’ one
festival an’ another, most on ’em begins it
nigh a week afore, an’ finishes it nigh a week
arter. Yes, we’re a bit quiet-like to-night,
sir. Quite glad to see you, sir, an’ honoured,
I’m sure, sir.” He made a low bow as he
spoke.

“Thankee,” said Jack, shortly. “Frankly,

I came down here because it’s so infernally
dull at that place of mine that I get the
horrors.”

“Ah, sir,” said the landlord, sympatheti¬
cally, “ I daresay you do find it a bit
lonesome.”

“ Lonesome! ” exclaimed Jack, with a
laugh. “ I assure you, my friend, that there
are ghosts on every stairway—or there seem
to be ; sighs and whispers in every creaking
door and waving tapestry in the place. Tell
me ”—he broke off suddenly and faced the
landlord squarely—“ what sort of man was
the late owner, Sir Richard Elverton ? ”

“ As free and open-’anded a gentleman-”

“ Yes; I should suppose he was open-
handed. But where is he now ? ”

“ He died abroad, sir, nigh upon a year
ago. Got into some trouble, so the tale
went, sir, i’ London—about a money matter.
His wife—sweet lady—lies over there i’
Elverton Church i’ the family vault. They
do say as ’ow the loss of the old place fair
broke ’er heart. But she’s at peace now,
poor thing.”

“ Ah ! And she was the last of them, I
suppose ? ”

“ Why, no, sir, there’s the bonniest little
lad as ever you put eyes on, somewhere at
school nigh about ’ere, with the little lass,
his sister. Of course, the title’s ’is now,
you’ll understand, although it’s a precious
empty one for the poor lad.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Jack Dalwyn, feeling
more like a criminal than ever. “And I
suppose these—these babies have nothing in
the world, eh ? ”

“ Can’t say, sir, I’m sure,” replied the
landlord. “ Mighty little Sir Richard left
be’ind, if all that’s said be true.” The man
had raised his head in an attitude of listening,
and now made, with some excitement, for the

THE MAN WHO STOLE THE CASTLE

707

door. “ There’s a sound o’ wheels on the
road, sir; and maybe it’s travellers. You’ll
excuse me, sir, I know.”

Jack Dalwyn, drawn up in the shelter of
the settle, the protecting wing of which com¬
pletely hid him from the observation of any¬
one entering the inn, idly speculated in his
own mind as to what travellers these might
be, coming to such a benighted spot at such
an hour, the while he cosily enjoyed the
warmth of the fire. An exclamation from
the landlord first roused him, and he sat
still, listening. He heard a man’s gruff
tones; saw, out of the corner of his eye, lights
flashing to and fro before the windows ; and
then—wonder of wonders !—heard the high,
imperious treble of a child.

“ How do you do, Cummings ? Quite
surprised to see us, eh? We didn’t really
expect to come at all, you know; but the
business was pressing, and there was no time
to be lost. Gad! Cummings, but we’ve
had a cold drive—my lady sister and myself
—and we want something to warm us before
we go farther. And, Cummings, where are
your manners? Do you stare at all your
guests in that fashion ? Come, man, bustle
yourself; some mulled wine for the lady to
begin with.”

Jack Dalwyn peeped round the corner of
the settle. Standing in the very centre of
the sanded floor were two children
— so desolate-looking, despite the
grand air the boy had as¬
sumed, that Jack’s heart
began to ache for sheer pity.

They stood, drawn close
together, with the boy’s arm
protectingly round the
girl; the boy was ap¬
parently the elder of
the two, but even his
years could not have
amounted to more
than nine at the
most.

“ Craving your
pardon, sir,” said
the landlord, recover¬
ing a little from his
astonishment; “ but I
was so took aback at
the sight of you and
the young lady ’ere,
that I did forget my
manners for a minute.

Your pardon again,
sir.”

“Ah — so you

haven’t forgotten me then?” said the boy.
“ Honest Cummings! We always liked
Cummings, didn’t we, Barbara?”

The girl slowly nodded her head, and the
landlord beamed his appreciation of their
confidence.

“ And so, as we were very tired, and as we
were not quite sure what would happen if we
went straight on to the castle-”

“ To the castle ? ” echoed the landlord,
blankly, with a quick glance towards the
settle.

“We thought we’d come in here, and ask
—well, ask your advice.”

The landlord scratched his head in some
perplexity, and then his eyes instinctively
turned towards where Dalwyn was sitting.
Jack rose slowly, and came towards the group,
baring his head ceremoniously as he faced
the boy. The boy, for his part, did the same,
and eyed the stranger with frank curiosity.

“ Perhaps I may be of some assistance,
sir, he said, flattering the child by approach¬
ing him as though there were no question of
years between them. “ Landlord Cummings
—I should be glad of this gentleman’s
acquaintance; will you present me?”

“ This, sir,” said the landlord, glad of the
opportunity to share his perplexity with

ASSISTANCE, SIR."

708

THE STRAND MAGAZINE,

someone else, “this is Master Leonard
Elverton-”

“Sir Leonard Elverton, by your leave,
good Cummings,” broke in the boy, quickly.
“And this, sir,” he added, “is my sister,
Mistress Barbara Elverton.”

Jack Dalwyn swept his hat to the floor, in
a low bow to the girl, and lightly put the
little hand she held out to him to his lips.
“My name,” he said, “is Jack Dalwyn, at
your service, Sir Leonard.” Turning hastily
to the landlord, as that worthy was backing
away, he added in a low voice, “ Not a word
to these babies about the castle until I tell
you.” Aloud he cried, “Come, landlord—
supper and some mulled wine at once. Serve
it here before the fire. This lady and gentle¬
man will, I trust, be my guests.”

The faces of the children lit up as the
landlord bustled away , to carry out Jack’s
orders. Jack gently drew the girl towards
the fire and seated her on the settle ; and,
with the tenderness of a woman, loosened
her cloak, and lifted the big, cumbrous
bonnet from the fair, curly head.

“Why, little one,” he said, as he knelt
before her, “ how tired and cold you are !
You have come a long, long journey, I’m
afraid ? ”

The girl nodded sleepily, and the boy
broke in quickly, in response to Jack’s
question. “Yes, Mr. Dalwyn, it was rather
a long way ; we’ve been travelling for hours.
In fact, we’ve run away.”

“ Run away ? ” echoed Jack.

“Yes — from school. A horrid place,
where everyone was unkind to us, and where
they said cruel things about me and about—
my father.” The small hands were clenched,
and the boy’s lips quivered. “ My father’s
dead, you know,” he added, “ and they told
me he couldn’t pay for us any longer, and
that I—that I was a beggar. So, of course,
Bab and 1 couldn’t stand that, and so we
came home.”

“Home?” echoed Jack, blankly.

“Yes, to the castle. You see, there’s
something to be put right; I am Sir Leonard
Elverton, and the castle belongs to me,
doesn’t it ?”

“ Y-yes,” said Jack, slowly. “I suppose
it does.”

“ Of course it does,” said the boy, un¬
hesitatingly. “ That is really why we’ve
come so hurriedly. Someone has stolen our
castle.”

Jack Dalwyn rose from his knees, and
stood before the fire looking down at the boy.
“ That’s dreadful,” he said, in a low voice.

“ You don’t—don’t know who stole it, I
suppose ? ”

“No,” said the boy, “but I shall soon find
out, and then, whoever it is will have to look
out for himself. Of course, I shall fight for
it, if necessary ; my ancestors fought for it,
years and years ago, and, of course, I must
be prepared to do the same.”

At this moment the landlord bustled in,
followed by his assistants, and in a few
moments a little round table was laid in the
full glow of the firelight, and the children
prepared eagerly for their meal. Jack made
a pretence of eating, but his heart was sick
and heavy within him. In imagination he
saw himself in all his brute strength, and
with all the power of his wealth behind him,
arrayed against these two helpless children j
saw himself relentlessly snatching from them
their birthright, and flinging them to the
mercy of a hard world. He was quite glad
when the landlord caused a diversion by
nervously approaching the table while the
meal was in progress, and addressing him.

“ Craving your pardon, sir, there’s a man
’ere a-askin’ for a matter o’ four guineas and
a half for a post-chaise for this young gen’el-
man and the little lady. He’s wantin’ to
know if he’s to wait, sir ? ”

The boy answered the question with
charming frankness. “You see, Cummings,”
he said, “it’s rather awkward. I—I haven’t
any money, and I don’t quite know-”

“Permit me,” said Jack, lightly. “Only
a loan, you know—between gentlemen. Tell
the man to wait,” he added, turning to the
landlord, “and assure him that he shall be
paid. See that he has something to eat, will
you ? ”

Tlie landlord withdrew, and the boy
turned to Jack with a grateful smile. “It’s
very fortunate we met you, sir,” he said,
“and I am very grateful. Do you reside in
this neighbourhood ? ”

“ Oh, yes—hereabouts,” said Jack, with a
wave of the hand. “ But tell me more about
this castle of yours. Speak low—see, Mis¬
tress Barbara has fallen asleep.”

“ Well, you must know,” began the boy,
“ that we had a letter from our old nurse—
the one who was with us before my father
went abroad. She wrote to tell me of his
death, and to tell me that a wicked man had
stolen my castle, and that I had no home at
all. Of course she’s old, and she’s a woman,
and she doesn’t understand things ; I shall
soon show her, and everyone else, that
people can’t go about stealing castles and
expect to have no notice taken of it. So, as

THE MAN WHO STOLE THE CaSTLE.

709

the people at the school were very unkind,
and as I felt that I must fight for Barbara as
well as myself, 1 came away directly I got
the letter. And here we are.”

“ Yes,” said Jack, slowly ; “ and, being
here, what are you going to do ? ”

“ Do ? I’m going home.” How proudly
he said it, and how his childish, innocent
courage shone in his eyes !

“To-night ?”

“Yes—to-night,” exclaimed the boy, start¬
ing to his feet, and looking about for his
coat.

“Will you permit me to—to come with
you ?” asked Jack, scarcely able to restrain a
smile at the absurdity of the position.

“ I shall be very glad,” said the boy. “ You
look strong, and if there’s any fighting to

do-And I shall be glad,” he added,

courteously, “ to offer you my hospitality, at
least for the night.”

Jack gasped, but contrived to hide his
feelings under an elaborate bow. Orders
were given, and the chaise was brought again
to the door. Jack wrapped the cloak about
the sleeping child, and lifted her in his arms,
and carried her to the vehicle. Landlord
Cummings, speechless with astonishment,
stood in the road, ceremoniously to hand
them in. With a cracking of the pos¬
tilion’s whip, and the clatter of hoofs, Jack
Dalwyn drove back to the castle with the
two children.

The unusual noise made by the carriage in
the echoing court-yard caused quite a com¬
motion. Dogs barked, and windows were
thrown open, and two or three
startled servants came hurriedly
out bearing lights. But one—an
ancient man, who had lived there
nearly all his days—on catching
sight of the boy raised a feeble
shout; and, in an instant, they
came flocking about the children,
careless of the reason for their
coming, and glad only to welcome
them home again. Jack Dalwyn
stood apart, scarcely noticed by any
of them, until the boy, in his courte¬
ous fashion, and with an irony of
which he was happily ignorant,
drew him forward, and introduced
him to the amazed servants.

“This is a gentleman—a very
good friend of mine—Mr. Dalwyn.

He has been exceedingly kind to me
and to my sister. You will be good
enough to have a room prepared
for him at once—at once, I say.”

While the wondering servants hesitated,
and glanced uneasily from Dalwyn to the
child, and back again, Jack stepped quickly
forward. “ Obey his instructions,” he said,
in a low and hurried voice to the group—
“and ask no questions. You”—he turned
to one of the younger women—“take charge
of the young lady, and see that a room is
prepared for her at once. Tell the house¬
keeper that a room is to be prepared for the
young gentleman also. Now, Sir Leonard”
—he turned to the boy with a smile, and
held out his hand—“ let us go and find the
man who has stolen your castle.”

“ Is he here ? ” asked the boy, drawing
back a little anxiously.

“Yes, I’m afraid he is. You’d better see
him, and get it over—don’t you think so?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll see him. You’ll help me,
won’t you ? You’re bigger and stronger than
I am—and I-”

“ Yes, a great deal bigger and stronger,
I’m afraid,” said Jack, with a sigh. “ But
come along, we’d better get it over, I
suppose.” And together they marched hand
in hand into the big hall.

Jack Dalwyn noticed, in a moody, foolish
fashion, that the dying fire seemed to leap
up into renewed brightness as the boy came

“CHILD—I AM THE MAN WHO HAS STOLEN YOUR CASTLE.”

7io

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

in; that the frowning pictures on the walls
took on an aspect less grim, and seemed to
strive, in their stiff fashion, to welcome the
child. The thought of what he must say to
the boy—of the black light in which he must
appear—almost unnerved him ; he made a
hurried attempt to postpone the interview.

“ Don’t you think,” he began, nervously,
“ don’t you think we’d better wait until to¬
morrow ? ”

“ No—that’s impossible ! ” exclaimed the
boy, impatiently. “ I must see him to-night.
Where is he ? I thought he would be here.”

Jack walked across to the fire, and half-
turned his back upon the child, and stirred
the embers uneasily with his boot. “ He is
here,” he said, at last, in a low voice.

“ Here? Where?”

“Yes. Don’t you see him? .... Child
—I am the man who has stolen your castle.”

The child stared at him in blank amaze¬
ment. “You? I-—I don’t understand.
What are you saying ? ”

Jack Dalwyn, still looking into the fire,
waved his hand towards a seat near him.
“ Sit down,” he said, gently, “ and I’ll try to
tell you all about it, although the Lord only
knows,” he muttered to himself, “ how I’m
going to make it clear to you.”

The boy drew nearer slowly, and seated
himself, never once taking his bright eyes
from the man’s face. Jack, for his part,
dared not look at him.

“ You must know, Leonard,” he began,
“ that, in this queer old world of ours, about
which you know so little yet, there is what
men call trade—and sale—and barter. All
those things shouldn’t touch your life at all,
Heaven knows; you were born in a world
outside them, and they only smirch you by
accident. It was by one of those disgraceful
processes that I came into possession of this
castle—your home; and if you asked anyone
in the world—anyone you know you can
trust—any of these old servants even—they’d
all tell you that the castle belongs to me.”

“ But—I crave your pardon, sir—it does
not,” said the boy, firmly.

“ Well — we’ll say it does not; we’re
coming to that point presently. The only
question is—what are we going to do about
it?”

Jack was so terribly in earnest that the
question to him was of the most serious
import—quite as serious, in fact, as it was to
the boy. Legal technicalities—the rights of
possession, and what-not—all were lost sight
of. He saw the amazing business only from
the child’s standpoint ; stood before that

child a wretched criminal, convicted of a
mean theft—and blushed before him in
consequence.

“ Well,” said the boy, slowly, “ I suppose
I’ve got to fight you. I’m sorry—because I
rather liked you. And it’s so near Christ¬
mas time, too, that I had hoped to offer you
my hospitality.”

“ If,” said Jack, speaking in his most
whimsical mood—“ if I told you, in all sin¬
cerity, that I am very sorry to have wronged
you or your sweet sister; and if I tell you
that I will do all in my power to make
reparation—don’t you think we might still be
friends, and that I might stay here for—let
us 'say—a day or two ? Come—there’s my
hand on it ! ”

The boy sprang up, and clapped his own
hand in an instant into the other’s out¬
stretched palm. “ Oh, of course,” he cried,
“ I can’t turn you out in such a hurry as all
that. There’s plenty of room in this place,
you know, and I beg that you will make
yourself quite at home—for the present, at
least.”

“Thank you,” said Jack. “I’m sure it’s
very kind of you, and I’ll endeavour not to
trouble you more than I can help. Perhaps
you would like to retire now; your room has
been prepared.”

With exaggerated courtesy they bade each
other good-night, and Jack Dalwyn was left
alone. For hours he sat before the fire,
drawing mental pictures of many things. He
felt again the sleeping child’s unconscious
touch upon his neck, when he had lifted her
from the settle in the inn. He never
remembered to have held a child in his arms
before; he smiled a little when he thought
what some of his gay London friends would
have thought could they have followed his
adventures of that night. He thought, too,
of the children sleeping snugly in their beds,
in their own home, well cared for; and then
drew a fearful mental picture of them going
hand in hand through perhaps such a bitter
night as this, homeless, and starving, and ex¬
posed to every terror of a world of which as
yet they were ignorant. Pacing about the
hall, he came again face to face with those
two pictures; and wondered how he should
bear to live there, when the originals had been
sent away, as law and justice demanded.
And, sitting there in the darkness, he slowly
beat out in his mind the thing that he must
do.

Quite early in the morning, long before the
children were astir, a man set out on a swift
horse for London. He had orders to find

THE MAN WHO STOLE THE CASTLE.

two people, and bring them back with him,
at whatever cost. The one was a certain Mr.
Josiah Hankey, a man of law, who had trans¬
acted Jack Dalwyn’s business, and that of his
father before him ; the other was a certain
Mistress Aurora Pepper, the old nurse men¬
tioned by the boy, who had left the castle
only when the children had been sent to
school, and who had been in constant com¬
munication with them ever since. Some of
the servants had been able to tell where she
lodged, and the messenger received orders,
coupled with fearful threats, to bring her
back, alive or dead.

Travelling in those days took time, and
horses, even of the fastest, had to be cared
for. Thus it happened that Jack Dalwyn
had to wait, with what patience he might, for

711

and stone of it; the frowning pictures were
loved friends, to whom their innocent con¬
fidences were freely given ; the very dogs,
who strained fiercely at their chains when
he went near, suffered themselves to be
caressed by these babies with every mani¬
festation of delight. There was only one
satisfactory thing about it all, and that
was that the children, in those two days, lost
any feeling of resentment they might have
cherished towards him, and showed a grow¬
ing affection for him in a thousand ways.
This was especially the case on the part of
the girl; and Jack Dalwyn grew to love the
touch of her small, warm fingers twined round
his, and to listen eagerly for the sound of
her prattling voice. The boy, with that
curious dignity which he probably felt was

‘WHAT A STRANGE PARTY IT WAS THAT SAT
TO THEIR CHRISTMAS FARE.”

two whole days before the arrival of those he
had summoned; and during that time he
had opportunities for observing the children.
All that he saw only confirmed him more
strongly in his resolution. This place, so
strange and dreary to him, was a palace of
delight to them, with a story in every beam

necessary to the occasion, stood
more aloof, apparently still regarding
Jack as one who must be watched,
)o wn lest an advantage be taken.

The old nurse, in fear and trem¬
bling, duly arrived, accompanied by
the lawyer. Jack, without further ado, dis¬
missed her to the children, telling her that
he would have some conversation with her
later, and would then give whatever explana¬
tion might be necessary.

The lawyer, Mr. Josiah Hankey, was a
small, dry, withered old man, whose long

712

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

acquaintance with his profession had driven
out of him whatever original beliefs in the
sweetness and beauty of humanity he might
once have possessed; a man who rarely com¬
mitted himself to an opinion without looking
at it carefully on all sides, and then, after
all, giving it grudgingly. He believed Jack
Dalwyn to be a feather-brained ma’d rascal,
but even he was astounded at the proposition
laid before him. He fairly sat up and gasped
when Jack had finished.

“ Do you mean to tell me,” asked the
lawyer, “in common sober earnest, that you
purpose giving up this fine old place, bought
with your father’s money, to two penniless
children about whom you know nothing ? ”

“ I know quite enough,” said Jack, simply.
“ This is their home—theirs by right. Good
God ! man, you surely wouldn’t advocate the
visiting of the sins of the fathers on the
heads of such innocents as these ? Now—
don’t argue about the matter; my mind is
firmly made up, and I want you to do as I
suggest. You will safeguard their interests,
and will see that the sum I have mentioned
is withdrawn from my income each year, and
disbursed for their maintenance, and for the
keeping up of this place. You will arrange
about their education—not too much of it;
I won’t have them driven. You understand
me ? ”

“ Perfectly,” replied the lawyer, drily.
<£ And how long, pray, is this fooling to
continue? ”

“ As long as I choose,” replied Jack.
“ We’ll let the years take care of themselves ;
all you have to do is to be careful of your
stewardship for the present. Now, while you
refresh yourself, I’ll have a talk with this old
nurse of theirs.”

The lawyer saw that further expostulation
was useless, and with a shrug of his shoulders
retired. Mistress Aurora Pepper, on her
entry, was visibly disconcerted by the stern
glance which met her own. She curtsied,
trembling.

“ You know who I am ? ” asked Jack.

“ Indeed, sir—yes,” replied the woman.
K Master Dalwyn, I believe—the new owner
of-”

“ Oh, no; that’s where you’re wrong,”
replied Jack. “ You know better than that.
I’m the man who has stolen it; don’t you
remember ? ”

“ Oh, sir; I beg that you won’t think
anything of the foolish words of an old
woman to a child. Indeed, sir, I can assure

“ There, there, my good woman, I’m not

offended—and, after all, you were right. I
have robbed these mites of their "home,
although Heaven knows I did it innocently
enough. Now, listen to me. Are you
willing to come back again to them ? ”

“ Lord bless you, sir, I’d follow them all
over the kingdom, if it came to that. I’ve
never had a child of my own, but they’ve
seemed more like my own than any others
could. I’d never have left them if they
hadn’t been sent away from me.”

“ Well; I believe you,” said Jack. “ You
have a kind face, and I believe you’ll be good
to them. I’m going to leave them here, in
their old home, in your charge. I have only
one stipulation to make ; and that is, that
you are not to say anything to them about
the matter—I mean in the sense of giving
them to understand that I am in any way
their benefactor. I should like ”—he turned
away for a moment, and beat his fingers
restlessly on the table—“ I should like to feel
that they—that they didn’t quite forget me
or that they didn’t think badly of me. For
the rest, you will be well supplied with
money for all their wants and your own. I
am going abroad almost immediately, and
cannot tell when I return. That is all, thank

you- No, I want no thanks. Go back

to them, and care for them.”

His resolution taken, and all things
arranged for the carrying out of his strange
fancy, Jack Dalwyn determined, before going
away, that something should be done to mark
the time. For this was Christmas Eve.
“ Gad ! ” he exclaimed, with a laugh, “ they
shall have the best Christmas even they have
ever had, a right merry one.”

And what a Christmas it was! What a strange
party it was that sat down to their Christmas
fare in the great, sombre banqueting hall 1
Only four of them—the two children, and Jack,
and Josiah Hankey, the lawyer; but what
a merry group they were ! Even the lawyer
relaxed something of his grim ness, and came
out with surprising jests, and sang a song, in
the exhilaration of the hour—a song that was
a very old one even at that date. But the
beautiful thing was the sight of the boy at
the head of the table doing the honours of
the feast—doing them, child though he was,
so naturally and well, and with such a tender
regard for the comfort of his guests, that he
could not have done it better had he been a
man experienced in the ways of the world.
Jack Dalwyn, watching him, nudged the
lawyer, and whispered in his ear.

“See, my man of law—see how well he
plays the part. Better far than I could do.

THE MAN WHO STOLE THE CASTLE .

7 i 3

There’s his natural place; he is the proper
seed of this old tree—while I am but some¬
thing of a coarser growth, that has no place
here.”

When the last light but his own had been
extinguished in the castle, and long after the
last tired servant had crept
to bed, Jack Dalwyn sat
down and wrote a letter.

“ Dear Little Friends,

—When, in the bright morn¬
ing light, you shall read
this, I shall have gone
away. Will you believe

crept into the boy’s room, and stood
looking at him for some minutes; the child
was peacefully sleeping. He bent down
at last, and gently brushed the little flushed
face with his lips ; laid the note on a table
beside the bed, and stole away.

In little Barbara’s
room he stayed a longer
time—seemed to find it
hard, in fact, to tear
himself away, now
that the moment had
come. But he kissed
her gently at last, and
then, as he was leaving
the room, his glance
fell upon a bright rib¬
bon which lay on the

me when I tell you that
there has been a dreadful
blunder, and that, had 1
looked at. the matter care¬
fully, and had I known you
then as I know you now,

I should never have tried to
take your beautiful home from you? It is
yours again, never to be lost to you while you
live. Your old friends are about you, and
you need never fear that anyone will try
again to steal from you the place of which
you should be so proud. The time will
come when you will understand these things
better, and will learn to forgive — The Man
who Stole the Castle.”

He folded the note, addressed it to “ Sir
Leonard Elverton,” and, carrying it in his
hand, went to the wing of the castle in
which the children slept. Very softly he

THE CHILD WAS PEACEFULLY SLEEPING.

dressing table, and which he remembered
had bound the child’s hair that day. He
took it up softly, and put it to his lips, and
then thrust it in his breast.

Coming down into the hall again, he took
one long, last look round the place, and then
went out quickly, and saddled his horse, and
rode away. Rode out into the world with a
light heart that Christmas night, while the
children slumbered peacefully in their beds.
But, in his wanderings in strange lands, he
cherishes the hope that some day he may
come back to them.

Vol. xviii.—90

THE SAILORS IN THE UPPER ILLUSTRATION ARE SIGNALLING WITH THEIR FLAGS THE WORD “ STRAND,” AND THE SOLDIERS

IN THE LOWER ONE THE WORD “ MAGAZINE.”

Signalling in the Navy and Army.

By Herbert C. Fyfe.

Phofog; aphs specially taken for “ The Strand Magazine ” by S. Cribb.

I.—HOW SAILORS SIGNAL.

T is not easy,” says a naval
expert, “ to overrate the im¬
portance of the part which
is played by the signal staff
on board a man-of-war. It
constitutes the ears and the
voice of each vessel, and is the means of
conveying commands or reports of the
most momentous as well as of the most
trivial import, from an invitation to dinner
with the admiral, to an order to engage
the enemy.”

Thanks to the progress of invention and
discovery, the means of communication in
cities and towns are to-dav exceptionally well
organized. The business man with the tele¬
phone on his office table, the telegraph office
round the corner, and the messenger boy
service in the next street, can send messages

with the greatest ease, and dispatch and
receive answers in a very short space of time.
On the high seas, however, the telegraph, the
telephone, and the boy messenger are of no
use, and moving ships have to seek other
methods of communication with one another.

For the instruction of seamen in the art of
naval signalling there are three “ Schools of
Signalling ”: one is at Portsmouth, one at
Chatham, and one at Devonport. Every
signal-boy before going to sea, and every
signalman on returning from a commission
abroad, passes through a course of forty days'
instruction in all its branches. Elaborate
fittings and illustrations of the work are
used, including a box of models invented by
Commander Tufifnell, a former inspecting
officer. Miniature ships are moved about by
signal, through all sorts of fleet formations,

SIGNALLING IN THE NAVY AND ARMY.

7 i 5

so as to give a perfect grasp of the important
and difficult art of manoeuvring. Great care
is taken in the training of signalmen, for the
importance of their duties cannot be over¬
estimated. A mis-read signal may send a
ship to the bottom, and those whose business
it is to watch for the messages and to report
them correctly need clear eyes, steady
nerves, and constant attention.

Mr. G. Stewart Bowles, lately a sub¬
lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Fleet, has given
us a very vivid picture of naval signalling in
the entertaining collection of sketches and
verses which he has published under the
title, 11 A Gun-Room Ditty Box.” Mr.
Bowles, like Mr. Kipling, succeeds in re¬
counting incidents in a sailor’s life in such a
way that they remain clearly fixed in the
memory of the reader. The sketch to which
we wish to allude is entitled “Slate,” and
we trust its author will pardon us for quoting
the following passage, which brings home to
the landsman the unceasing watchfulness of
the “ ears and eyes ” of the Navy :—

“ It is Thursday afternoon, and the fleet is
very still. The men are making and mending
clothes; the liberty men have long since
landed ; the decks are deserted. Each ship
cuts her reflection deep and clear into the
water. The fleet is resting : apparently
sleeping. Not so. The fleet never sleeps.
Take your glass and look. High on the
upper bridges, where the big semaphores
stand, two or three white figures move
silently to and fro, crossing, pausing, and
re-crossing. The fleet, indeed, is resting;
but it never sleeps. Night closes in—the
figures are still there. Morning breaks—
they are still there. Days become months,
and months years ; a King rises, a
kingdom falls — it affects them not a whit.
Consols may jump to no, or a penny may
be added to the income-tax—still they keep
their solemn watch, high on the upper
bridges. Who are these men, and what is
their business ? They are the ears and the
eyes and the ultimate tongue of the Empire.
They are signalmen of the watch.”

• Mr. Bowles then gives us some instances
of ship-to-ship signalling. In the first the
officer of the watch is sending a message to
a friepd on another man-of-war.

“ A glance at the signalman of the watch,
a short order, five seconds, and a hoist of
bunting flies at the lower yardarm. There
is no wind, and it is impossible to see the
flags; they are curling gently round their
halliards. But they made a little wind going
up, and already, a mile away, a little red

splotch climbs to its place in answer
across two lines of ships. Then the big
semaphore begins to talk, waving its arms
for thirty seconds. It closes with a smack;
the red splotch across the lines disappears;
our hoist of bunting drops softly to the deck.
The officer of the watch walks to the ward¬
room skylight, looks at the clock, yawns, and
resumes his pace. He has asked a friend to
dinner. The invitation has just gone.”

A signalman is chatting with a friend
up the line. “ Keeping his elbows still,
he begins to throw his hands about in
front of him with quick movements of the
wrist. He is recounting his last shore
experience to a chum in the next ship. It
doesn’t take long, and as he nears the end
he quickens pace, the movements become
like lightning. He waves his hand past his
face ; there is an answering wave from the
other bridge— and the story is told.”

Next is a signal from the flag-ship, v The
fleet is to sail to-morrow morning,” and this
is how Mr. Bowles hoists it for us : “ The
flag-lieutenant’s white slate is in the signal-
house with the message; the signal boatswain
is on the admiral’s bridge, ready to send
it; the staff are bending on flags leisurely,
seeing all clear. The signal boatswain walks
to the centre, leans over the bridge rail, and
says, ‘ Hoist.’ Five hoists of a ‘ general
signal ’ fly at the flag-ship’s mast, and lo ! at
each masthead flies large a flag in answer.
The signal boatswain glances up and down
the fleet and orders ‘ Down.’ In forty seconds
the thing is done. The masts and yards are
bare as winter trees. The fleet will sail to¬
morrow.”

Mr. Bowles’s last example is a specimen of
night signalling : “ The moon has not yet
risen, and the night is very dark. Over the
middle of the fleet a big white light hangs and
winks in a great hurry. It wants to know
whether anyone has seen its captain’s over¬
coat, left carelessly at a dance. The signal
midshipmen of the lee line smile darkly when
the signal is brought to them ; otherwise no
one seems to know much about it. The
lamps answer all round us, one in each great
ship, clicking quickly. Nothing is known.

“When the morning dawns the time has
come for the ships to leave. In the early
twilight two dark shapes flutter at the flag¬
ship’s main, tw T o more, and another two. The
six-ton anchors leave the mud together and
dangle at the cat-heads. Then the engines
move—stretching after their long rest. The
speed is set, the flag-ship leads the way, and
with enormous, certain strength the fleet files

716

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

out, quite silently, ship by ship, two cables
apart, in perfect, splendid order. All done by
the signalmen. In truth they earn their pay.
Every ship must be watched as a cat watches
a mouse; nothing escapes, every signal to be
logged, reported, and attended to; a mistake
may lose the ship.”

Let us now examine the system of naval
signalling in a more detailed fashion. In
former days the ships sailed so close together
that orders could be generally communicated
by word of mouth ; where this method was
impossible, flags, banners, lanterns, and
shields served as sailing directions, and for
the sending of messages. Before the middle
of the seventeenth century only a few stated
orders and reports could be made known by
signalling. Flags
were used by day,
and lights, oc¬
casionally with
guns, at night, and
the signals were
interpreted ac¬
cording to the
positions of the
lights or the flags,
which were hung
in different parts
of the vessel.

Nelson’s famous
signal, “ England
expects that every
man will do his
duty,” streamed
in thirty flags from
all his upper yards.

At the time only
two different flags
were in use, and
this necessitated
the employment
of a large number.

From the year 1780, when Admiral Kempen-
feldt devised a plan of flag signalling by
combining distinct flags in pairs, till quite
recent times, the systems of naval signalling
have been vastly improved and simplified.

Taking, first of all, signalling by means of
flags, we find that there are about seventy
different flags now in use in the Royal Navy.
By arranging these in different ways any
required signal can be sent. An International
code of signals has now been arranged, and
this has been adopted by all the great
nations of the world, so that two ships, totally
ignorant of each other’s language, can con¬
verse by means of the code. The Royal
Navy for its own purposes has, of course, a

private system of signals. When a message
has to be sent the flags are hung one under
the other, each symbol or combination having
an arbitrary conventional meaning attached
to it.

The key to the meaning of the flag signals
is contained in the signal code-book, in
which the meanings of the flags and the
combinations of flags are printed. The
signal code-book of the Royal Navy is
naturally very carefully guarded, and when it
was discovered, some little time since, that a
signalman had stolen the book, with the idea
of selling it to a foreign Power, very severe
punishment was meted out to the offender.
Our illustration shows the signal-bridge of a
battleship : there are the pigeon-holes where

the flags are kept, and a signalman is taking
in a flag signal from the station at Portsmouth
1)ockyard.

No. 2 shows sailors taking in a general
signal —copying it on the ship’s slate to lay
before the captain. The man on the left is
replying by flag to show the signal is received.
As the signal flags can only be used within
distances across which their colours are dis¬
tinct, what are known as “distant signals” are
sometimes employed. They are made by tak¬
ing any two square flags, any two pennants, and
two balls, and making the signals for letters
on the flag-plate by certain combinations.
The interpretations are made in the usual
way by the aid of the signal-book.

±.—THE SIGNAL-BRIDGE OF A BATTLESHIP.

SIGNALLING IN THE NA VY AND ARMY.

7 i 7

2.—TAKING IN A GENERAL SIGNAL AND COPYING IT ON TUI;

SLATE.

For more extended signals still the sema¬
phore is used. This consists of a pole with
three movable arms, the varying positions of
which indicate the different letters of the
alphabet. The semaphore alphabet seems
terribly complicated to the beginner, but in
this, as in everything else, “ practice makes
perfect.”

Semaphores were in general use before the
electric telegraph came into vogue. They
consisted of towers built at intervals of
from five to ten miles on commanding sites.
The arms were worked from within the
tower by winches, and messages were thus
sent by visual signals from tower to tower.
By means of semaphores, communication
between London and Deal, Portsmouth,
Plymouth, and other towns was, provided
the weather was clear, surprisingly rapid.
On the 31st of December, 1S47, the last
semaphore message was sent, the electric
telegraph having shown its superiority. But
though land semaphores became obsolete,
this system of transmitting intelligence found
favour in the Royal Navy, and most of the
larger vessels carry this apparatus.

Semaphore signalling is taught at the naval
barracks. “ The pupils,” says a writer, “ are
arranged in pairs after having mastered the
signification of the various positions of the
wooden arms, and one man reads off the
signal made by the instructor, while the other

writes it on the slate. It is easy
enough to learn the semaphore—
every letter, etc., is indicated by
one or both arms in positions
which follow a regular sequence,
and are readily recollected : but
to ‘ take in ’ a signal rapidly re¬
quires considerable practice, and,
no doubt, some of the pupils will
be nonplussed if the signal is
made quickly, more especially if
some of the signs are employed
which have more than one signifi¬
cation. S and Z, for instance,
are represented by one combina¬
tion ; U, V, and W by another ;
I and J by a third ; and A and X
by a fourth. It is easy to concoct
a system which includes some of
these letters and reduces the
beginner to a despairing condi¬
tion, though to a practised hand it
presents no difficulty.”

Signalling by semaphores is
naturally a rather slow process
owing to the cumbersome nature
of the apparatus : the average rate
is about three words a minute. Often for
“ conversational signalling ” the sailor uses
(as we have seen in Mr. Bowles’s sketch) his
own arms, and landsmen would be astonished
to see the ease and rapidity with which a
signalman relates an incident to a comrade.
No. 3 shows the officer on the watch receiv¬
ing a signal, and a signalman below replying.
In No. 4 a signal has been hoisted at a
distance, and the men are replying with their
own semaphore. When a ship which has no
semaphore wishes to send a message to some

E SHIP’S

3 .—THE OFFICER OF THE WATCH RECEIVING A SIGNAL.

7 i 8

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

in great disorder
until in this year
Captain —after¬
wards Vice - Ad-
miral — Philip
Colomb intro¬
duced his flashing
system, on which
he had been at
work since 1858.
Like so many
other innova¬
tions, it was re¬
ceived with dis¬
trust, but it is
now in general
use in all fleets.
A writer on naval
matters remarks :
“ It is not too
much to say that
the Colomb

.—THE EYES OF THE SHIP—SIGNAL BEING HOISTED AT A DISTANCE.

distance, a flag or ball at the masthead is
dipped and hoisted with long and short
intervals, corresponding to the dots and
dashes of the Morse code.

For long-distance signalling the heliograph
is sometimes employed in the Royal Navy,
but its use is not so extensive as in the
Army. The heliograph is a small circular
mirror which flashes the sun’s rays on
another mirror at a distance. The Morse
code (/.<?., a system of long and short flashes)
is used. The
signals can be
read at great dis¬
tances, given a
sunny day of
course, some¬
times over a dis¬
tance of ninety
miles and more.

In No. 5, which
represents a
signal group on
board H.M.S.

Mars , a helio¬
graph is seen on
the left.

Before the year
1867 signalling
by night was
sometimes ac¬
complished by
means of lights
and guns, but the
whole system was

system has made
it possible to
handle, with confidence and safety, in dark¬
ness and fog, squadrons composed of the
gigantic ironclads of the day. Its adoption
has not only contributed very materially to
the increased efficiency of the British fleets,
but also immensely reduced the risk of
accidents, and the saving to the taxpayer
since its introduction may probably be esti¬
mated in hundreds of thousands of pounds.”

In the present system of night signalling a
special lamp is used, either at the masthead

5.—A SIGNAL GROUP ON BOARD H.M.S. “ MARS.

SIGNALLING IN THE NA VY AND ARMY.

719

or elsewhere, fitted with a sliding shield,
which is raised and lowered in front of the
light. By this means messages can be trans¬
mitted at the rate of seven or eight words a
minute. In No. 5 the lamp can be seen.
Another way of sending “ flashing signals ”
is by means of an electric light, the flashes

6.—SEARCH-LIGHT SIGNALLING

being made by the “ make ” and “ break ” of
the current. The rate with this system is
two or three words a minute.

An attempt has been made to fit the arms
of the masthead semaphore with rows of
electric lights, so as to make semaphore¬
signalling possible by night. The idea did
not turn out a success, and it was eventually
abandoned. Night signals over distances
greater than the lamps will carry are made
by the search-light. The dots and dashes
are made by raising and lowering the beam
of light against the sky, or by flashing it
on and off a convenient cloud. No. 6
shows the search-light
used for this kind of
signalling.

In very thick, foggy
weather all sight
signals are, of course,
useless, and sound
signals have to be
requisitioned. Here,
again, the invaluable
Morse code (long
and short sounds)
is used. The siren
and the fog - horn

emit the sounds, which can be heard
and translated at great distances. No. 7
shows the siren of a battleship. To be
in a fog at sea is depressing enough in
itself, but when to this is added the scream
of a siren or the groaning of a fog-horn for
hours at a stretch, it gets on the nerves. It

is on record that
an exasperated
seaman forfeited
his liberty for six
weeks for remov¬
ing the vitals of
a fog-bellows and
stuffing them into
the siren’s gullet.

The latest
method of com¬
municating intel¬
ligence to the
navies of the
world is by car¬
rier pigeons.
Foreign countries
seem to have
done more in this
direction than we
have; still, at each
of the three great
naval ports,
several hundred
pigeons are kept. The birds are under the
charge of the signalmen, and their chief
usefulness will probably consist in carrying
messages from ship to shore and vice-versa .

Signalmen are instructed in the use of
the electric telegraph, although there is a
somewhat limited sphere of usefulness for
this method on board ship. Wires are some¬
times laid from vessels in harbour to the
shore, and also from one stationary man-of-
war to another.

During the manoeuvres of 1899 some experi¬
ments in wireless telegraphy at sea were made,
under the personal supervision of Mr. Mar¬
coni. Transmitting
and receiving instru¬
ments were placed on
H.M.S. Juno and on
H. M. S. A lex a ndra ,
and messages were
sent backwards and
forwards with great
ease over distances
up to ninety miles.
There seems to be a
great future for wire¬
less telegraphy in the
Royal Navy.

720

THE S TEA NT MAGAZINE.

II.—HOW SOLDIERS SIGNAL.

RMY signalling differs from naval
signalling in many respects. In
the latter case, when the fleet is
^ ' at sea, each ship is completely

isolated from its fellow, and all
messages from one vessel to the other must
be sent across a certain distance. We saw
that when the weather was fine the signals

were sent in the daytime by flag, semaphore,
and heliograph, and at night by lamps. In
foggy weather, sight signals being of no use,
sound signals such as the siren and the fog¬
horn are requisitioned. In the Army the flag,
the heliograph, and the lamp are all used
very much as in the Navy, but the soldier has
this great advantage, that he can send messages
by means of the electric telegraph.

At the present moment experiments in
wireless telegraphy are being carried out in
the Army and the Navy, with a view to the
adoption of this system, but up to the present
nothing very definite in the way of information
can be obtained, for the greatest secrecy is
observed in order that what we are doing in
this country may not be known abroad. About
the field telegraph, however, no such secrecy
is observed.

The means now in use for conveying
intelligence and orders in the field are three in
number: i. The electric telegraph. 2. Visual
signalling. 3. Mounted orderlies. Of these
the first is the quickest and the most accurate.
The working of the telegraph is in the hands
of the Telegraph Battalion of the Royal
Engineers, and the operators are so well
trained that mistakes hardly ever occur in the
messages received. It is possible, over short

distances, to substitute the telephone for the
telegraph, and thus the sender and the
receiver of the message can converse at will.

There are, however, many difficulties in
the way of successful telegraphy in the field.
These have been well summed up by
Colonel F. G. Keyser, C.B., Inspector of Sig¬
nalling. “ Its transport,’ 5 he says, “ is bulky ;
it requires carriages, horses, and drivers,
with their necessary supplies; it requires time
to lay down and more time to take up.
Moreover, it is liable to constant interruption,
and in a hostile country requires guarding
more or less along its whole length, as one
cut can entirely destroy communication. In
Afghanistan these cuts were very frequent,
and were made by the enemy, not so much
for interrupting communication, as for twist¬
ing bits of wire into slugs for use in their
matchlocks. A telegraph line is liable not
only to be cut, but tapped by an enemy, and
important messages may be read by a hostile
force, or false messages transmitted. Then
again it requires a specially trained corps for
its use, men who do no other kind of duty;
the numbers employed are comparatively
small, so that an army in the field which
depended on the telegraph, and the telegraph
only, for its intelligence and communication,
would be very imperfectly supplied.”

If the line be only required for a short
time the wires would be laid upon the ground
instead of being fixed on poles, as would be
the case if the line were to be used for a
longer period. The wire is paid off from a
large drum, and simply rests on the ground.
Signalling by the telegraph has this advantage

8.— A CLASS OF SIGNALLERS WITH THEIR INSTRUMENTS.

SIGNALLING IN THE NA VY AND ARMY.

721

9.—INSTRUCTOR GIVING LESSON IN ARMY SIGNALLING.

over visual signalling, that it can be worked at
all times and in all weathers, whereas a fog
or a mist puts a stop to the latter method.

With regard now to visual signalling, the
first item the novice has to master is the
“ Morse Code or Alphabet,” the basis of all
systems of military and naval signalling. In
this the letters are made up of “dots and
dashes.” The dash is three times the length
of the dot; the pause between each sign or
letter equals a dash or three units, and between
words is double or six units. The alphabet
can be readily picked up in three days.

The maximum rate with the small flag and
the heliograph is
twenty words a
minute. But this
is too great a
speed for any
length of time ;
the ordinary rate
is about twelve
words a minute.

Visual signalling
by day is carried
out with flags,
heliograph, and
semaphore. No. 8
shows a group of
soldier - signallers
with their various
instruments. By
night, oil, gas,
limelight and
electric lamps are

Vol, xviii.- 91,

used. The flags are of two sizes : the
smaller, and one most commonly used, is
2ft. square, with a pole of 3ft. 6in. in length ;
the larger is 3ft. square.

Dots and dashes are made by short and
long waves of the flag, which is held up as
high as possible. Messages sent with the
large flag can be read with a Service telescope
in the British Isles at from five to seven miles.
With the small flag the distance is four to
five miles.

In foreign countries, where the atmosphere
is clearer, these figures are almost doubled.
No. 9 shows an instructor giving a lesson in
Army signalling. He is
demonstrating the mode
of telegraphing by the
aid of flags. From what

ING OUT A FLAG SIGNAL,,

722

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

II.—SIGNALLING BY SEMAPHORE FLAGS.

is written on the board, it will be seen that
this photo, was specially taken for Strand
readers. No. io shows a signal being sent
by flag and the mode of reply ; No. n shows
the semaphore system of signalling with flags.

The heliograph has been described as the
trump card of visual signalling, because it
possesses the four cardinal military virtues—
portability, rapidity, range, and secrecy. The
instrument consists simply of a mirror
mounted on a tripod. The operator sights
the mirror in such a way that the rays of the
sun will be reflected on to a similar mirror at
a distant station : he can then send dots and
dashes by depressing a key at the back of
the mirror in such a way that the light is
flashed for short and long periods on and
off the second mirror. The messages are
invisible to persons standing a short distance
from the mirror, and thus the heliograph can
be worked across hostile
country with perfect
confidence. No. 12
shows a group of helio¬
graph signallers.

A few signalling inci¬
dents, borrowed from
Colonel Keyser, may
be mentioned. After the
Battle of Ahmed Khel,

General Chapman was
particularly anxious
that the news should be
sent to Cabul and so
home. Lieutenant
Dickie, the signalling
officer, was sent to the
top of the Sheradham
Pass ? north of Ghuznee,

with a squadron of cavalry to try
and find General Ross’s brigade,
which had been sent out from
Cabul to meet Sir Donald Stewart.
His supposed line of march was
ascertained from the map, and
within four minutes after the first
flash they found him, and a full
report, 207 words in length, was
flashed forty-eight miles, and so
passed on to Cabul, Simla, and
London ; it may be mentioned that
the forces did not actually meet
for four or five days after. In 1880
the besieged garrison of Kandahar
opened communication with the
advanced guard of the relieving
force under Sir F. Roberts, at
Robat, a distance of forty-eight
miles, and communication was kept
up for several hours over the heads of the
enemy, who did all they could to stop us,
but were powerless to interfere.

I he Colonel remarks that signalling in
Egypt by heliograph is carried out under
difficulties ; the country is so flat, and
messages have often to be read up in the
clouds. “ During our first occupation of
Alexandria,” he writes, “two drunken sig¬
nallers in a distant fort roused Sir E. Hamley
and his whole garrison by sending round a
bogus message for a lark, a signalling feat
which cost them dear.

“ The ease and silence of this method and
the correctness of the alignment are of great
advantage. To limited distances the flash
from a heliograph is capable of penetrating
any ordinary haze, smoke, translucent clouds,
or dust. An impromptu heliograph can be
made by aligning two sighting points or a

I?.—HELIOGRAPH SIGNALLING,

SIGNALLING IN THE NAVY AND ARMY.

723

13.—GAS SIGNALLING UY NIGHT.

distant station and directing the flash from
an ordinary shaving-glass on them. Signalling
can be carried on by exposing and obscuring
the flashes with a book or anything else at
hand.”

Such a rough and ready method of com¬
municating intelligence is of great value on
occasions. On March 15th, 1879, messages
were sent in this way from Etchowe to
Ginghilovo with a sixpenny shaving glass and
two sticks to take the alignment, the flash
being shut off by means of a board.

The longest range of the heliograph is
probably not more than eighty or ninety
miles. During the Waziristan expedition of
1881 messages were sent with the helio
over a space of seventy miles, the climatic and
atmospheric conditions being very favour¬
able.

Signalling by semaphore is not often em¬
ployed in the Army. The alphabet is very
easily learnt, and words can be sent much
quicker than with the ordinary flag-system.
The semaphore to be seen on battleships,
and described in our last article, is not em¬
ployed. Instead of this instrument two flags
are used, one in each hand as seen in No. 10.
These are shown either singly or in combina¬
tion at different angles with the body. This
system can, however, only be used for short
distances. It can be read with the Service
telescope up to a distance of three miles.

Colonel Keyser recommends its use when
signalling is absolutely necessary in the
fighting line, or to keep touch between
battalions. Its real use is between ships
and shore, especially for forts or landing
parties.

The Colonel says that the heliograph can
be used at night either with the light of the
moon or of lamps. In addition, signalling
is carried out in the dark hours by gas-lamp,
oil-lamp, and limelight-lamp. The two first
are used when the distance between stations
is under four miles. The Morse alphabet is,
as usual, the one in use, the shutter of the
lamp being alternately opened and closed.
In No. 13 we have an instance of gas signal¬
ling by night.

With the limelight - lamp signals can be
sent which may be read with a telescope
twenty miles away. Signallers have to learn
how to manufacture the hydrogen and the
oxygen necessary for the system.

During manoeuvres and in active service
“ lines of communication ” are often made.
This means that a chain of stations is laid
down, each station being situated on high
ground and at the requisite distance from the
next, according to the system used. In India
the stations are often twenty to thirty miles
apart; but in this country six or seven miles
would be the limit. By this means despatches
of information, Press news, etc., can be
forwarded from the scene of action to the
nearest telegraph line, and thence to all
quarters of the globe. A signalling station
usually consists of six men : three to receive
the message from the other station, and three
to send it on to the next in line.

By Stephen Crane.

I.

TAND by!”

Shackles had come down
from the bridge of the
Adolphus and flung this
command at three fellow-
correspondents who, in the
galley, were busy with pencils trying to write
something exciting and interesting from four
days’ quiet cruising. They looked up casually.
“ What for ? ” They did not intend to arouse
for nothing. Ever since Shackles had heard
the men of the navy directing each other to
stand by for this thing and that thing, he had
used the two words as his pet phrase, and
was continually telling his friends to stand
by. Sometimes its portentous and emphatic
reiteration became highly exasperating, and
men were apt to retort sharply : “ Well, I
am standing by, ain’t I?” On this occasion
they detected that he was serious. “Well,
what for?” they repeated. In his answer
Shackles was reproachful as well as impres¬
sive. “Stand by? Stand by for a Spanish
gun-boat!—a Spanish gun-boat in chase !
Stand by for two Spanish gun-boats —both of
them in chase ! ”

The others looked at him for a brief space,
and were almost certain that they saw truth
written upon his countenance. Whereupon
they tumbled out of the galley and galloped
up to the bridge. The cook, with a mere
inkling of tragedy, was now out on the lower
deck, bawling, “ What’s the matter ? What’s
the matter ? What’s the matter ? ” Aft, the
grimy head of a stoker was thrust suddenly
up through the deck, so to speak. The eyes

flashed in a quick look astern, and then the
head vanished. The correspondents were
scrambling on the bridge. “ Where’s my
glasses, curse it ? Here—let me take a look.
Are they Spaniards, captain ? Are you
sure ? ”

The skipper of the Adolphus was at the
wheel. The pilot-house was so arranged
that he could not see astern without hanging
forth from one of the side windows, but
apparently he had made early investigation.
He did not reply at once. At sea, he never
replied at once to questions. At the very
first Shackles had discovered the merits of
this deliberate manner, and had taken delight
in it. He invariably detailed his talk with
the captain to the other correspondents.
“ Look here. I’ve just been to see the
skipper. I said, ‘ I would like to put into
Cape Haytien.’ Then he took a little think.
Finally he said, ‘All right.’ Then I said, ‘I
suppose we’ll need to take on more coal
there?’ He took another little think. Finally
he said, ‘Yes.’ I said, ‘ Ever ran into that
port before?’ tie took another little think.
Finally he said, ‘Yes.’ I said, ‘Have a
cigar?’ He took another little think. See?
There’s where I fooled ’im.”

While the correspondents spun the hurried
questions at him the captain of the Adolphus
stood with his brown hands on the wheel
and his cold glance aligned straight over the
bow of his ship.

“ Are they Spanish gun-boats, captain ?
Are they, captain ? ”

After a profound pause, he said : “ Yes.”
The four correspondents hastily and in per-

THE REVENGE OF THE “ ADOLPHUS.

725

feet time presented their backs to him and
fastened their gaze on the pursuing foe.
They saw a dull, grey curve of sea going to
the feet of the high green and blue coast¬
line of north-eastern Cuba, and on this sea
were two miniature ships, with clouds of iron-
coloured smoke pouring from their funnels.

One of the correspondents strolled elabor¬
ately to the pilot-house. “ Aw—captain,” he
drawled, “do you think they can catch us ? ”

The captain’s glance was still aligned over
the bow of his ship. Ultimately he answered,

“ I don’t know.”

From the top of the little Adolphus's stack
thick, dark smoke swept level for a few yards,
and then went rolling to leeward in great,
hot, obscuring clouds. From time to time
the grimy head was thrust through the
lower deck, the eyes took the quick look
astern, and then the head vanished. The
cook was trying to get somebody to listen to
him. “ Well, you know, hang it all, it won’t
be no fun to be ketched by them Spaniards.

By Jove, it won’t.Look here, what

do you think they’ll do to us, hey ? Say, I
don’t like this, you know. I’m blessed if I
do.” The sea, cut by the hurried bow of
the Adolphus , flung its waters astern in the
formation of a wide angle, and the lines of
the angle ruffled and hissed as they fled,
while the thumping screw tormented the
water at the stern. The frame of the steamer
underwent regular convulsions as in the
strenuous sobbing of a child.

The mate was standing near the pilot¬
house. Without looking at him, the captain
spoke his name : “ Ed ! ”

“ Yes, sir,” cried the mate, with alacrity.

The captain reflected for a moment. Then
he said, “ Are they gainin’ on us ? ”

The mate took another anxious survey of
the race. “ No—o—yes, I think they are—
a little.”

After a pause the captain said, “Tell the
chief to hook her up more.”

The mate, glad of an occupation in these
tense minutes, flew down to the engine-room
door. “ Skipper says hook ’er up more ! ”
he bawled. The head of the chief engineer
appeared—a grizzly head, now wet with oil
and sweat. “What?” he shouted, angrily.
It was as if he had been propelling the ship
with his own arms. Now he was told that
his best was not good enough. “What?
Hook ’er up more ? Why, she can’t carry
another pound, I tell you ! Not another
ounce ! We-” Suddenly he ran for¬

ward and climbed to the bridge. “ Captain,”
he cried, in the loud, harsh voice of one who

lived usually amid the thunder of machinery,

“ she can’t do it, sir ! By Heaven, she can’t!
She’s turning over now faster than she ever did
in her life, and we’ll all blow to blazes-”

The low-toned, impassive voice of the
captain suddenly checked the chief’s clamour.
“I’ll blow her up,” he said, “but I won’t get
ketched if I can help it.” Even then the
listening correspondents found a second in
which to marvel that the captain had actually
explained his point of view to another human
being.

The engineer stood blank. Then suddenly
he cried: “All right, sir!” He threw a
hurried look of despair at the correspondents,
the deck of the Adolphus , the pursuing enemy,
Cuba, the sky, and the sea; he vanished in the
direction of his post.

A correspondent was suddenly re-gifted n
with the power of prolonged speech. “Well,
you see, the game is up, curse it. See ! We
can’t get out of it. The skipper will blow
up the whole bunch before he’ll let his ship
be taken, and the Spaniards are gaining.
Well, that’s what comes from going to war
in an eight-knot tub.” He bitterly accused
himself, the others, and the dark, sightless,
indifferent world.

This certainty of coming evil affected
each one differently. One was made garru¬
lous ; one kept absent-mindedly snapping his
fingers and gazing at the sea; another stepped
nervously to and fro, looking everywhere as
if for employment for his mind. As for
Shackles, he was silent and smiling, but it
was a new smile, that caused the lines about
his mouth to betray quivering weakness.
And each man looked at the others
to discover their degree of fear, and did his
best to conceal his own, holding his crackling
nerves with all his strength.

As the Adolphus rushed on the sun sud¬
denly emerged from behind grey clouds, and
its rays dealt titanic blows, so that in a few
minutes the sea was a glowing blue plain,
with the golden shine dancing at the tips of
the waves. The coast of Cuba glowed with
light. The pursuers displayed detail after
detail in the new atmosphere. The voice of
the cook was heard in high vexation. “ Am
I to git dinner as usual ? How do I know ?
Nobody tells me what to do ! Am I to git
dinner as usual ? ”

The mate answered, ferociously : “ Of
course you are ! What do you s’pose?
Ain’t you the cook, you blessed fool ? ”

The cook retorted in a mutinous scream :
“Well, how would I know? If this ship is
goin’ to blow up-”

726

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

II. “ See what ? ”

The captain called from the pilot-house: “ Why, the Chancellorville , you blind

“ Mr. Shackles ! Oh, Mr. Shackles ! ” The mice ! ” roared Shackles. “ See ’er ? See ’er ?
correspondent moved hastily to a window. See ’er ? ”

“ What is it, captain ? ” The skipper of the The others sprang, saw, and collapsed.
Adolphus raised a battered finger and pointed Shackles was a madman for the purpose of
over the bows. “ See ’er ? ” he asked, laconic, distributing the news. “ Cook ! ” he shrieked,

but quietly jubilant. Another steamer was “ Don’t you see ’er, cook ? Good Heaven,

smoking at full speed over the sunlit seas. A man, don’t you see ’er?” He ran to the

great billow of pure white was on her bows. lower deck and howled his information every-

“ Great Scot ! ” cried Shackles ; “ another where. Suddenly, the whole ship smiled.

Spaniard ? ” Men clapped each other on the shoulder and

“ No,” said the captain ; “ that there is a joyously shouted. The captain thrust his

United States cruiser.” h head from the pilot-house to look back at the

Spanish ships. Then he looked

“that there is a united states cruiser.”

“ What ? ” Shackles was dumfounded into
muscular paralysis. “ No ! Are you sure ? ”

The captain nodded. “ Sure. Take the
glass. See her ensign? Two funnels; two
masts with fighting-tops. She ought to be
the Cha ncellorvillc. ”

Shackles choked. “ Well, I’m blowed ! ”

“ Ed ! ” said the captain.

“ Yessir ! ”

“ Tell the chief there is no hurry.”

Shackles suddenly bethought him of his
companions. He dashed to them, and was
full of quick scorn of their gloomy faces.
“ Hi, brace up there ! Are you blind ?
Can’t you see her ? ”

at tne American cruiser. **inow,
we’ll see,” he said, grimly and
vindictively, to the mate. “ Guess
somebody else will do some
rulinin’.” The mate chuckled.

The two gun-boats wei j still
headed hard for the Adolphus ,
and she kept on her way. The
American cruiser was coming
swiftly. “ It’s the Chancellorville ! ”
cried Shackles. “ I know her.
We’ll see a fight at sea, my boys !
A fight at sea ! ” The enthusiastic
correspondents pranced in Indian
revels.

The Cha 7 icellorville — 2,000
tons —18-6 knots—ten 5m. guns
—came on tempestuously, sheer¬
ing the water high with her sharp
bow. From her funnels the
smoke raced away in driven
sheets. She loomed with extra¬
ordinary rapidity, like a ship bulg¬
ing and growing out of the sea.
She swept by the Adolphus so
close that one could have thrown
a walnut on board. She was a
glistening grey apparition, with
a blood - red water-line, with
brown gun - muzzles and white - clothed,
motionless Jack-tars ; and in her rush she was
silent, deadly silent, Probably there entered
the mind of every man on board of the
Adolphus a feeling of almost idolatry for this
living thing, stern but, to their thought, in¬
comparably beautiful. They would have
cheered but that each man seemed to feel
that a cheer would be too puny a tribute.

It was at first as if she did not see the
Adolphus. She was going to pass without
heeding this little vagabond of the high seas.
But suddenly a megaphone gaped over the
rail of her bridge, and a voice was heard,
measuredly, calmly intoning: “Halloa—there!

THE REVENGE OF THE “ ADOLPHUS.

727

“ the ‘ CHANCELLORVILLE.’ ”

Keep—well—to—the—north’ard—and—out
of my—way—and I’ll—go—in—and—see—
what—those—people—want.” Then nothing
was heard but the swirl of water. In a
moment the Adolphus was looking at a high
grey stern. On the quarter-deck sailors were
poised about the breech of the after-pivot
gun.

The correspondents were revelling. “ Cap¬
tain,” yelled Shackles, “we can’t miss this!
We must see it! ” But the skipper had
already flung over the wheel. “Sure,” he
answered, almost at once, “we can’t miss it.”

The cook was arrogantly, grossly tri¬
umphant. His voice rang on the lower deck.
“There, now ! How will the Spinachers like
that ? Now, it’s our turn ! We’ve been
doin’ the runnin’ away, but now we’ll do the
chasin’! ” Apparently feeling some twinge
of nerves from the former strain, he suddenly
demanded: “ Say, who’s got any whisky ?
I’m near dead for a drink.”

When the Adolphus came about, she laid
her course for a position to the northward of
a coming battle, but the situation suddenly
became complicated. When the Spanish
ships discovered the identity of the ship that
was steaming towards them, they did not
hesitate over their plan of action. With one
accord they turned and ran for port.
Laughter arose from the Adolphus. The
captain broke his orders, and instead of
keeping to the northward, he headed in the
wake of the impetuous Chancellorville. The
correspondents crowded on the bow.

The Spaniards, when
their broadsides became
visible, were seen to be
ships of no importance—
mere little gun-boats for
work in the shallows at
the back of the reefs ; and
it was certainly discreet to
refuse encounter with the
five-inch guns of the
Chcincello?'ville. But the
joyful Adolphus took no
account of this discretion.
The pursuit of the
Spaniards had been so
ferocious that the quick
change to heels-over-head
flight filled that corner of
the mind which is devoted
to the spirit of revenge.
It was this that moved
Shackles to yell taunts
futilely at the far-away
ships. “ Well, how do you
like it, eh? How do you like it?” The
Adolphus was drinking compensation for her
previous agony.

The mountains of the shore now shadowed
high into the sky, and the square white
houses of a town could be seen near a vague
cleft which seemed to mark the entrance to
a port. The gun-boats were now near to it.

Suddenly white smoke streamed from the
bow of the Chancellorville , and developed
swiftly into a great bulb which drifted in
fragments down the wind. Presently the
deep-throated boom of the gun came to the
ears on board the Adolphus . The shot
kicked up a high jet of water into the air
astern of the last gun - boat. The black
smoke from the funnels of the cruiser made
her look like a collier on fire, and in her
desperation she tried many more long shots,
but presently the Adolphus , murmuring dis¬
appointment, saw the Chancellorville sheer
from the chase.

In time they came up with her, and she
was an indignant ship. Gloom and wrath
were on the forecastle, and wrath and gloom
were on the quarter-deck. A sad voice from
the bridge said : “ Just missed ’em.” Shackles
gained permission to board the cruiser, and in
"the cabin he talked to Commander Surrey,
tall, bald-headed, and angry. “ Shoals,” said
the captain of the Chancellorville. “ I can’t
go any nearer, and those gun-boats could
steam along a stone side-walk if only it was
wet.” Then his bright eyes became brighter.
“ I tell you what! The Chicken , the Holy

728

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

AIK.”

Moses, and the Mongolian are on station
off Nuevitas. If you will do me a favour-
why, to-morrow I will give those people a
game ! ”

III.

The Chancellorville lay all night watching
off the port of the two gun-boats, and, soon
after daylight, the lookout descried three
smokes to the westward, and they were later
made out to be the Chicken, the Holy Moses,
and the Adolphus, the latter tagging hurriedly
after the United States vessels.

The Chicken had been a harbour tug, but
she was now the U.S.S. Chicken, by your
leave. She carried a six-pounder forward
and a six-pounder aft, and her main point
was her conspicuous vulnerability. The
Holy Afoses had been the private yacht of a
Philadelphia millionaire. She carried six
six-pounders, and her main point was the
chaste beauty of the officers’ quarters.

On the bridge of the Chancellorville
Commander Surrey surveyed his squadron
with considerable satisfaction. Presently he
signalled to the lieutenant who commanded
the Holy Moses and to the boatswain who
commanded the Chicken to come aboard the
flag-ship. This was all very well for the
captain of the yacht, but it was not so easy
for the captain of the tug-boat, who had two
heavy lifeboats swung 15ft. above the water.
He had been accustomed to talking with
senior officers from his own pilot-house
through the intercession of the blessed mega¬
phone. However, he got a lifeboat over-side,
and was pulled to the Chancellorville by three
men—which cut his crew almost into halves.

In the cabin of the Chancellorville Surrey
disclosed to his two captains his desires con¬
cerning the Spanish gun-boats, and they were
glad of being ordered down from the Nue¬
vitas station, where life was very dull. He
also announced that there was a shore battery

containing, he believed, four field guns—
three-point-twos. His draught—he spoke
of it as his draught—would enable him to go
in close enough to engage the battery at
moderate range, but he pointed out that the
main parts of the attempt to destroy the
Spanish gun-boats must be left to the Holy
Moses and the Chicke 7 i. His business, he
thought, could only be to keep the air so
singing about the ears of the battery, that the
men at the guns would be unable to take an
interest in the dash of the smaller American
craft into the bay.

The officers spoke in their turns. The
captain of the Chicken announced that he
saw no difficulties. The squadron would
follow the senior officer’s ship in line ahead,
the senior officer’s ship would engage the
batteries as soon as possible, she would turn
to starboard when the depth of water forced
her to do so, and the Holy Moses and the
Chicken would run past her into the bay and
fight the Spanish ships wherever they were to
be found. The captain of the Holy Moses,
after some moments of dignified thought,
said that he had no suggestions to make that
would better this plan.

Surrey pressed an electric bell; a marine
orderly appeared; he was sent with a message.
The message brought the executive officer
and the navigating officer of the Chaiicellor-
ville to the cabin, and the five men nosed
over a chart.

In the end Surrey declared that he had
made up his mind, and the juniors remained
in expectant silence for three minutes while
he stared at the bulkhead. Then he said
that the plan of the Chicken's commander
seemed to him correct in the main. He
would make one change. It was that he
should first steam in and engage the battery,
and the other vessels should remain in their
present positions until he signalled them to

THE REVENGE OE THE “ADOLPHUS.

V

729

“a marine orderly appeared.”

run into the bay. If the squadron steamed
ahead in line, the battery could, if it chose,
divide its fire between the S.O.P.’s ship and
the vessels constituting the more important
attack. He had no doubt, he said, that he
could soon silence the battery by tumbling
the earthworks on to the guns and driving
away the men, even if he did not succeed in
hitting the pieces. Of course, he had no
doubt of being able to silence the battery
in twenty minutes. Then he would signal
for the Holy Moses and the Chicken to
make their rush, and of course he would
support them with his fire as much as
conditions enabled him. He arose then,
indicating that the conference was at an
end. The boatswain, who captained the
Chicken , looked uncomfortable for a moment
and then withdrew. He was not used to this
cabin. In the few moments more the four
men remained in the cabin the talk changed
its character completely. It was now un¬
official, and the sharp badinage concealed
furtive affections, academy friendships, the
feelings of old-time shipmates, hiding every¬
thing under a veil of jokes. “ Well, good
luck to you, old boy ! Don’t get that
valuable packet of yours sunk under you.
Think how it would weaken the navy.
Would you mind buying me three pairs of
pyjamas in the town yonder? If your
engines get disabled, tote her under your arm.
You can do it. Good-bye, old man, don’t

Vol. xviii.— 92.

forget to come
out all right.”

When the cap¬
tains of the Holy
Moses and the
Chicken came
upon deck they
strode it with a
new step. They
were proud men.
The marine on
duty above their
boats looked at
them curiously
and with awe. He
detected some¬
thing which
meant action, con¬
flict. The boats’
crews saw it also.
As they pulled
their steady
stroke they stu¬
died fleetingly the
face of the officer
in the stern-sheets.
In both cases they perceived a glad man, and
yet a man filled with a profound consideration
of the future.

IV.

“ Beat to quarters ! ”

Bugles and drums stirred the decks of the
Chancellorville. There was the noise of
rushing feet, a clanging of scuttle-plates, a
rattling of ammunition hoists, followed
directly by the sinister, deep note of
locking breech-plugs. As the cruiser turned
her bow toward the shore she happened to
steam near the Adolphus. The usual calm
voice hailed the despatch - boat: “ Keep—
that—gauze under-shirt of yours —well—out
of the—line of fire.”

“ Aye, aye, sir ! ”

The cruiser then moved slowly toward the
shore, watched by every eye in the smaller
American vessels. She was deliberate and
steady, and this was reasonable, even to the
impatience of the other craft, because the
wooded shore was likely to suddenly develop
new factors. Slowly she swung to starboard,
smoke belched over her, and the roar of a
gun came along the water.

The battery was indicated by a long, thin
streak of yellow earth. The first shot went
high, ploughing the chaparral on the hill-side.
The Chancellorville wore an air for a moment
of being deep in meditation. She flung
another shell, which landed squarely on the
earthwork, making a great dun cloud. Before

73 °

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the smoke had settled there 'was a crimson
flash from the battery. To the watchers at
sea it was smaller than a needle. The shot
made a geyser of crystal water, four hundred
yards from the ChcincellorviUc.

The cruiser, having made up her mind,
suddenly went at the battery hammer and
tongs. She moved to and fro casually, but
the thunder of her guns was swift and angry.
Sometimes she was quite hidden in her own
smoke, but with exceeding regularity the

earth of the battery spurted into the air.

The Spanish shells for the most part went
high and wide of
the cruiser, jetting
the water far away.

Once a Spanish
gunner took a

festive side-show
chance at the wait¬
ing group of three
ships. It went

like a flash over
the Adolphus ,
singing a wistful,
metallic note.

Whereupon the
Adolphus broke
hurriedly for the
open sea, and men
on the Holy Moses
and the Chicken
laughed hoarsely
and cruelly. The
correspondents
had been standing
excitedly on top
of the pilot-house,
but at the passing
of the shell they
promptly elimi¬
nated themselves by dropping with a
thud to the deck below. The cook
again was giving tongue. “Oh, say, this
won’t do ! I’m cursed if it will! We
ain’t no armoured cruiser, you know. If one of
them shells hits us—well, we finish right there.
’Taint like as if it was our business , foolin’
’round within the range of them guns. There’s
no sense in it. Them other fellows don’t seem
to mind it, but it’s their business. If it’s
your business , you go ahead and do it; but
if it ain’t, you—look at that, would you ? ”
The Chancellorville had set up a spread of
flags, and the Holy Moses and the Chicken
were steaming in.

V.

They on the Cha7icello7'Ville sometimes could
see into the bay, and they perceived the

enemy’s gun-boats moving out as if to give
battle. Surrey feared that this impulse would
not endure, or that it was some mere pretence
for the edification of the townspeople and
the garrison, so he hastily directed that
signals be made ordering in the Holy Moses
and the Chicke7i. Thankful for small favours,
they came on tumultuously. The battery
had ceased firing. As the two auxiliaries
passed under the stern of the cruiser, the
megaphone hailed them: “You—will—see—
the—en—em—y—soon—as—you—round—
the—point. A—fine—chance—Good luck.”

As a matter of
fact, the Spanish
gun-boats had not
been informed of
the presence of the
Holy Moses and
the Chicke7ioff the
bar, and they were
just blustering
down the bay over
the protective
shoals to make it
appear that they
scorned the Clum-
ccllorville. But
suddenly from
around the point
there burst into
view a steam-
yacht, closely fol¬
lowed by a har-
bourtug. Thegun-
boats took one
swift look at this
horrible sight, and
fled, screaming.

Lieutenant Rei-
gate, commanding
the Holy Moses,
had under his feet
a craft that was
capable of some
speed, although before a solemn tribunal one
would have to admit that she conscientiously
belied almost everything that the contractors
had said of her originally. Boatswain Pent,
commanding the Chicken , was in possession
of an utterly different kind. The Holy Moses
was an antelope; the Chicke7i was a man who
could carry a piano on his back. In this race
Pent had the mortification of seeing his
vessel outstripped badly.

The entrance of the two American craft
had a curious effect upon the shores of
the bay. Apparently everyone had slept in
the assurance that the Chci7icellorville could

THEY PROMPTLY ELIMINATED THEMSELVES.

THE REVENGE OF THE “ADOLPHUS.

73i

not cross the bar, and that the Chcincellorville
was the only hostile ship. Consequently, the
appearance of the Holy Moses and the Chicken
created a curious and complex emotion.
Reigate on the bridge of the Holy Moses
laughed when he heard the bugles shrilling,
and saw through his glasses the wee figures
of men running hither and thither on the
shore. It was the panic of the china when
the bull entered the shop. The whole bay
was bright with sun. Every detail of the
shore was plain. From a brown hut abeam of
the Holy Moses some little men ran out waving
their arms and turning their tiny faces to
look at the enemy. Directly ahead, some
four miles, appeared the scattered white
houses of a town, with a wharf and some
schooners in front of it. The gun-boats were
making for the town. There was a stone
fort on the hill overshadowing, but Reigate
conjectured that there was no artillery in it.

There was a sense of something intimate
and impudent in the minds of the Americans.
It was like climbing over a wall and fighting
a man in his own garden. It was not that
they could be in any wise shaken in their
resolve ; it was simply that the overwhelm¬
ingly Spanish aspect of things made them
feel like gruff intruders. Like many of the
emotions of war time, this emotion had
nothing at all to do with war.

Reigate’s only commissioned subordinate
called up from the bow gun, “ May I open
fire, sir? I think I can fetch that last one.”

“Yes/’ Immediately the six - pounder
crashed, and in the air was the spinning
wire noise of the flying shot. It struck so
close to the last gun-boat that it appeared that
the spray went aboard. The swift-handed
men at the gun spoke of it. “Gave ’em
a bath that time, anyhow. First one they’ve
ever had. Dry ’em off this time, Jim.” The
young ensign said: “Steady.” And so the
Holy Moses raced in, firing, until the whole
town, fort, water-front, and shipping, was as
plain as if it had been done on paper by a
mechanical draughtsman. The gun-boats were
trying to hide in the bosom of the town.
One was frantically tying-up to the wharf,
and the other was anchoring within a hundred
yards of the shore. The Spanish infantry, of
course, had dug trenches along the beach,
and suddenly the air over the Holy Moses
sang with bullets. The shore-line thrummed
with musketry. Also some antique shells
screamed.

VI.

The Chicke7i was doing her best. Pent’s
posture at the wheel seemed to indicate that

her best was about thirty-four knots. In his
eagerness he was braced as if he alone were
taking in a io,ooo-ton battleship through
Hellgate.

But the Chicken was not too far in the rear,
and Pent could see clearly that he was to
have no minor part to play. Some of the
antique shells had struck the Holy Moses ,
and he could see the escaped steam shooting
up from her. She lay close in-shore, and was
lashing out with four six-pounders as if this
was the last opportunity she would have to fire
them. She had made the Spanish gun-boats
very sick. A solitary gun on the one moored
to the wharf was from time to time firing
wildly, otherwise the gun-boats were silent.
But the beach in front of the town was a line
of fire. The Chicken headed for the Holy
Moses , and, as soon as possible, the six-
pounder in her bow began to crack at the
gun-boat moored to the wharf.

In the meantime the Chcincellorville prowled
off the bar, listening to the firing, anxious,
acutely anxious, and feeling her impotency in
every inch of her smart steel frame. And in
the meantime the Adolphus squatted on the
waves and brazenly waited for news. One
could thoughtfully count the seconds, and
reckon that in this second and that second a
man had died—if one chose. But no one
did it. Undoubtedly the spirit was that the
flag should come away with honour, honour
complete, perfect, leaving no loose, unfinished
end over which the Spaniards could erect a
monument of satisfaction, glorification. The
distant guns boomed to the ears of the silent
blue-jackets at their stations on the cruiser.

The Chicken steamed up to the Holy
Moses and took into her nostrils the odour of
steam, gunpowder, and burnt things. Rifle
bullets simply streamed over them both. In
the merest flash of time, Pent took into his
remembrance the body of a dead quarter¬
master on the bridge of his consort. The
two megaphones uplifted together, but Pent’s
eager voice cried out first:—

“Are you injured, sir?”

“No, not completely. My engines can
get me out after—after we have sunk those
gun-boats.’ - The voice had been utterly
conventional, but it changed to sharpness :
“ Go in and sink that gun-boat at anchor.”

As the Chicken rounded the Holy Moses
and started in-shore a man called to him from
the depths of finished disgust. “They’re
takin’ to their boats, sir.” Pent looked and
saw the men of the anchored gun-boat lower
their boats and pull like mad for shore.

The Chicken , assisted by the Holy Moses,

73 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

THE ‘CHICKEN* ROUNDED THE ‘HOLY MOSES* AND STARTED
IN-SHORE.”

began a methodical killing of the anchored
gun-boat. The Spanish infantry on shore
fired frenziedly at the Chicken. Pent, giving
the wheel to a waiting sailor, stepped out to
a point where he could see the men at the
guns. One bullet spanged past him and
into the pilot-house. He ducked his head
into the window. “That hit you, Murry?”
he inquired, with interest.

“ No, sir,” cheerfully responded the man at
the wheel.

Pent became very busy superintending the
fire of his absurd battery. The anchored
gun-boat simply would not sink. It evinced
that unnatural stubbornness which is some¬
times displayed by inanimate objects. The
gun-boat at the wharf had sunk as if she had
been scuttled, but this riddled thing at anchor
would not even take fire. Pent began to
grow flurried—privately. He could not stay
there for ever. Why didn’t the blessed gun¬
boat admit its destruction? Why-

He was at the forward gun when one of
his engine-room force came to him, and after
saluting, said, serenely : “ The men at the
after-gun are all down, sir.”

It was one of those curious lifts which an en¬
listed man, without in any way knowing it, can
give his officer. The impudent tranquillity of
the man at once set Pent to rights, and the
man departed admiring the extraordinary
coolness of his captain.

The next few moments contained little but
heat, an odour, applied mechanics, and an
expectation of death. Pent developed a
fervid and amazed appreciation of the
men, his men : men he knew very well, but
strange men. What explained them ? He
was doing his best because he was captain
of the Chicken , and he lived or died by the

Chicken. But what could move these
men to watch his eye in bright antici¬
pation of his orders, and then obey
them with enthusiastic rapidity ? What
caused them to speak of the action as
some kind of joke—particularly when
they knew he could overhear them ?
What manner of men ? And he anointed
them secretly with his fullest affection.

Perhaps Pent did not think all this during
the battle. Perhaps he thought it so soon
after the battle that his full mind became
confused as to the time. At any rate, it
stands as an expression of his feeling.

The enemy had gotten a field-gun down
to the shore, and with it they began to throw
three-inch shells at the Chicken. In this war
it was usual that the down-trodden Spaniards,
in their ignorance, should use smokeless
powder, while the Americans, by the power
of the consistent, everlasting, three-ply, wire-
woven, double-back action imbecility of a
hay-seed Government, used powder which on
sea and on land cried their position to
Heaven, and, accordingly, good men got
killed without reason. At first Pent could
not locate the field-gun at all; but as soon
as he found it, he ran aft with one man and
brought the after six-pounder again into
action. He paid little heed to the old gun¬
crew. One was lying on his face apparently
dead ; another was prone, with a wound in
the chest; while the third sat with his back
to the deck-house holding a smitten arm.
This last one called out, huskily, “Give it
’em hot, sir.”

The minutes of the battle were either days,
years, or they were flashes of a second.
Once Pent, looking up, was astonished to see
three shell-holes in the Chicken’s funnel—
made surreptitiously, so to speak. “ If we
don’t silence that field-gun she’ll sink us,
boys.” The eyes of the man sitting with his
back against the deck-house were looking
from out his ghastly face at the new gun-crew.

He spoke with the supreme laziness of a
wounded man. “ Give it ’em hot.” Pent felt

THE REVENGE OF THE “ ADOLPHUS.

733

“ GIVE IT ’EM HOT ! ”

a sudden twist of his shoulder. He was
wounded—slightly. The anchored gun-boat
was in flames.

VII.

Pent took his little blood-stained tow-boat
out to the Holy Moses. The yacht was
already under way for the bay entrance. As
they were passing out of range the Spaniards
heroically redoubled their fire—which is
their custom. Pent, moving busily about the
decks, stopped suddenly at the door of the
engine-room. His face was set and his eyes
were steely. He spoke to one of the
men. “ During the action I saw you
firing at the enemy with a rifle. I told you
once to stop, and then I saw you at it again.
Pegging away with a rifle is no part of your
business. I want you to understand that you
are in trouble.” The humbled man did not
raise his eyes from the deck. Presently the
Holy Moses displayed an anxiety for the
Chicken's health.

“One killed and four wounded, sir.”

“ Have you enough men left to work your
ship ? ”

After deliberation, Pent answered:
“ No, sir.”

“ Shall I send you assistance ? ”

“ No, sir. I can get to sea all right.”
As they neared the point they were
edified by the sudden appearance of
a serio-comic ally. The Chancellor-
ville at last had been unable to stand
the strain, and had sent in her launch
with an ensign, five seamen, and a
number of marksmen marines. She
swept hot foot around the point, bent
on terrible slaughter; the one-pounder
of her bow presented a formidable
appearance. The Holy Moses and the
Chicken laughed until they brought
indignation to the brow of the young
ensign. But he forgot it when with
some of his men he boarded the
Chicken to do what was possible for
the wounded. The nearest surgeon
was aboard the Chancellorville. There
was absolute silence on board the
cruiser as the Holy Moses steamed
up to report. The blue-jackets lis¬
tened with all their ears. The com¬
mander of the yacht spoke slowly
into his megaphone: “We have—
destroyed—thetwo—gun-boats—sir.”'
There was a burst of confused cheer¬
ing on the forecastle of the Chan-
cellorville , but an officer’s cry quelled it.

“ Very—good. Will—you—come
aboard ? ”

Two correspondents were already on the
deck of the cruiser. Before the last of the
wounded were hoisted aboard the cruiser
the Adolphus was on her way to Key West.
When she arrived at that port of desolation
Shackles fled to file the telegrams and the
other correspondents fled to the hotel for
clothes, good clothes, clean clothes; and
food, good food, much food; and drink,
much drink, any kind of drink.

Days afterward, when the officers of the
noble squadron received the newspapers
containing an account of their performance,
they looked at each other somewhat de¬
jectedly : “ Heroic assault—grand daring of
Boatswain Pent — superb accuracy of the
Holy Moses ’ fire—gallant tars of the Chicken
—their names should be remembered as
long as America stands—terrible losses of
the enemy-”

When the Secretary of the Navy ultimately
read the report of Commander Surrey,
S.O.P., he had to prick himself with a dagger
in order to remember that anything at all
out of the ordinary had occurred.

A Hundred Years Ago (ijgg).

By Alfred Whitman.

[ With Illustrations from Old Prints .]

HE year i 799 was so crowded
with incident that, if we
desire in any way to traverse
the ground, brevity must be
the watchword for each item,
and the music must be marked

staccato.

Though in the British Isles comparative
calm succeeded the storm of the Irish Rebel¬
lion of ’98, war clouds were bursting forth
over the Continent of Europe, Asia Minor,
and India. The task of George III.’s
Ministers was extremely difficult, for while
holding the reins of affairs at home, the
Government had to control war operations
thousands of miles away. To keep in touch
with the seats of war was almost impossible,
and even the news of the two most im¬
portant victories of the year—Acre and
Seringapatam—took three and four months,
respectively, to reach this country.

News papers
formed a far less
potent factor in
national affairs
then than now.

The circulation of
the Times would
seem to us ridi¬
culously small;
the certificate of
issue on January
1st modestly
stated that “ the
number printed
for the last two
months has never
been on any one
day below 3,000,
and has fluctu¬
ated from that
number to 3,350.”

Now, a news¬
paper is dressed
like a shop-
window, that its
most attractive
features may
quickly catch the
eye; but then

there was very little display of news, and,
consequently, events of importance might
easily escape attention. The most sensa¬
tional heading was in the same type as
that of a theatrical performance or a meet¬
ing of the Common Council, and even for
such a momentous event as the fall of
Seringapatam, it was simply—

CAPTURE of SERINGAPATAM,

AND

DEATH of TIPPOO.

The Times of 1799 was a four-page sheet,
with four columns to a page. Two of the
pages were devoted to advertisements, and
the other two chiefly contained foreign intel¬
ligence (especially French), Parliamentary
reports, and news on the progress of the war
on sea and land. The price of the paper
was sixpence.

The first few days of January were bitterly
cold. Then followed a brief spell of mild
weather about the
12th, followed by
a return to frost
at the end of the
month. At the
Queen’s Drawing
Room on the 31st,
“owing to the
severity of the
weather very few
of the nobility
were present”;
and at the Mas¬
querade at the
Opera House
there were scarcely
five hundred pre¬
sent, while “ the
house was most
insufferably cold.”
So general and
heavy was the
snow that mail
coaches were two
days late in reach¬
ing the Metropolis.
The first illustra¬
tion shows us Eliza¬
beth Woodcock in

EMZABETH woodcock, as seen when dug out of the snow-
FI 5 BRUAEY ioth, 1799.

735

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO (1799).

the attitude in which she was discovered when
dug out of the snow on February 10th. She
had lost her way in returning home from market
to Impington, near Cambridge, on Saturday,
February 2nd, and so for eight days had
been buried in snow, which was 7ft. deep.
She, however, retained her senses during this
time, and for sustenance had eaten of the
snow. As a ballad of the period says, with a
strange mixture of the ludicrous and the
pathetic:

For she was all froze in with frost,

Eight clays and nights, poor soul !

But when they gave her up for lost,

They found her down the hole.

Ah, well-a-day !

She recovered from the immediate effects of
this adventure, but died about five months
later.

Though no soul-stirring victory was achieved
on the high seas, there were many instances
of single combats, resulting in the ships falling
sometimes into the hands of the English,
and at others into those of the French.

guns and seventy men. A fierce struggle
ensued for nearly two hours, during which
the English captain (Mortlock) lashed his
vessel to one of the French, and the French¬
men boarded the English boat and were
beaten off again ; and eventually the French
boats sheered off and sought shelter in their
own ports. But not before Captain Mortlock
had received wounds from which he died at
Portsmouth on the 11th, “a few minutes
after receiving a letter of thanks, sent him by
the Lords of the Admiralty, for his very
gallant conduct.”

A few words must suffice for the doings of
Parliament. It was in 1799 that the first
debates occurred on the subject of a legisla¬
tive union with Ireland, as a means of
drawing the two peoples more closely
together, and of preventing a recurrence
of the deplorable events of the previous
summer; and it was in this year that members
came to be called Unionists and Separatists.

On January 22nd George III. sent a

wui.viiKtiPUi UUN-VKijSEL WITH TWO FRENCH LUGGERS—
JANUARY 4TH, 1799.

In March we read of ships captured by the
French; and ‘‘during the months of August,
September, and October, sixty-six vessels,
mostly British, were carried into Calais and
Boulogne by privateers belonging to those
towns.” Against these reverses we have the
brilliant capture of the Dutch squadron, in
August, by Admiral Mitchell, and the second
illustration portrays the encounter on January
4th between the Wolverene gun-vessel (which
had left the Downs on January 2nd for a
cruise off the French coast), and two French
luggers. The combined strength of the
French was thirty guns and two hundred and
eighty men, while on our side were twelve

message to Parliament recommending the
Union, and, shortly after, favourable resolu¬
tions proposed by Pitt were carried by large
majorities. Sheridan stoutly opposed the
motions, and was replied to in an eloquent
speech by Canning. In the Irish House of
Commons a spirited debate occurred on
January 22nd, when there was a majority of
two in favour of the Union ; but two days
later an adverse majority of five was obtained,
and Dublin was illuminated to celebrate the
result. The discussion then changed its
venue from Parliament to the Irish public
platform, and as time went on the opposi¬
tion became less severe. The next illustra-

736

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

CARICATURE OF THE UNION OF GREAT BRITAIN WITH IRELAND—1799.

tion gives us one of the many caricatures
that were issued in connection with this pro¬
posed change in the Constitution.

One other event in Parliament must not be
omitted. A few months ago the public mind
was much agitated upon the question of the
suppression of Sunday newspapers. A coun¬
terpart to this agitation was to be found in the
House of Commons in 1799. On 29th May,
Lord Belgrave “ brought in a Bill for prohibit¬
ing the sale and circulation of papers on the
Lord’s Day,” and it was read a first time;
but when the

measure came up
for second reading
on June nth it
was thrown out
by forty votes
against twenty-
six.

In the field of
sport there were
many wagers and
matches, but the
event par excellence
of the year, and
the one that was
|)eing continually
referred to, was the
horse-race on Easter
Monday between
Hambletonian
and Diamond for

three thousand THE RACE BETWEEN HAMBLETONIAN AND DIAMOND—EASTER MONDAY, 1799*

guineas. The event drew together the greatest
concourse of people ever seen at Newmarket.
“ The company occupied not only every bed
to be procured in that place, but Cambridge
and every town and village within twelve or
fifteen miles was also thronged with visitors.”
The race was an even and a fair one, and
Hambletonian, the winner, was the better
horse of the two. The course (more than four
miles) was almost straight, and the race was
won in eight minutes and a half. We give a
view of the race at the finishing post.

737

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO (1799).

We must now turn to more serious matters.
The grand object of Napoleon in his expedi¬
tion to Egypt was to strike a blow at
England’s commerce in the East, and to
further his end he opened negotiations with the
disaffected Princes of India—-Tippoo Sahib
being the principal. Tippoo, on his side, was
equally anxious to expel the British from
Indian soil, and by February, 1799, events
had reached the point where Earl Mornington
(the Governor-General) had to abandon all

covered among the dead at the water gate.
The next day he was buried, with military
honours, in the Royal mausoleum. This vastly
important victory, by which the English
became masters of Mysore, is well shown in
the accompanying print. As soon as the city
was taken, Major Allen, accompanied by two
other officers, entered Tippoo’s palace with
a flag of truce, and brought away Tippoo’s
two sons and took them at once to the
English camp.

THE TAKING OF SEKINGAFATAM.—MAY 4TH, 1799.

hope of an amicable settlement and push
forward his forces. After several preliminary
actions, Tippoo fell back upon Seringapatam,
his capital, the siege of which began on
April 5th. For the assault, which took place on
May 4th, General Baird (who had previously
been a prisoner in the city) was in command,
and one o’clock was the time arranged for
the attack. The troops crossed the River
Cavery under a heavy fire, and lost many of
the foremost party in the initial struggle of
making a breach in the fortress ; but in less
than seven minutes the British colours were
floating on the walls. Baird then divided his
army into two divisions, and forcing the enemy
back point by point eventually compelled
them to turn and endeavour to escape. Tippoo
himself could not be found until the even¬
ing, when, by torchlight, his body was dis-

Vol. xviii.—93.

But the severest blow to Napoleon, which
altogether dissipated his Oriental dreams, fell
a fortnight later at Acre. He had realized
that neither the English nor the Turks would
permit him an undisturbed possession of
Egypt, so he moved his forces along the coast
of Syria with the object of attacking the forts
of Acre. Several towns fell into his hands
en route , but, with the substantial aid rendered
to the Turks by Sir Sidney Smith and his
men, Acre offered a stubborn resistance.
For sixty days the besieged city defied all the
attempts of Napoleon — for with Smith’s
squadron in support, the Turks were able to
repel all attacks ; and at last, on May 20th,
Napoleon was compelled to raise the siege
and retreat, leaving all his heavy artillery
behind him. Upon arriving once more in
Egypt, Napoleon handed over the command

73§

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

SIR SIDNEY SMITH DEFENDING THE BREACH AT ACRE—MAY 20TH, 1799.

of the army to General Kleber, and, by
sailing close to the North African coast,
managed to elude the vigilance of the
English squadron and gain the shores of
France. Sir Sidney Smith, defending the
breach at Acre, is shown herewith.

Coming back again to England and to the
City of London, we note that in the fore¬
ground of our illustration of the Royal Ex¬
change and Bank
of England, as it
appeared in 1799,
can be recognised
the spot where in
a little while will
be the terminus of
the City Electric
Railway. Such an
advance in the
world’s progress
never entered the
minds of the wisest
men of 1799. In
this year a deep
well, centuries old,
was discovered
“whilelowering the
pavement opposite
the front gate of
the Royal Ex¬
change.”

In September, while “ draining the basin
in St. James’s Square, the workmen found
many curious articles which villainy, to
conceal its guilt, had committed to that place.
The most singular of these were the keys of
Newgate, together with a quantity of chains
and fetters, which it is well known were stolen
at the time that prison was burnt down,
during the Gordon Riots in 1780.”

THE ROYAL EXCHANGE AND BANK OF ENGLAND— 1799.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO (1799).

739

THE GREAT VOLUNTEER REVIEW IN HYDE I’A RE—JUNE 4TH, 1799.

The Volunteer movement, inaugurated in
1798, showed no signs of abatement during
1799) t> llt quite the opposite; and reviews
and presentations of colours were of continual
occurrence. The great review of 8,193
effective men in Hyde Park by George III.
on his birthday (June 4th) was vividly re¬
called by the centenary celebration, under
the Prince of Wales, last July, so we need
not describe it here, but will simply give an
illustration of the event, after a picture by
Sir Robert Ker Porter, which is little known.
Heavy rain fell in the early morning, and the

day was marred by an exceedingly high
wind; but otherwise the function was
the most brilliant success. On July 4th
the King reviewed the Volunteer corps
of Surrey, on Wimbledon Common, and
on August 1 st those of Kent at Lord
Romney’s seat near Maidstone. On this
latter occasion the Royal Family left Kew at
5.30 a.m., and, reaching the review ground
about midday, the manoeuvres commenced.
At the conclusion of the review the entire
company, including 5,3x9 Volunteers, sat
down to a sumptuous al fresco dinner, as

' vuLU^TbliKS AT LORD ROMNEYT

740

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

represented in our illustration; and about six
o’clock, “ after being refreshed with coffee,”
the King and Royal Family set off for
London.

The fashions of the day were frequently
described in the newspapers, where minute
descriptions were given of the dresses worn

at Royal functions, including the earrings,
head-dresses, and buckles. We here show
the fashions for both sexes, as seen through
the exaggerated vision of the caricaturist.

Duels were of almost daily occurrence,
and one contemplated between Sir John
Orde and Earl St. Vincent, because the
latter had given a command in the Mediter¬
ranean to Lord Nelson, a junior officer, was
only frustrated by the interference of the
authorities. But the most amusing duel of
the year took place at Dublin on March 7th,
when two gentlemen met in Phoenix Park.
Principals, seconds, surgeons, and all the
apparatus of combat were ready, “ when a
gang of unpolished rebels appeared, stripped
the combatants of their arms, watches, cash,
etc., and sent them home perfectly recon¬
ciled to each other.”

The necessities of life were exceptionally
dear, and this was particularly so with bread
and coal. On January 1st bread was
8J^d. the quartern loaf, but as the year
advanced so the price steadily rose, until on
December 4th it reached is. 3j^d. Owing
to the weather (it was inclement most of the
year), and to the dangers of sea transport,

there were occasions when scarcely any coaL
was to be obtained in the Port of London.
On April 2nd the price per chaldron was.
60s. in the Pool and 67s. delivered to house¬
holders ; while on the 12th there was only
one ship-load at market, which realized Jive
guineas a chaldron . Whether the dearness of

provisions meant,
large profits for the
shopkeepers we do-
not know; but we
find that “ Mr.
N e w m an, the
grocer of Fen-
church Street,,
who died in March,
bequeathed up¬
wards of one
hundred thousand
pounds to each of
his daughters.”

May Day was
celebrated in
London with the
usual festivities,
and Mrs. Eliza¬
beth Montagu,
the founder of
the literary society
of “Blue Stock-
ings,” gave her
annual entertain¬
ment of roast beef and plum-pudding to
the chimney-sweepers in the court-yard of
her house in Portman Square, in commemo¬
ration (so the apocryphal story ran) of her
once having found a boy of her own, or that
of a relative, among the fraternity. Unfor¬
tunately, from among the crowd, some pick¬
pockets were arrested. Ballooning had its
place among the year’s events, by the death
of Stephen Montgolfier (August 17th), the
inventor of air-balloons. Besides, there was
a successful descent from a parachute at
Paris by Garnerin, a celebrated aeronaut
(June 22nd), and a Parisian lady named
Labrosse (October) was equally successful
with a descent at the garden of Tivoli.
“The spectators were very numerous, and
felt a great degree of anxiety for the success
of this rash attempt.”

One theatrical item must be mentioned.
On September 23rd, at Weymouth, at the
conclusion of his annual holiday, “ the King
went to the theatre to see the farce of ‘ The
Lyar,’ after which he set off in his travelling
coach for town.” How irresistibly this calls
to mind the famous modern play by Mr*
Henry Arthur Jones !

rjit U w

~ AIONSTROSIT/ES " npllqq s„.

SATIRE ON* THE FASHIONS OF 1799.

An Incident of the Prussian
Advance on Paris.

By Victor L. Whitechurch.

ANDERING through the old fectioner’s. One old man tried to stop therm
city of Rheims one sultry by taking hold of a horse bridle. The
summer evening, I had lighted soldier struck him with a pistol, but he would
upon an insignificant little not let go. Then he shot him through the
cafe in the neighbourhood of arm. They galloped off directly afterwards,
the station, and had sat me and a shot was fired at them. In a few
down to have a cool “ bock ” and a smoke, hours, though, we had twenty-five thousand
At the next table to mine sat a group of two soldiers, with the King of Prussia at their
or three workmen, seemingly connected with head, quartered upon us.”
the railway, more especially one of them, “ How long did they stay ? ”

whose smoky blouse and not over - clean “ Oh, they left immediately. They were

visage proclaimed him as an engine-driver; in marching on to Paris, nothing seemed to-
fact, as I looked at him I remembered having stand in their way.”

noticed him on the foot-plate of the engine “ Except old Pierre Cournet,” said the
that had drawn my train from Mezieres to man I had guessed to be an engine-driver,.

Rheims the previous day. taking his cigar from his lips reflectively.

I think it was the request on my part for “ Ah, but that is true,” remarked the other,
a light, or something equally trivial, that first adding, as he and a third man who had not
caused me to enter into conversation with spoken rose to go, “ Monsieur should ask
my neighbours ; but certain it was that before Jean Martin to tell him the story—he is not
long we had drifted into a subject that is on duty for another hour yet.”
rather a dangerous one to touch upon, even Left alone with Jean Martin, I begged,
now, with a Frenchman : the subject of the leave to replenish his glass of ordinary wine
Franco-Prussian War. with a bottle of Burgundy, offered him a

“ Ah, yes, monsieur,” said one of the more fragrant cigar than the one he had
* men, “ I well remember the coming of the been smoking, and, in return, drew the
Prussians into Rheims, though I was but a following extraordinary narrative from him :—
lad at the time. It was early in the after- “ No, monsieur, I was not in the army at
noon of September the 5th, a few days after the time of the war, and it is no story of a
the Battle of Sedan. I was lounging about soldier that I am going to tell you. True, I
in the streets when I heard the clatter of served afterwards, as every man must do in¬
horse-hoofs, and sure enough four Prussian France, but then I was only eighteen, and
soldiers came riding into the city. Ma foi , yet, although so young, was already a fireman

how we hissed them ! ” on this very same line where now I drive a

“ What did they do ? ” locomotive.

“Oh, they bought some food at a con- “ I had only been fireman for a few months

742

THE STEAND MAGAZINE .

before the war broke out. The driver of the
engine to which I was attached at the time of
which I am speaking was an old man named
Pierre Cournet. We were running trains
between Rheims and Mezieres, and, therefore,
were in close touch with the first great battle¬
field of the war. I shall never forget that
terrible time. Every sort of vehicle we had
on the line was used for carrying troops. We
took over 20,000 men from Rethel to
Mezieres, men belonging to Marshal
MacMahon’s army, and among them were
Pierre Cournet’s two sons.

“They had just time on reaching Mezieres
to run to the engine and bid their father fare¬
well, for he happened to be driving the very
train by which they travelled, when the
bugle-call tore them away from him — tore
them away for ever. For only a few days
afterwards the sword of a Uhlan and the
bullet of a Prussian needle-gun claimed the
lives of Pierre Cournet’s two sons in the
awful fight of Sedan.

“ When the news was brought to him he
almost went mad. He swore he would turn
franc-tireur and be revenged ten-fold for
their deaths.

Ah, monsieur
knows well he
was not the
only parent in
France who
made such
threats, and
carried them
out, too ! And
Pierre Cournet
would assur¬
edly have
•carried his out
but for that
which hap¬
pened.

“We were
at Rethel when
the news came.

Our country-
m en were
flying in every
direction, and
the railway was
falling mbtre
by metre into
the hands of
the enemy.

Mezieres still
remained in
possession of
the French,

and did not surrender for some weeks, but
the railway communication was cut off. We
tried to get down there with some stores, but
our train fell into the hands of the Prussians
at a station about twenty kilometres this side
of Mezieres.

“ Then it was that Pierre Cournet’s patience
was put to the test. A great, bearded
Prussian officer came on the foot-plate and
addressed him in broken French.

“ ‘You will take this train back to Rethel,
after we have loaded it with cannon and
ammunition. You understand?’

“‘I will not,’ replied Cournet, trembling
with fury. ‘ I will not take your cursed guns
one inch towards Paris.’

“ ‘ Oh, very well,’ replied the officer, calmly
drawing out his watch and making a sign to
some of his soldiers to come near. ‘ I will
give you two minutes to decide. If you
refuse, why then you will be shot instantly—I
have no more time to waste on you. I would
not even give you this chance, only there
are no engineers with me, and I have no
one who can drive a locomotive.’

“He stood, watch in hand, and the old

engine - driver,

‘ HE STOOD, WATCH IN HAND.

pale with fury,
stood beside
him. I watched
Pierre Cour¬
net’s face. For
the first half
minute it was
still, with a set
purpose; then
a gleam of light
seemed to flash
into his eyes,
and his lips
parted in a smile.
He had changed
his mind.

“‘Very well,’ he
said, as the Prussian
closed his watch with
a snap. ‘ I will drive the
engine for you.’

“ ‘ Good ! ’ said the ■
officer. ‘ But if you think
you’re going to play any
tricks you’re mistaken,
for see here ! ’

“ He called to two of
his men, who came on to
the foot-plate, and gave
them some instructions
in German. Each of
them drew a pistol.

PIERRE COUR.NETS LAST RUN

743

“ ‘ Now,’ he added to Pierre Cournet, in
French, 4 these soldiers have orders to shoot
you and your young friend on the very
slightest suspicion of trickery, and as one of
them understands French, you’d better be
careful what you say. And now, while we
load the train, you get your engine to the
other end and be ready to start.’

“Pierre Cournet shrugged his shoulders
and told me to get down and uncouple the
locomotive and to work the points so that he
could shunt it to the reverse end of the train.
I did so, one of the soldiers accompanying
me and keeping guard over me all the time.
We had been running from Rethel tender
first, so now the engine stood in its right
position, smoke-jack in front. I coupled her
to the train.

“ It was nearly two hours before we were
ready to start, and during that time we
watched the Prussians get six guns on to as
many trucks and fill all the available waggons
with ammunition. There were two old third-
class carriages at the rear end of the train,
and some fifty artillerymen were ordered into
these. Finally, the officer who had spoken
to us' before came up, and dismissed one of
our guards, taking his place instead.

“ ‘ I shall travel with you,’ he said, cocking
his pistol, 4 and see that all goes right. Besides,
I am not sure yet how far we shall go. Now
then, start! 5

“ I had set the points to bring the train on
to the up-line. Cournet laid his hand on the
regulator, there were a few sonorous puffs,
and we were off.

“ I knew by my companion’s face that he
meant to do something desperate before our
journey was over. He had given me one
sharp, questioning glance that seemed to
mean, ‘Will you help me?’ and I had
nodded in reply, though what his plans were
I could not guess. Still, I determined that, if
need be, I would strike a blow against the
hated Prussians.

“ We had gone a few kilometres, and were
getting up a fair speed, when the mouth of
a tunnel loomed ahead. I saw a strange
expression flit across Cournet’s face, and I
think the Prussian officer must have noticed
it too, for he said a few words in German to
the soldier, and the latter grasped me by the
neck just as we entered the tunnel, while at
the same moment I felt the cold ring of his
pistol-barrel pressing against my forehead.
The officer had seized Cournet in the same
manner, and if the old driver thought he was
going to do anything in the tunnel he was
mistaken. When we were through our

guards released their hold. We went on.
Presently a smile of triumph shone in Pierre
Cournet’s face, instead of the disappointed
look he had worn as we emerged from the
tunnel. I felt instinctively that the moment
of action was arriving.

“‘Get me a spanner, Jean!’ said the
driver, quietly; ‘ a bolt is loose.’

“ I opened the tool chest and took one
out. The officer’s suspicions were aroused
in a moment, and he levelled his pistol at
Cournet as the latter took the spanner. But
Cournet only smiled contemptuously, and
began tightening a nut, saying to me : ‘ More
coal, Jean.’

“ I took up the heavy shovel and put a
few loads on the fire, my guard handling his
pistol in a menacing manner all the time.
Evidently the slightest movement on our part
was being watched with scrupulous jealousy.
What ?ms the driver going to do ? I asked
myself this question as I looked ahead through
the weather-glasses after putting on a third
shovelful of coal. We were rushing along a
high embankment now, and travelling at a
much greater pace than we usually went. In
a few seconds we should be rounding a very
sharp curve, but Cournet did not seem in- t
dined to slacken speed. He was still engaged
in screwing up the nut.

“ I was just turning towards the tender
again for more coal, when a sudden swerve
told me we had left the straight and were
rounding the curve. At that very moment
Pierre Cournet, his back towards the officer,
with a very quick movement of his wrist
struck the glass tube of the water-gauge with
his spanner and sprang on one side.

“ In an instant a cloud of steam and a jet
of scalding water poured forth on to the foot¬
plate, blinding and burning us ; at the same
moment two sharp reports rang out, and I
heard Pierre Cournet shout, ‘ Strike him,
Jean ! ’

“ I was quii:k to take it in. Notwithstand¬
ing what had happened, I never lost my nerve
for a moment; in fact, the breaking of the
water-gauge was no new experience to me,
though this was the first time it had not
happened accidentally. My shovel was
already half poised in the air, and I brought
it down with all my might on the Prussian
soldier’s head. Reeling backward he fell off
the foot-plate, rolled down the embankment,
and I saw him no more.

“ Meanwhile Pierre Cournet had not been
idle. With a second blow of his weapon he
had felled the officer immediately after the
latter had fired his pistol, and the big

744

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ TWO SHARP REPORTS RANG OUT.”

Prussian lay unconscious at our feet. All
this was but the work of a few seconds, but
I shall remember that terrible little fight in
the midst of the scalding steam as long as I
live.

“ The next moment the fearless old driver
had rushed to the broken gauge, and, scald¬
ing his hands severely in the attempt, had
turned off the steam and water-taps. Once
more the foot-plate was clear. But this was
by no means all. There was a terrible plan
formed in Pierre Cournet’s brain that day,
and he worked it out to the bitter end.

“ We were now beginning to rush down
an incline, at the end of which, on the level,
was a long tunnel. The old driver turned
to me : —

“ ‘ Go back/ he cried, c over the coals,
and uncouple the engine. You can do it,
can’t you ? ’

“ ‘ I’ll do it ! ’ I shouted. We were only

working with ordinary
chain - couplings, and I
knew these would be slack
as we ran down-hill.

“ In ten seconds I was
behind the tender, astride
one of the buffers, stoop¬
ing down and separating
the loose chain dangling
between the tender and
the leading truck. Then
I clambered back over the
coals to the foot-plate. I
found Pierre Coumet
slackening speed with his
hand on the regulator.

“ ‘ Tie him up/ he ex¬
claimed, with a glance at
the officer. ‘He’s com¬
ing to.’

“ There was a piece of
rope in the tool chest, and
I tied the Prussian’s arms
securely behind his back,
making the end of the rope
fast to a ring in the foot¬
plate. Hardly had I done
so when we entered the
tunnel.

“We were running very
slowly now. Although un¬
coupled, the momentum
given it by the incline had
kept the train close behind
our engine, and, of course,
its leading buffers were
still touching our rear ones,
because, by slowing his
engine, Pierre Cournet had been checking
the speed of the train behind.

“ In the middle of the tunnel we stopped
dead for a moment.

“‘Good/ said Cournet, as he immediately
opened the regulator once more ; ‘ it is level
here, and the train will stay in the tunnel
until—until—but you shall see for yourself,
Jean. Mon Dieu , grant that I may hold
out ! ’

“ Out of the tunnel into the bright day¬
light we rushed with great speed. Still I
had no idea of what Cournet meant to do.

“‘Put on the brakes/ he shouted as he
shut off the steam. ‘ Quick and hard, my
son ! ’

“ We came to a standstill about three-
quarters of a kilometre from the tunnel’s
mouth. It was a perfectly straight bit of
line, and, looking back, I could see the black
entrance behind us.

PIERRE CO URNET'S LAST RUN.

745

“‘Get off, Jean,’ said the driver.

“ He was reversing the gear of the engine
now, and it seemed to me that it cost him a
great effort to pull the lever over the sector.
Then came another voice, that of the
Prussian officer. He had come to.

“ ‘ For God’s sake, what are you going to
do ? ’ he asked.

“ ‘ Going to do ? Why, send you back to
your friends as fast as we can. Adieu,
monsieur—a speedy and safe journey to you
—and the journey ends in the tunnel! ’

“ So saying, he opened the regulator to the
full, and sprang from the foot-plate to my
side as the great engine began to move
backwards, along the line we had come,
towards the tunnel. It was some moments
before I grasped the horror of the thing.
Then, as I saw the locomotive hastening
away from us, gathering fresh speed every
moment as it neared the dark opening of
the tunnel, I realized the awful nature of
Cournet’s revenge.

The next few seconds seemed like hours, but
at last, straining every nerve, we heard a
dull, muffled sound from the direction of the
tunnel, followed by a deep, growling roar.
Then all was quiet.

“ I turned to Pierre Cournet. He had
released his hold on me and had sunk on
the grass by the side of the line. His face
was an ashen grey, and for the first time I
noticed a streak of red running down his
blouse.

“ ‘ Why, you are wounded ! ’ I said.

“ ‘Yes,’ he gasped. ‘ He hit me when he
fired; I hardly thought I could have lasted
it out—but—but—I have not died too soon
—good-bye, Jean—escape quickly—Ah ! ’

“ In a second or two it was over, and I
was running for my life through the wood by
the side of the line—for my life, I say, because
I knew the country round was infested with
Prussians, and it might have been difficult
to give an account of myself had I been
captured.

“ THEY ARE CAUGHT LIKE MICE

“ He grasped me by the arm. I think he
had gone mad for the moment.

“ ‘See,’ he cried, ‘Andre and Jacquet will
be avenged by their father. They are caught
like mice in a trap, and all their guns and
ammunition will be destroyed. Ah, it has
nearly reached the tunnel ! ’

“ Horror-struck, I watched the locomotive
until at length it disappeared into the dark
aperture, and the white steam rolled in
cloudy columns from the tunnel’s mouth.

“ Afterwards ? Oh,
they thought it was a
strategy of some
French engineers, this
blowing up of the
tunnel* For blown
up it was. Probably
the engine crashing
into the first truck
that was full of shells
caused the explosion. But the whole train
was buried, and with it the bodies of the
Prussian artillerymen.

“ And now I must wish monsieur good¬
night, for it is nearly time for me to take my
train to Mezieres. Without doubt my journey
will be less exciting than the one I have
recounted.”

* Several railway tunnels on the lines which the French
knew would prove useful to the Prussians in their advance on
Paris were purposely blown up.

Vol. xviii.—94.

By George Manville Fenn.

tions, to be sweet and nice in the bosoms of
our families.”

“Chipping Woodham was an earthly
Paradise which beat William Morris’s into
fits, till that unlucky day half a year ago when
your wife took mine up to hear that Jezebel
lecture on Woman’s position in the world.”

“ Oh, come, I like that! ” I cried. “ Why,
it was Mrs. Armstrong who brought the
tickets here, and asked my wife to go with
her.”

“ Scribe, my dear boy,” said my visitor,
stretching out his hand, with the tears in his
eyes; “don’t, don’t, old chap. You and I
must not quarrel over minutiae in the face of
such a peril—such a horror as the one which
threatens to wreck the happiness of every
domestic circle in this once happy place. Say
it was Ponderosa, then ; I give way. Let’s
both give way to everything in the face of
this poison which is permeating our women’s
brains. Look at them—so sweet, so beau¬
tiful, but one and all taking the infection.
See what they are doing! Congresses—
meetings—conferences — minutes—agenda—
the whole bag of tricks; and my sweet, soft,
plump, pink, baby-faced, ponderous Rosa
chairman.”

I.

O, sir; I will not! ”

It was Jack Armstrong
who said that through his
teeth, and when he came to
“not,” he brought his fist
down with a thump on my
study table which made the pewter inkstand
hop, and several black splashes appeared
among my papers.

“ Well, don’t,” I growled, as I snatched up
the blotting-pad and applied it here and there.

“Very sorry, old fellow,” he cried, apolo¬
getically ; “ but it’s enough to make any man
fly out. Only six months ago Chipping
Woodham was a little red-brick paradise—an
Eden to which we were all drawn.”

“ From the weakness and wickedness of
London, Jack.”

“ Right, old boy. The clubs had ceased
to charm.”

“ Dinners attracted not.”

“ A feeling of goodness crept over one.”

“ Sort of pristine innocency.”

“Yes, and we grew our begonias.”

“ Or roses.”

“ Yes, or cocoa-nutted our beds fibrously.”

“And hurried back from Town’s tempta¬

A TYRANNY CRUSHED.

747

“ Charwoman,” I said, correctively.

“ I would rather she was,” he cried. “ But
no, sir; I read it down at the end of a report
—chairman. My once loving, domestic wife
a chairman ! ”

“And mine secretary,” I said, sadly.

“ Scribe, old man, it’s enough to make our
ancestors rise from their graves.”

“ I don’t know about that,” I said. “ It’s
only a fad, though, and it will wear itself
out.”

“ It won’t, old man,” cried Jack, excitedly;
“ it’s getting worse. Oh, that I should have
lived to see it!

Woman rising
up — bless her !

— to release
herself from
what they call
their state of
thraldom.”

“My wife
calls it serf¬
dom,” I said,
bitterly.

“ I don’t care
what they call
it,” cried Jack,
bubbling up
redly and be¬
ginning to boil
over again with
his fist.

“Mind my
ink ! ” I cried.

“ Hang your
ink!” he roared.

“ I tell you I’m
wound up, and
I won’t stand it.

Do I look the
sort of man to
lay my head
against the wall
and make a mark on the panel like Mr.
Jelly by ? ”

“ No, old fellow, you do not,” I said,
emphatically; “ but don’t quarrel. It’s of
no good. The women—bless ’em all—will
soon get over this crank and come back to
the horrible state of serfdom in which they
have always languished, and we shall be
happy once more.”

“Yes,” said Jack, sarcastically, “poor
wretches, in which they had every blessed
thing we could get for them, every sou we
could scrape together. Talk about Hamlet’s
father : he never thought half so much about
the wind visiting his Gertrude’s face too

roughly as you did about Mrs. Scribe being
kept to leeward. Ha! what a dear, sweet
woman she was ! ” he sighed.

“Is, Jack, is,” I said correctively, again.
“ With all her faults, I love her still.”

“ I’m just as bad, old man. Poor Rosa !
I loved her when she was soft and young
and gentle, and I love her still, though she
did bring the machine down with a bump at
sixteen stone when I weighed her last. Poor
Ponderosa ! ”

“ Look here, old fellow,” I said; “ that’s a
bad joke, and your wife won’t be best pleased

if she ever hears
you have given
her such a nick¬
name.”

“Serve her
right. See how
she sits upon
me now, Scribe,
old man,” he
cried, raising
his voice; “ it’s
crushing, and
once for all I’ll

be-”

“No, don’t,
Jack; it’s of
no use to fight
against this
trouble, I tell
you. Keep cool,
and let them
gradually see
how ridiculous
they are making
themselves.
Force and blus¬
ter will not do
it. The trouble
must be met
with guile.”
“Think so?”

“ I do. We want something which will
waken them up to the true fact that woman’s
place in the world is naturally different to
man’s. They know it at heart—bless ’em !
—but these disappointed spinsters, and cranky
wives who have set themselves the task of
righting their sex, as they call it, have quite
turned their heads. There, have a pipe, old
fellow. It will all come right in the end.”

Jack Armstrong took a very black pipe
from his pocket, scraped out the bowl with his
knife, and began thoughtfully to fill it from
my jar. I did the same. The next minute
we were smoking calmly on either side of the
fire, chatting softly about the dear bairns and

“ ‘ IT won’t, old man,’ said jack, excitedly ; * it’s getting worse.’ ”

74B

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

their ways, and the way the women’s move¬
ment affected them, Jack Armstrong growing
calmer and more resigned, till he suddenly
said, with a sigh :—

“ Rosa began smoking the other night.”

“What?”

“ Fact, old man.”

Then, with his frank, bluff face wrinkling
all over, he took his pipe from his lips and
began to shake with inward mirth.

“ What is it ? ” I said.

“ Made her giddy as a nag with the
megrims,” he cried, choking with laughter;
“ but she wouldn’t own to it. Said it was
the—ho, ho, ho, ho ! you’ll never believe
it—the salmon, and the weather ; but she
had to leave off.”

I laughed too, but I winced, for I knew of
the existence of a box of cigarettes, about
the thickness of straws, which lay on my
wife’s writing-table.

“Your wife never made such a fool of
herself as that, old man,” said Armstrong.

“ Well, I don’t know about a woman
making a fool of herself by smoking,” I
said, rather haughtily. “Carlyle’s mother
smoked.”

“Yes, and nice she must have looked, with
her old clay pipe,” said Armstrong. “ I say,
though, old man ”—there was a deep chuckle
—“ it did make poor Ponderosa look white
— and yellow,” he added, with another sigh,
and he slowly laid down his pipe.

“ What’s the matter ? ” I said.

“ I dunno,” he replied, quietly. “I’m afraid
smoking’s a bad habit. I think I shall give
it up.”

“ What ! ” I cried, looking at him aghast.

“ Yes, old man,” he continued, sadly. “ I
never saw smoke in that light before. Where
there’s smoke there’s fire, they say, and I
don’t want all the old pleasant time to be
burned out.”

I looked at him wonderingly — he seemed
all at once so changed.

“ Then there’s the club ! ” he said.

“ What about it ? ” I cried. “ Hang it all!
there’s peace there. We have that to our¬
selves.”

“At present,” said Jack, dismally; “but
it’s coming, if we don’t check it. They’ll
take it by storm one of these days.”

“ Never ! ” 1 cried, defiantly. “ It is our
innermost work — our keep that we shall hold
to the last.”

“Till the walls come down,” said Jack.

“ Yes, and bury us in the ruins,” I
cried.

“ And then the new woman’ll come and

sit upon ’em and smile. Scribe, old chap,
1 think I shall give up the club.”

“John Armstrong,” I replied, “you had
better see a doctor. This sounds like in¬
cipient brain softening.”

“ Very likely,” he said. “They’ve started
one. That Jezebel, as you called her-”

“ No—you ! ”

“ Both of us, then—has inveigled all the
women into joining that club of hers. Pon¬
derosa is a vice-president.”

“ I know,” I said, grimly.

“ Yes, vice-president of a lady’s club.
She’s proud of it, and the children were
talking about it only this morning. Tilda
wanted to know whether mamma would have
her hair cut short now like Lady X. If she
does, old man, I shall buy two yards of box
cord, and go into a wood.”

“Yes,” I said; “you’re just the man.”

“But a woman with a club—my wife, with
all those children, wanting a club! Hah I
she didn’t know she wanted one, that it was
her duty as a woman to have one, till Jezebel
raised the point. Why, Scribe,” continued
Jack, excitedly, “I swear to you that I’ve
often kept away from the club because I felt
that it wasn’t fair to go there much, and I’ve
hurried home so as to spend the evenings
with the missus and the bairns; and now
she’s vice-president of the Gynesta ! ”

We were silent again for some minutes,
and then Jack said, softly :—

“ Bless ’em ! I suppose they can’t see
how they’re going against Nature.”

“ That’s it,” I said.

“ And you think it’s only temporary ? ”

“ Of course,” I replied. “ Leave it alone,
and Nature will triumph in the end. Women
will wake up from the dream when something
occurs to show them the folly of this
attempted usurpation of the position and
natural rights of man.”

“ That’s it,” he said ; “something to make
’em see how ridiculous they look, eh ? ”

“ Yes, that’s it.”

“ If I could only scheme something,” he
said, taking up his pipe, holding it like a
hammer, and tapping his boot-heel.

Then there was a long silence.

“Well,” I said at last, half contemptuously;
“ what is it to be ? ”

“ Wait and see.”

II.

Jack Armstrong was my old schoolfellow,
and our boy-friendship had lasted to middle
age. We had fished and annexed apples
together; hatched tricks, and played them,
and I suppose were about as mischievous a

A TYRANNY CRUSHED.

749

pair of young dogs as ever breathed. The
difference between us as we grew old was
that I became a more sober man, while in
his happy moments Jack was as boyish and
as full of fun-gas as ever, the ebullitions of
the said gas taking the form of practical
jokes, generally innocent, but frequently as
juvenile as when we were twelve or fourteen.

I knew from old experience that it was of
no use to “pump” Jack when he had an
idea, for no matter how one laboured at the
handle he would never gush with the waters
of enlightenment. He was fond of mystery,
hugging his ideas as
if he believed that a
trick gained piquancy
by being kept secret
and let off at last as
a surprise.

This was right
enough, as I told
him, when applied to
the person who was
to suffer, but wrong
in connection with,
his bosom friend.

But I could never
convince him, and,
as above said, my
experience taught me
that when as boy or
man he half closed
his left eye and said,

“ Wait and see,” one
had to wait. Hence
in this case I grunted,
and let the matter go
quite out of my mind,
while the days became
weeks, and these latter
a couple of months.

Meanwhile, Chipping Woodham grew more
wild in its modern craze, the ladies forming
themselves into society within society, and
the men when discussing the question among
themselves became almost rabid, threatening
a general strike, while the discussions which
took place at their now much frequented
clubs threatened fierce action. Only Arm¬
strong remained silent. He was moody and
abstracted, and some of our friends sighed as
they thought of his cheery past, saying,
with a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders,
“Ah, look at poor Jack Armstrong; he’s
growing quite a wreck ! But, there : we’re
all in the same boat.”

But the ladies did not seem to mind in
the least. They went on and on. We were
all Liberal at Chipping Woodham, some

being even extreme in our Radicalism, so
that there was fresh cause of dissension—our
wives blossoming out into Primrose Dames.
They were ready, in fact, for a general usurpa¬
tion of the rule which had naturally been
that of the stronger sex; and we looked on
in gloomy silence.

“ Never mind,” said Jack Armstrong; “let
’em go on. Give ’em rope enough and they’ll
hang themselves.”

“The sooner the better,” I said, gloomily,
“ if it were only upon us, as they did in the
good old times.”

“ Hah ! ” said Jack, with a sigh.

And “ Hah ! ” I said, with another which
echoed his.

Another month glided by, and then there
was an advertisement in the local paper, and
circulars of invitation came by post to a grand
meeting in the Corn Exchange, to welcome
a strong deputation from the Women’s
Elevation Society. The chair to be taken
by Mrs. John Danby Armstrong at eight
o’clock, when addresses would be given
by Lady Diana Mearly, B.A., Doctor
Maria Brown, Miss Jane Dempster, P.D.,

“primrose dames.”

7So

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

and others. Gentlemen to be admitted, by
invitation card only, to the organ loft and the
gallery.

“You’re going?” said Jack Armstrong,
the next time we met.

“I! Going? ” I cried, in my most ironical
tones. “ My dear boy, no. Our Laura has
a relaxed throat, and I stay at home and see
that she has her gargle every half-hour. ”

“ Buy her an ounce of lozenges, and give'
her them to suck,” he said, gruffly. “ You
must come.”

“Come?” I cried. “Why, you surely
don’t mean to say that you are going ? ”

“Yes,” he said, nodding his head. “I
shall be there.”

“Then it is all over,” I groaned, sadly.

“ Here’s poor old Jack ordered to go by his
wife, and he throws up the sponge—beaten.
Then the game is really up, and we must
accept our position.”

“ Yes,” he said, drily. “You see, woman
in her weakness is so strong. You’ll come ? ”

“ Oh, yes,” I said, “ I’ll come. We’ll sit
together, and listen to the speeches over a
cigar.”

^ “ Oh, no, my boy; no smoking allowed.
This meeting means business.”

The evening came, and our dinner had
been hurried, for Mrs. Scribe wished to be
in the great hall of the Corn Exchange
early.

“ I shall be back before ten, dear,” said
my wife. “ But perhaps you intend to be
present ? ”

“ Yes,” I replied ; “ I am going with
Armstrong.”

“ I am very glad, dear,” she said, earnestly.

“ Now I hope you will begin to see
matters in their proper light, and that there
will be a cessation of the ribald remarks to
which I have so often had to listen.”

“ I hope so, my dear,” I said, mildly ; and
then I waxed wroth, for Laura of the relaxed
throat exclaimed :—

“You might let me go, ma. Jenny, Riah,
May, and Dolly Armstrong are all going to
be there.”

“Stay a little, my darling,” said my wife,
kissing her. “ I should have taken you if
your throat had been better.”

“ Oh, it isn’t bad enough for that, ma.”

“Hush, my child. Allow me to know best.
Wait.”

I gnashed my teeth as I saw my wife to
the fly, and then hurried back to our child.

“ Lol,” I cried, fiercely, “ if you begin to
show any more of that horrible leaning
towards women’s rights I’ll disown you.”

“ No, you won’t, pa,” she cried, springing
at me, to cling about my neck. “ I hate it
all; and there’s a kiss for each eye and one
for the tip of your darling nose where its red,
and one for each cheek, and one for your
lips ; and, ugh ! how tickly ! Why don’t you
shave clean like Mr. Armstrong does ? ”

“ Be quiet, Gipsy; and I’m not going to
be smoothed over. Look here, I will not
have you take to all this stuff. You’ll want
to be a Primrose girl next.”

“No, I sha’n’t, pa; I only wanted to go
because Dolly Armstrong’s going to hear old
Lady Mearly preach. She says it’s to be
regular fun. But, I say : you won’t go ? ”

“ I must,” I said. “ I’ve promised Mr. Arm¬
strong.”

“ Don’t, dad, dear. Stop and play bezique
with me.”

“ No, no, don’t tempt me. My word is
passed ; and-—there, there, don’t cry, Lol,
and I’ll take you up to town, and we’ll have
a day of it together.”

“Oh! dad. You promise?”

“ Yes,” I said.

“ Then I won’t cry.”’

But she did, for there were a couple of
very pretty tears stealing down her cheeks as
I hurriedly kissed her, and went out, to find
Jack Armstrong coming up to the gate.

“ Look sharp,” he cried. “ I was afraid
you were going to throw me over. Come on.”

“ You seem in a precious hurry to see your
wife make a goose of herself,” I growled.

“ Yes,” he said ; “ I am.”

We had two excellent seats in front of the
great organ, facing the platform ; but for the
matter of that we might have sat where we
liked, for there were not above a dozen men
— very young men—engaged and callow¬
looking, whose betrothed were below in the
densely-packed assemblage of well-dressed
ladies. My wife was on the platform, close
to Mrs. Armstrong, both of them appearing
delightfully plump, and forming a strong
contrast in their low dresses to the very bony
visitors, who looked hard, harsh, and by no
means likely to excite a tender passion in
any male human breast.

“What fools we seem,” I whispered to
Jack, as we took our seats.

“ Um, yes,” he said, drily. “Perhaps we
are.”

“ Let’s go out and have a game at
billiards.”

“ Billiards ? ” he whispered. “ I wouldn’t
miss this meeting for all the billiards on this
earthly sphere. But, hist! my wife’s going to
open the ball.”

A TYRANNY CRUSHED.

75 1

“ Ball without dancing ? ” I growled.

“ Oh, I don’t know,” he said; “ they may
get up a dance.”

Our conversation was checked by a burst
of plaudits, accompanied by waving of ker¬
chiefs, as Mrs. Armstrong rose, beaming and
bowing, to take the chair, and, after a few
words, she introduced the first speaker, who
stepped to the front, and, receiving her

bered, you see,” he whispered, as he strained
over the rail to look down by .the clock-face
just beneath him. “ Ah, all right; there she
is. I didn’t know the top of her head.”

Just then the clock went ting at the half-
hour, and Jack blew off a big sigh, laid hold
of the rail in front of him, and seemed to fix
his eyes like a basilisk on the lady speaking
from the front of the platform, and gradually

MRS. ARMSTRONG ROSE, BEAMING AND BOWING.'

ovation, began her address. The usual thing
—the tirade of a woman who could not
separate the sensible from the foolish, but,
not content with advocating the rights of a
woman to enter upon careers suitable to her
sex, must plunge at once into the impossible,
and preach about the example she had set
in celibacy, a life of freedom from most of
the ills women were called upon to suffer.

“ Poor creature ! ” I murmured. “ Here,
sit still, Jack. What’s the matter ? ”

“ Oh, nothing, nothing,” he said, hurriedly.
“ I was trying to make out where my Dolly
is. She ought to be just below us.”

“ There’s her sister, close to the platform,”
I said.

“ Yes, I can see her, and the other two to
the left and right, close to the wall.”

“ Why, aren’t they all together ? ” I asked.

“ No, no; not to-night. Seats all num-

warming up into a volubility that was most
impressive.

In the midst of a fervent oratorical display,
in which, aided by her hands and tricks of
voice, studied undoubtedly from the stage,
she was painting the woes of the down¬
trodden woman with touching pathos, a lady
just in front suddenly gave vent to a
hysterical gasp, half rose from her seat, and
then sat down with a peculiar shuddering cry.

“Ah!” cried the speaker, “I do not
wonder, ladies, at this display of emotion.
You are even heart-wrung at the recital of
these woes, but I tell you-”

There was a short, sharp squeak from
beneath where we sat, followed by a loud cry
from the middle of the hall, and directly
after by a succession of “ Oh’s,” pants, and
gasping shrieks, several ladies leaping to their
feet and making an effort to pass out.

75 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“Ladies, ladies, pray be seated,” cried
Mrs. Armstrong, rising. “ You must restrain
your emotion.”

A shrill shriek brought the chairman’s—
woman’s—words to a termination, for from
near the platform the lady who had started
the trouble sprang up again, filling the
hall with her cries.

Then the panic
began : faint gasps

and pants rose in [ _ I

all directions, and
a human wave set
towards the nearest
door; but fresh
cries arose, the
attempt at exit
ceased, and, as if
moved by one set
of muscles, all pre¬
sent took refuge
on the chairs, to
stand shaking
their voluminous
dresses, some
uttering squeaks
and hysterical
cries, others sob¬
bing violently.

“ Ladies,ladies!”
cried Mrs. Arm¬
strong, “ what is
the meaning of
this ? ”

“Oh, my gra-
cious!” yelled
Lady Diana, and
with a bound she
reached a chair at
the back of the
platform, sprang
upon it with won¬
derful agility, and
stood there in a
very peculiar bent
position, appa¬
rently winding her
garments tightly
about her spare
legs and pressing
them down, utter¬
ing shriek after
shriek.

In wild alarm Mrs. Armstrong essayed to
follow her example, but failed dismally as far
as her locomotive muscles were concerned,
though she surpassed the deputation in the
power of her cries.

The alarm spread like wildfire, the excite¬

WE RUSHED TO THEIR HELP.

ment seemed maddening, and in less time
than it takes to tell the whole place was in a
state of the wildest confusion. Cries for help
arose, mingled with half-stifled gasps and
hysterical laughter, while one lady nearly
fainted—not quite.

I had started from my seat as soon as I
recovered from my
paralyzing state of
wonderment, . and
was on my way to
go down and
render help, but
felt myself dragged
back by the coat¬
tails, so that it was
the dozen mild-
looking young
gentlemen who
rushed to the
door.

“Sit still,
stupid ! ” growled
Jack.

“Come along
down,” I said.
“Your wife’s
crouching on that
platform all of a
heap.”

“Yes,” he said,
“ as if she had been
making a cheese;
and there’s yours
standing on the
table with the
water bottle and
glass.

We hurried down
now, but it was some
time before we could
make a way through
the stream of wildly
excited ladies now
fleeing from the hall.
When we did reach
the platform it was
to find our wives
still as we had seen
them from above,
and we rushed now
to their help.

“ Mice — mice —
mice! ” sobbed my wife, as I helped her down.
“ Mice ? ” I said, in astonishment.

“ Yes, dear, yes,” she sobbed. “ Oh, it
was horrible—horrible ! ”

“Are you sure you don’t mean black
beetles ? ”

A TYRANNY CRUSHED.

753

“Yes, dear; yes, dear,” she whispered,
as she clung to me tightly ; “ they attacked
us in swarms.”

“Not rats?”

“No, dear, mice—mice ! Ugh ! ”

“ Mice ? ” I cried, in disgust. “ What,
all this set-out about a mouse ? ”

“ No, no, dear; there must have been
thousands,” she sobbed, trembling, and now
weeping bitterly. “ Oh, pray, pray help me
home,” she sobbed, hysterically. “ How
dreadful—how horrible ! Oh ! I’m going to
faint.”

She did not. The cool air outside I sup¬
pose revived her. I saw her home, and as
soon as she could be left I w T ent to see
after Jack Armstrong and his wife—more
especially the former.

He was standing at his gate, smoking, and
nodded as I came up.

“ How’s your wife ? ” I said, eagerly.

“ All right now,” he cried, and then, with
a chuckle : “ I say, the strong-minded woman
and the mouse ! ”

“Yes,” I said, severely, as I recalled the
Jack Armstrong of old. “ What about that
mouse ? ”

“Mouse, dear boy?” he said. “ There were
forty-eight—twelve in each of the little book¬
like boxes my four girls took with them,
lettered ‘poems.’ They were to put them
down by their feet and to raise the lids with
their toes as the clock struck the half-hour;
and they did.”

“ Brave girls ! ” I cried, enthusiastically ;
“ then they were not afraid ? ”

“Afraid? Not they. They went for it
as full of go as if they had been boys.”

“Like their father?” I said.

“Yes, old fellow; they’re chips of the old
block. It has taken me weeks to get all
those mice, and keep them fed on the quiet.
And those are the ladies who are going to

set the world straight and look down upon
us men ! ”

“ And what about the business being
known ? ”

“ Won’t be known,” he said, “ Wild
horses wouldn’t drag it from those girls.
They hate the humbug as much as I.”

“But, I say-”

“ Don’t say anything, old man. That job
killed all their meetings here. They’ll never
get up another, and their craze’ll fizzle all
away now.”

Somehow Jack was right; that is, as far as
Chipping Woodham is concerned.

But Jack’s girls couldn’t keep it quiet,
after all. It was too prime, and one day in
strict confidence, I suppose, after discussing
the plague of mice at the meeting, they told
my Laura the whole of the ghastly secret.

Within an hour I knew that the cat was
out of the bag, for Lol came to me with her
eyes flashing and cheeks like fire.

She attacked me at once.

“ Oh, pa,” sh£ cried, “ what a shame ! ”

“ What’s a shame, pet ? ”

“ Letting out all those mice to spoil the
meeting.”

“ Why, what cock-and-bull story have you
got hold of now ? ” I cried.

“ Oh, it’s of no use for you to pretend, pa,
because Dolly and the others told me
everything, and you must have known it was
going to happen. It was a shame—it was a
shame—it was a shame !”

“ Laura,” I said, severely, “ I give you my
word of honour that I knew nothing about it
whatever. Do you suppose if I had known
I would have exposed your mother to-”

“ Oh, I didn’t mean that, pa,” she cried,
eagerly.

“ Then pray, miss, what did you mean ? ”

“ I meant it was such a shame that you
didn’t take me.”

Vo!, xviii.—95.

HE “ General Return of the
British Army ” tells its readers
that 222,373 non-commis¬
sioned officers and men com¬
prise the effective strength of
the Regular forces at the
present moment. No statistics, however, are
obtainable from which one can accurately
ascertain the number of families in the
United Kingdom which have one or more of
their members privileged to wear the Queen’s
scarlet. Nevertheless, it may be safely asserted
that there are very few English households
indeed that have no connection with the
Service. Under these circumstances, the
immense amount of interest that is ever
centred round the Army is perfectly natural.
Unfortunately, the supply of information
respecting the soldier’s calling is severely
limited, for, save when engaged on active
service, the man in red is but little heard of.

It is a pity that this should be the case,
for even in piping—or, rather, pipeclay¬
ing—times of peace, the daily round of
duty in barracks is full of interest. Every
season of the year has its own special work
for the soldier, and the present one of winter
is no exception. Foremost among the host
of duties that now claim his attention is—
according to his own views on the subject—
the highly important one of preparing for
Christmas. As the 25th of December only
occurs once in twelve months, he naturally
endeavours to make the most of it when it
does come, and with this intention strains
every nerve to make the day pass off success¬
fully. His praiseworthy efforts in this direc¬
tion are, it is pleasing to be able to record,
ably seconded by his superiors. Thus, at
Christmas time the commissioned ranks
unbend to a marked extent, and the most
cordial relations exist between all grades for

CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE ARMY

755

these few hours. The reins of discipline are
temporarily relaxed, and there is a general air
of “ standing at ease ” that makes the day of
special mark to the wearers of the Queen’s
scarlet wherever they may be stationed.

The Christmas festival throughout the
Army is observed in a manner that is
extremely characteristic of the British soldier.
This is that of thoroughness. Nothing that
is in the least degree slipshod is permitted to
pass muster in connection with the day’s
routine. As a matter of fact, the 25 th of

Spartan-like diet upon which the soldier is
usually sustained is now replaced by a
generous menu of turkey, beef, ham, plum-
pudding, fruit, and practically unlimited
beer. For the supply of all these good
things the soldier is largely dependent upon
the state of the canteen exchequer of his
battalion. That is to say that, according to
the amount of profit earned by this institution
during the year, so will pecuniary grants be
made therefrom at Christmas time for the
purpose of purchasing seasonable fare. Then

PREPARATIONS IN THE COOK-HOUSE.

December is approached in a spirit that is
almost akin to solemnity, and upon those
charged with the direction of the different
preparations for its clue observance a heavy
weight of responsibility rests. Upon their
discharge of their duties depends the success
or failure of the day.

The proverbial connection between Christ¬
mas and good cheer is in the Army observed
to the letter, and a large quantity of refresh¬
ments—both solid and liquid—has, accord¬
ingly, to be procured. This is by reason of
the fact that, on this eventful day, the rather

the commissioned ranks usually come forward
as well and subscribe liberally towards the
same purpose. It often happens, too, that
officers who own preserves give orders for a
present of game to be sent to the men of their
companies just now. Then, after the solids
have been thus arranged for, attention is
devoted to the liquids which are necessary for
washing them down. These take the form of
barrels of ale, stout, and porter—spirits being
rigorously tabooed—a small quantity of wine,
and an ample supply of mineral waters. All
these are taken charge of by the colour-

75 6

THE S TEA HE MAGAZINE .

sergeants of each company, and kept by
them under lock and key until dinner-time
on the 25th. This, as may be imagined, is
a highly necessary precaution.

Just as coming events cast their shadows
beforehand, so will a visit to a barrack-room
during the few days that precede the great
festival make abundantly clear what season
is at hand. Thus, groups of men will be seen
sitting round the fireplace busily occupied in
stoning raisins for the pudding, or divesting
geese and turkeys of their feathers; others
will be engaged in fashioning festoons of
coloured paper and wreaths of holly for
decorative purposes ; and a third party will

perform their work out of sight of most
observers.

At 6 a;m. the sounding of reveille on the
barrack-square by the bugler of the quarter-
guard officially intimates to all concerned
that Christmas Day has at last arrived. Ere
the last sound of the call has finally died
away into the frosty air, the great pile of
buildings that houses the six or seven
hundred men occupying the barracks becomes
a scene of activity. Lights twinkle from
numerous windows, and scores of men pass
rapidly along dimly illuminated passages, en
route to the lavatories, where they hastily
perform their necessary ablutions. These

CHURCH PARADE.

be making themselves useful as messengers
between the cook-house and the men’s
quarters. It is because space is so limited
in the former institution that a part of the
preliminary culinary preparations have to be
carried out in the barrack-room. The press
of work, too, makes this extraneous assist¬
ance very welcome to the accredited chefs ,
who, like the stokers on a battleship,

completed, beds have to be neatly made
up, floors swept, and rooms generally gar¬
nished.

There is no drill carried out to-day, for in
the Army Sunday routine is observed on
Christmas morning. Accordingly, as soon
as breakfast is over, all hands set to work to
smarten themselves up for church parade.
The “ fall-in ” for this ceremony will probably

CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE ARMY.

757

be sounded at half-past ten. On account of
the fact that a large number of men are
enjoying a month’s furlough just now, the
number attending this parade is usually
of rather attenuated proportions. However,
there will probably be some 300 at any rate
following the band to the garrison church.
As soon as the building is reached and the
troops are disposed of in the seats appro¬
priated to their use, the chaplain commences
the service.

This is not of any great duration, for,
knowing his congregation as he does, the

have been busily employed in making active
preparations for the dinner that is about to
take place. For this purpose the barrack-
room tables (which, in special honour of the
day, are on this occasion covered with cloths)
have been laid for the meal, the liquids
brought in, and the rooms smartened up
afresh. At twenty minutes to one the bugle
peals out its welcome bidding : “ Come to the
cook-house do-o-or, Boys ! ” and away rush the
orderlies to this important institution. Here
they receive from the company cooks the
dishes allotted to their respective messes

and carry them off to their rooms, where
they are quickly carved by another batch
of helpers. The dinners for the men on
the quarter-guard are taken to them by the
orderly-men, and similarly those for such
others as are absent on picquet-duty are
put aside.

On the stroke of one o’clock the hard-
worked bugler sounds again, and everyone
is now required to be sitting down in his
place at the table. Five minutes later a
business-like attack is being carried out upon

military cleric wisely refrains from indulging
in a long disquisition upon the purpose for
which they are assembled. Instead of this,
he delivers a brief, plainly expressed dis¬
course that is productive of infinitely more
good than would be a volume of sermons
from the most eloquent members of the
whole Episcopal Bench.

On the conclusion of the service the troops
are marched back to barracks and dismissed
to their own quarters. During their absence,
the men detailed to act as “ cooks’ mates ”

75 $

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

the good cheer that loads the festive board.
The junior N.C.O.’s act as waiters, and are
kept busily employed in ministering to the
lusty appetites of the diners. Imperative
demands for “ another yard of ham here,” or
“a pound or two off the turkey—with plenty
of padding, corporal,” arise on every side,
and a cheerful popping of corks, mingling
with a thirst-inspiring trickling from the

of the day, is going round the barracks. In
a minute or two the party arrives at our
typical room and is received by the colour-
sergeant. The commanding officer expresses
a hope that the men are enjoying their
dinner, and turns to leave. This is the cue
for the N.C.O.

“ Beg your pardon, sir,” he commences,
with much confusion, “ but the company

AFTER-DINNER SMOKING CONCERT.

beer - barrels, testifies abundantly to the
appreciation with which their efforts are
being met.

Suddenly the colour - sergeant, who is
temporarily presiding, orders a cessation of
hostilities and calls everyone to “attention.”
His quick ear has detected a clanking of
swords and jingling of spurred heels in the
corridor outside, and he knows that this
heralds the approach of the colonel, who,
accompanied by the adjutant and subaltern

would — er—like—that is—er — would be
proud, to drink your very good health, sir.”

“ Dear me,” returns the colonel, blandly,
simulating great surprise, “I’m extremely
obliged, really.”

“ Sherry wine, or port, sir ? ” inquires the
colour-sergeant, advancing towards him with
two black bottles, and trying to recollect the
respective liquors in each.

“ Oh, whatever you like, colour-sergeant,”
returns the other, accommodatingly. “Not

CHRISTMAS BAY IH THE ARMY

759

too much though,” he adds, hastily, as
a large glass of “ sherry wine ” is handed
him.

“ ‘ A ’ Company—Attention ! ” commands
the N.C.O., in his drill-parade voice. “I
have much pleasure in proposing the health
of our colonel. Private Jones, just keep
your hands off that plum duff for half a
minute.”

“ Here, here ! For he’s a jolly good fellow
—Proper sort to make old Kruger sit up ! ”
and various other complimentary epithets
are promptly called forth by this address.
When the applause has subsided somewhat,
the colonel seizes his opportunity.

“Non-commissioned officers and men of
‘A’ Company,” he remarks, “I am much
gratified at the honour you have paid me.
(Pad to see you enjoying yourselves, and
hope you will all spend a merry Christmas.”
Then he snatches up his sword, and,
signalling to the other members of his party,
promptly hurries off to the next company’s
block.

After the commanding officer has thus
been toasted, a similar compliment is paid to
the captain and subalterns who administer
the affairs of the assembly. As precisely the
same ceremony takes place in every barrack-
room at this time, it can well be under¬

stood that a good deal of toasting is got
through.

At length, however, the colonel’s tour is
completed, and he retires to his own quarters.
The other officers and the sergeants follow
his example, and accordingly withdraw to
their own messes, where they also celebrate
the festive occasion in an appropriate, if
rather different, manner. In the barrack-
rooms the rank-and-file are now left to them¬
selves for the remainder of the afternoon.
This is generally spent in the carrying out of
a smoking concert—for alcoholic refresh¬
ment always seems to incline the soldier’s
thoughts towards harmony. Accordingly, a
temporary stage of forms and tables is hastily
erected, and the budding Sims Reeves’s
among the revellers are called upon to display
their vocal talents. Thus a couple of hours
or so are agreeably passed, and, as long as
any liquid remains in the beer-barrels, no
one seems to think of seeking distraction
elsewhere. By nightfall, however, the troops
usually commence to change into “walking-
out ” dress, and soon the barracks are prac¬
tically deserted. At 9.30 p.m. a roll-call
takes place, and, three-quarters of an hour
later, the sounding by the orderly bugler of
“lights out” proclaims the official expiry of
Christmas Day.

A Surprise Party.

By Mrs. Newman.

Author of 11 Begun in Jest ,” “ Too Late,” “ The Parting Ways,” etc .

HOPE you will excuse my
saying it, Sir Everard ; you
have always been a kind
master to me, and I should
be sorry to forget my place;
but it’s against my con¬
science to be a party to waste and extrava¬
gance, and that’s what it’s come to with us
downstairs,” said Mrs. Dalton, the good-
looking, middle-aged housekeeper, her kindly
eyes turned towards her master with a
troubled look.

After getting through his breakfast, and
glancing at the morning’s correspondence,
Sir Everard had pushed back his chair from
the table, upon which, near his plate, lay a
heap of opened letters and circulars, caught
up the Times, turned over its pages until he
came upon the one of most interest to him,
and had become absorbed in its contents,
when the housekeeper entered.

“Means a turn-over of twenty or thirty
thousand,” he said, unconsciously speaking
aloud.

“Not so much as that, sir; but the hampers
keep coming in for the New Year, and we
haven’t near got through the Christmas ones
yet. What we are to do with it all, I don’t

know; and it goes to my heart to see such
extravagance.”

“ Extravagance ! My good soul, you
should wait until I complain about that.”

“ I feel that I should be to blame if I
didn’t speak about it, sir.”

“ But the bills have not increased ; and I
suppose there is always a certain amount of
waste in a house like this, Mrs. Dalton.”

“ It’s the thought of-” She kept back

the words “ the many that are wanting what
we waste,” and went on : “There’s so much
of everything, Sir Everard — poultry and
game, and butter and eggs, beyond count,
besides the usual supply of butcher’s meat;
and there’s some of them downstairs getting
so pampered and spoilt, there’s no pleasing
them.” Turning her eyes towards the only
other occupant of the room besides Sir
Everard and herself, she added : “ You
know how dainty and particular Josephine
is getting, Miss Milicent; cook says there is
no satisfying her fancies.”

Milicent Doyntone, the motherless, and
only child of the millionaire—a girl of about
seventeen, so fragile in her delicate loveliness
as to convey the impression of ill-health—
was languidly getting through a small portion
of cold pheasant with her coffee.

All Sir Everard Doyntone’s hopes were
centred in his daughter. Nothing she could
desire, that money
could purchase, was
too good for her.
But, strong and
deep as was his love
for her, his way
of demonstrating it,
by surrounding her
with every luxury,
and guarding her
from the knowledge
of the sterner reali¬
ties of life, was not
the best adapted for
a girl whose finer
qualities were rust¬
ing for want of
exercise. She knew
her father chiefly
as the world knew
him, absorbed
in speculation, and
heaping up wealth,
and shyly shrank

A SURPRISE PARTY.

761

from making much demonstration of her
own feelings; or appealing to his. Only now
and again was the veil between them partly
lifted, when each realized what the other had
to give, while not seeing the best way of
appealing to it.

Each, too, had had a disappointment which
the other knew nothing about. Sir Everard
had set his heart upon a marriage coming
about between his daughter and her cousin,
who would succeed to the title and the
entailed estates. Although in no way
desirous of forcing his daughter’s inclina¬
tions, he had done everything in his power
to bring about the match, by throwing the
young people together as much as possible.
Nothing had come of it but disappointment
for himself, and, had he known it, greater
disappointment for his child. She loved her
cousin with a deep, undying love, knowing
all too well that it was not returned.

Gerald Doyntone, a fine young fellow, full
of mental and physical vigour, with a keen
sense of all the best life has to bestow on
such as he, admired his pretty young cousin
more than a little, and the feeling might have
become warmer had he known her as she
was. He saw her only as a sweet, sensitive
girl, too timid and delicate to be like others
of her own age, little suspecting that it was
her hidden love for him which was sapping
her young life, and rendering her so shy and
timid when they were together.

Meanwhile, she passed most of her time
alone amidst enervating surroundings, find¬
ing no other outlet for the exercise of her
good-will than in feeding her pet birds and
animals to repletion, and gratifying the whims
of her maid.

While loving her young mistress with all
her heart, like many others, Mrs. Dalton did
not recognise her capabilities, and could not
understand that if she did not take much
interest in her life, it was from no lack of
will to do her share in the world’s work, but
simply because she lived in an exotic atmo¬
sphere, and no appeal was made to her
sympathies.

Turning to her master again, Mrs. Dalton
recommenced: “Of course, I can see that
it wouldn’t do to encourage beggars, Sir
Everard. I know you are right in disap¬
proving of indiscriminate giving, and I have
never disobeyed your wishes about that, but

-” She hesitated, and his daughter

eagerly put in :—

“ Couldn’t we seek out some of the
deserving poor about here to give the things
to, papa?”

Vol. xviii.—96.

“It’s a very difficult thing to find out who
are deserving, my child; and it wouldn’t do
to encourage the wrong people. The only
course that seems open to me I have tried.
The vicar does not find me unready with a
cheque; and as to the hospitals and the other
public charities—well, it is not for me to talk
about that; and^what is given there goes in
the right direction.”

“ Yes, indeed ; Mr. Hare says he always
knows where to come when he wants help,”
ejaculated Milicent, not a little proud that
others recognised his kindness and liberality.

The owner of a large estate in Berkshire,
Sir Everard spends the greater part of the
year in his town house. The game of specula¬
tion has, in fact, become such a habit with
him, that he has lost most of his interest in
country pursuits. It is, therefore, no sacrifice
on his part to remain in town, although it is
generally understood that this is done solely
for the purpose of keeping his daughter
under the supervision of the London
physicians.

So far, they had not discovered the
existence of any special disease ; but they
were of opinion that this might quickly develop
under adverse circumstances, and that she
ought to be carefully watched and guarded.

Sir Everard stood with his back to the fire
for a few moments glancing anxiously towards
his daughter; then, with the thought that she
must not be disturbed by that good body’s
croaking, cheerily said: “I daresay I shall
be able to find a way out of the difficulty
for you, Mrs. Dalton. New Year’s Eve—
a time for festivity, you know. Make your
preparations and leave the rest to me. Good¬
bye, Milicent. Do not over-exert yourself
with callers to-day ; and think over that idea
of the chaperon.” Noticing the little mow
she made, he added : “It will have to be, I
suppose, if your aunt’s health does not suffi¬
ciently improve for her to come back to us.”

“ Dear, we have been so happy together—
we two,” she replied.

Yes, he knew how different it had been
with them since his sister-in-law had carried
her ailments south. He recognised, too,
that, since her departure, a change for the
better had gradually taken place in his
daughter; but he did not yet realize that
Milicent’s delicate health was in a great
measure traceable to the extreme care her
aunt had taken in treating her as a hot-house
plant, and isolating her from companions of
her own age.

A sheaf of papers in hand, Sir Everard
went from the room, passed through the hall,

y6 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

giving a few hurried directions to the butler
as he went, and out to the carriage awaiting
him.

“You will try to persuade cook to have
more consideration for Josephine, will you
not, Mrs. Dalton ? ” said Milicent, as soon as
they were alone. “ Her appetite is so deli¬
cate, she says, and requires tempting.”

Mrs. Dalton was of the opinion that
Josephine’s appetite was too much tempted
already ; but she did not put this into words.

“ I suppose Sir Everard meant that he
would bring some gentlemen home with him
to dinner this evening; at any rate, I must
give cook the orders,” she said.

“ It is better to be prepared, and you know
papa likes keeping a good table.” Then, with
a sudden remembrance, she added : “ Did
not Lucy say that her brother was out of
work, and that he had six children to keep ?
Would they not be glad to have some of the
good things, Mrs. Dalton ? ”

“ Lucy is always having some stories to tell
about the wants of her relations, Miss
Milicent; and she knows how ready you are
to give. But, as Sir Everard says, we ought
to be quite sure we are helping the right
people, and I have my doubts about that
brother of hers.”

Noting the distressed look in her young
mistress’s face, she added : “ I here, don t

take any notice of what an old body like me
may say, Miss Milicent, dear. I know how
much good it does your kind heart to give,
and you can’t bear to think that all the world
isn’t the same as yourself,” going off to give
the morning’s orders to cook.

She crossed the hall, her eyes thoughtfully
downcast, her heart going tenderly out to the
young girl so desirous of helping those less
fortunate than herself, and so entirely without
suspicion that, even if deceived, she would
be ready to trust again and again.

“ If good wishes could help you, my
dearie.” She stood still. The remembrance
of a copy slip in the old village school
she had attended had suddenly flashed
upon her mind. “ Good wishes are
prayers. If mine are that, nothing
but good will come to this house.”
A soft smile came into her benevolent
face as she went on her way.

The dinner in the servants’ hall—
enough, Mrs. Dalton thought, to
satisfy forty, instead of twenty, people
—had been partaken of, and some of
the servants were standing about,
while others cleared the table.

One of the footmen was giving his
opinion to a pretty housemaid that, although
there was nothing to complain of in a general
way, and, on the whole, the place suited him,
the living being pretty satisfactory and the
work easy, the house was dull, and on dark
days such as these, when no amusement was
going on either upstairs or down, it was worse
than ever.

“It is rather dull,” assented Hannah.
“ But, you see, Miss Milicent is so delicate,
there can’t be much going on in the way of
gaiety.”

“But wc are not delicate,” he replied,
yawning and stretching himself; “and I
think there ought to be some consideration
for us. 1 don’t see why Sir Everard could
not let us have a ball, and allow us to invite
our friends, to enliven us up a bit.”

“He certainly might do that, and I don’t
believe he’d object, only he doesn’t think of
it. I’ve a good mind to ask Josephine to
give Miss Milicent a hint. If she said a
word to her papa, it would be as good as
settled. It would be such a treat to have

a ball, wouldn’t it? We might ask-”

Breaking off, she ejaculated, “ Oh, Charles,
there are the bells beginning already! Do
set the area door open, and then we shall
hear better.”

Someone had already opened the door,
and the sound of a distant peal of bells

A SURPRISE PARTY,

763

came softly in. The servants stood about in
twos and threes, impressed in their different
ways by the memories awakened by the
sound—joyous or sad, as the case might be—
brothers and sisters parted and going their
different ways in life, weddings, birthdays,
and what not.

A silence had fallen upon them, when
presently they became conscious of other
sounds mingling with that of the bells—the
pattering as of many little feet and the
hushed voices of children.

They stood for a moment in mute astonish¬
ment. Where did the sounds come from ?
The area ?

Mrs. Dalton, who had come from her
room to listen to the bells, pressed forward,
with two or three others, to the small
square lobby at the entrance and looked
out.

The fog had lifted, and in the soft grey
twilight came trooping down the steps a
number of little children, guided by three 01-
four women in dark, shadowy-looking gar¬
ments, sweeping to their feet.

The lookers-on stood gazing at the scene
still speechless with amazement; and the
children, apparently without the slightest
misgiving, passed in by twos and threes
through the open doorway, looking
smilingly and confidingly up into their
faces. The women
who had accompanied
them drew aside as
they entered—a band
of poorly clad, half
famished, but cheer¬
fully expectant little

THE CHILDREN PASSED IN BY TWOS AND THREES.”

waifs and strays, evidently from among the
poorest of the poor, but showing signs of
having been well washed and having had their
shabby clothes put into some sort of order.

“ Why, who in the world are they? Where
do they come from ? ” exclaimed Mrs. Dalton,
turning to question the women.

They were gone!

“ Well! To go away like that, with never so
much as a word. Where do you come from,
you poor little mites? ”

“ Smiff’s Court—our lot do. We are the
little ’uns.”

“ Smith’s Court! There must be some
mistake, I think. But come in out of the
cold, poor little things,” leading the way to
the servants’ hall.

“There wasn’t no mistake,” said one of
the little girls, looking as though she were
going to cry.

“ Well, your friends will be back presently,
no doubt, and then they will tell us all about
it.”

“ Teacher told us the gentleman said we
was to come, and when we was going to
cross the road the fog was wus, and only half
of us got over, so they brought us on fust.”

764

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ They ? The women we saw ? ”

“ Yes, mum.”

“ They ought to have stopped to explain.”

“They are gone for the others, perhaps,
Mrs. Dalton,” put in one of the maids.

The children were beginning to show a
little anxiety, and some of the eyes that took
note of the bare table began to fill with tears.
But after a sharp upward look into her face,
one of them slipped her hand contentedly
into Mrs. Dalton’s, and the sight of this
seemed to give the others courage.

“Tell me about it, dears. What gentle¬
man asked you to come? What is his
name ? ”

“ I dunno. Teacher said he was a kind
gentleman as was going to give us milk and
buns.”

“ And a orange when we was goin’ away,”
put in another.

“ And,” excitedly exclaimed a little boy,
“he said as there would be prizes for the
good ones—toys and such-like,” with another
disappointed glance at the bare table.

“ The master ! Why, Sir Everard, of
course ! How could I be so stupid as not
to remember?” thought Mrs. Dalton, calling
to mind his words as he went out that morn¬
ing. “ It was Sir Everard,” she explained to
the other servants. “ He did say something
about our preparing for visitors, as he went
out this morning. But I did not rightly
understand, thinking he meant to bring
some gentlemen home to dinner, or I
should have been ready for them.”

“ Goodness me, yes.

We ought to have had
more time, of course,”
said cook. “ But never
you fear, Mrs. Dalton,
we’ll soon have a good
meal for ’em. There’s
plum cake plenty, and
in half an hour Jane and
me will have hot ones
ready for the little crea¬
tures. Run you round
to the dairy, Charles,
and tell them to send
six or seven quarts of
milk here sharp. If
they haven’t got so
much, tell them to
send what they can,
and get the rest as
quickly as possible.”

Turning to the chil¬
dren as she bustled
out, she said: “ Hot

buttered cakes and tea, with plenty of milk
and sugar, eh, you poor little mites ? That’ll
do, won’t it ? ”

“Yes’m,” chorused the children, their
faces brightening again.

“ And jam and preserves,” added Mrs.
Dalton. “ Come with me to the store-room,
Hannah and Sophy, and we’ll make a brave
show for them presently.”

Carried away by the general excitement,
entirely forgetting his dignity and objections
to doing errands, Charles ran off post-haste
to order the milk, while the maids bestirred
themselves, building up the fires and pre¬
paring the tables for tea, congratulating each
other on having left the Christmas decora¬
tions up for New Year’s Eve.

Mrs. Dalton had laden her two willing
helpers with jars of jam, dessert fruit, and
what-not—the best of everything and plenty
of it—telling herself that Sir Everard would
like everything done royally, as his way was
in entertaining, when she heard the sounds
of an arrival.

Sir Everard—and earlier than usual ! She
went upstairs to the morning-room, knowing
he would go first to his daughter, who
generally spent the day there.

“ Well, Milicent, my child, what kind of
a day have you had ? ”

“ 1 am quite well, papa, only the fog has
been so depressing, and I am always a little
anxious when you are out days like this.”

“ There is very little extra danger in the
streets, and Davis is a careful driver.”

“ I am glad you came
home earlier, all the
same.”

“ Have you forgotten
that it is New Year’s
Eve, Milicent ? Let
these remind you,” put¬
ting some leather cases
on the table by her
side.

“Presents again—
love gifts ! How good
you are to me ! ” she
ejaculated, a great
deal more apprecia¬
tive, indeed, of the
love than the jewels.
She opened the cases.
“ Another bracelet—
sapphires—and a star
—How beautiful ! ” endeavour¬
ing to show more admiration
than she felt. “Are you not
afraid of spoiling me, sir?’ 5

“ PRESENTS AGAIN—LOVE GIFTS !

A SURPRISE PARTY.

765

Slipping her arm round bis neck, as she play¬
fully added, “I should hardly have courage
to offer my poor little gift if I did not know
that it had been made by my own two hands,
and that my love had been worked in with
every stitch.”

He took the letter-case, daintily em¬
broidered with his crest, which she held out
to him ; but, before he had time to express
his admiration, there was a tap at the door,
and Mrs. Dalton entered, her face beaming,
and tears of joy in her eyes.

“ They’ve come, sir ! God bless you, for
the kind thought! If I had only known.
But, there ! we shall be ready for them in a
very few minutes, now.”

“ Ready for whom, Mrs. Dalton ? ”

“ The children, sir. It went to our hearts
to see them at first; but it’s easy to see what
they want, and it will do us all the good in
the world to put some life into the poor little
mortals.”

“ Children ? ” he repeated. “ My good
soul, I sent no children !”

“ But—but—you must. They’re here , sir.
They came trooping down the area steps,
just now—between twenty and thirty of them.
They said the kind gentleman had invited
them to come; and, of course, I knew it
must be you, because you told me-”

“Oh, yes; to be sure,” put in Sir Everard ;
“ I did say something which might seem to
mean that; but it quite slipped my memory
until now; and I certainly invited no children.
They have made a mistake, and come to the
wrong house, I suppose.”

“They don’t seem to think so, sir. We
are preparing tea for them, and—and — I
don’t think you would like us to send the
poor little things away hungry ? ” anxiously.

“ Certainly not. Give them the best of
everything in the house, Mrs. Dalton. Feed
them to your heart’s content before they go.
I will dine at the club later on.”

“ Oh, papa—little children—poor ones ! I
must go and help to entertain them,”
exclaimed Milicent, in eager excitement.
“You will not mind, will you ? ”

“ If it is not too much excitement for you,
my child. Have you made no inquiries,
Mrs. Dalton ? Was there no grown-up
person with them ? ”

“ There were three or four women, but
they did not follow the children in, and all
the little ones can tell us is, that they were
invited by some kind gentleman to have
milk and buns, and to be taught some
games. And they say that on the way they
got separated from the rest at a crossing, just

as the fog had become worse, and then they
were brought straight here. I suppose the
women who brought them went back to look
after the others, and that they will be here
presently.”

“ Well, after you have given them as much
as they can eat, I will see them, and try to
find a clue to the mystery, if the women have
not come back in the meantime to explain it.”

“And I will go with you at once,” said
Milicent, turning to accompany the house¬
keeper.

In five minutes the children were seated
down each side of the hall table, feasting in
silent delight, not upon the buns and milk so
eagerly anticipated, but upon dainties such as
they had not before seen or heard of—hot
buttered and other cakes, jams, and other
kinds of preserved fruits, and what-not in
profusion, and pressed to eat as much as they
could. Delighted and astonished as they
were, they lost no time in giving expression
to their feelings, eating steadily on till the
heartiest there was obliged to decline more,
with a reluctant sigh, and the all-sufficient
reason, “Please’m, I’m full.”

Enveloped in one of the cook’s big white
aprons, Milicent did her share with the others
in attending to the children’s wants; stooping
every now and again to kiss some little, wan
face, a light in her own which none had
before seen there.

“ How blind we have all been ! I can see
now what the dear child wanted,” thought
Mrs. Dalton, her eyes lovingly following her
young mistress, so evidently in her true
element now.

As they rose from the table the children’s
eyes turned expectantly towards Milicent, as
if with the instinctive perception of her capa¬
bilities as well as her sympathy, and she
asked, “Would you like some games, dears?”

“ Ess.”

“ What kind do you like best?”

“ I dunno, miss.”

“But what do you generally play at?”

“Sometimes we plays at father cornin’
’ome drunk and beatin’ mother, and the
people cornin’ to look, and the bobbies talcin’
’em off.”

“ But,” put in another, “the kind gentle¬
man was a-goin’ to learn us nicer games than
that, teacher said.”

“Do you know some nice games, Jane?
Do you, Hannah ? Can you show us ? ”
asked Milicent, unconsciously giving evidence
in what her own child-life had been lacking.

“ We used to play ‘ The king sends you
three letters,’ ” said Jane.

7 66

THE STRAND MAGAZINE. •

“And there’s ‘Cobbler’s lost his shoe,”’
added Hannah.

“ And ‘ Oranges and lemons,’ ” put in
another.

“And ‘Thread my needle.’”

“ Which shall it be, children ?”

“‘Cobbler’s lost his shoe,’ please’m,”
chorused the children, to whom this sounded
most promising.

Milicent was seated on the floor in a ring
of laughing children, round Hannah standing
in the centre looking sharply after the shoe.

“ The cobbler’s lost his shoe, and doesn’t
know where to find it.”

“ That’s because he doesn’t know where to
look,” ejaculated Milicent, her face radiant
with fun and happiness.

“ Now, then, cobbler,
this way.” Tap, tap, tap.

“ Oh, papa ! ” sud¬
denly catching sight of
him standing in the
doorway. “ Isn’t this
good fun ? ”

them,” she said, in a lowered voice. “It
would be wicked not to laugh when they
can. The delight of being able to give them
a little happiness ! ” Turning to her father,
she said : “This is dear little crooked Sally,
who was born so, papa,” using the children’s
own words, as she drew the child towards
him.

“We must try to make things the
straighter for you, must we not, Sally?”
he said, seating himself, and giving her a
kindly pat on the shoulder.

The child looked up into his face for a
moment, and then put her hand upon his
knee, standing by his side in placid content.

Taking note of Sally’s success, a little

_—_ _ _ . _ ffaldi) •

“ isn’t this fun ? ”

“ It looks like it,” he replied, smiling.
“ But I must not interrupt—go on, children.”

But, at sight of him, the cobbler had shyly
retired from the game, and Milicent and the
children rose from the floor. Then Milicent
saw someone else—a young man in evening
clothes, his eyes fixed upon her in great
amazement and, what she was slower to
recognise, admiration.

“Gerald ! Have you come to help ?”

“ I should be glad to do so, and perhaps I
might do for a cobbler.”

“You might, if you are very quick.”

“ It was something to see you laugh in that
fashion.”

“ Oh, Gerald, the pity of it! Look at

fellow of about five years of age, whose head
looked too large for his body, came slowly
forward, and, looking up into Sir Everard’s
face with a watery smile, said, “ The cobbler
didn’t find it.”

“ So I see,” amusedly returned Sir Everard,
his eyes turning towards his daughter, slip¬
ping on her shoe.

“ Is you the gentleman as give us the
treat?” asked a little girl, also taking
courage.

“ Well, I suppose I have done that much.
But I must not take the credit for having
thought of it. Have you found out where
they came from, Mrs. * Dalton; have the
women who brought them returned?”

A SURPRISE PARTY.

767

“No, sir, not yet; it’s that that puzzles us
so much.”

“ Did they say nothing ? ”

“ Not that I heard. They guided the little
ones down the steps, and then stood aside,
and must have gone away, I suppose, to look
after the others. The children say they got
separated from the others when the fog
became thicker.”

“ Who brought you, children ? ”

“It was muvver.”

“ Do you mean your mother ? ”

Tommy nodded.

“ Oh, Tommy, your mother’s in the pit-
hole—you know she is,” put in a sharp-
featured little girl. “ They said at the
’orspital he’s got some water in his head,
please, sir, and that’s why it’s so big and
heavy, and he’s most alius tired, and don’t
know what he’s talkin’ about sometimes.”

“It was muvver,” repeated Tommy.

“ And who do you say it was, child ?” said
Sir Everard, turning towards another.

“ It was Aunt Jane brought me.”

“ Granny brought me.”

“ And sister Polly, as went out to
’Straly, brought me.”

“Oh, the little stories!” exclaimed
another. “ Why, they’ve all gone dead.”

Their elders looked at each other in
silence a moment.

Then Sir Everard
said, with a half
laugh, “They
couldn’t well have
brought them under
those circum-
stances.”

One or two of the
maids were begin¬
ning to look rather
grave, and Mrs.

Dalton’s eyes were
downcast as she re¬
membered a certain
wish.

Little Tommy
raised himself on
tiptoe, and, putting
his lips to Sir
Everard’s ear, whis¬
pered : “It was muvver.”

Just then one of the children created a
diversion. Giving Gerald, who was saying a
word to Milicent, a little push with his finger,
he said : “ We’ve got a Mr. Brown in our
court, like you ; he’s a gentleman as waits
at the shop, so he’s got to wear things like
them ; is you at a shop ? ”

IS HE THE PRINCE OF WALES

“No, my little man,” laughed Gerald.

“ He brings nice fings, off the plates, you
know, home for his little Johnny as is ill.”

Struck by the magnificence of Charles’s
attire, another asked, pointing her finger to¬
wards him : “ Is he the Prince of Wales ?
We’re goin’ to learn ‘ God bless,’ teacher
says.”

Charles drew himself up with a side glance
at Hannah, not averse from her hearing this
testimony to his distinguished appearance.

Gerald whispered a word to Milicent, who
had some difficulty in keeping her counten¬
ance. “ Don’t make me laugh, Gerald.”

“ But I thought that was the right thing
to do.”

“Not at the wrong moment,” with a gay little
side glance, which completed her conquest.
She seemed, indeed, to have suddenly
emerged from the chrysalis stage, and to have
become a bright and most lovable woman.

“ Where do you come from ? ” recom¬
menced Sir Everard,
addressing the chil¬
dren. “You can
surely tell us that
much.”

“ We are the ones
from Smiff’s Court.”

“And where is
Smith’s Court ? ”

“ Why, you goes
along the road where
the shops are, till you
comes to the arch-
vay, and it’s through
there.”

“ Well, where is the
road ? ”

“It’s where the
archway is.”

“ But what do you
call it ? ”

“ The road.”

“We shall not
arrive at much that
way, it seems. Can
you tell us who it was
that invited you to
come here ? ”

A little girl put up
her hand. “ It was the genkleman, please, sir.”

“ Don’t you know his name ? ”

“ No.”

“ But,” hurriedly put in another, “ teacher
said he was going to give us tea—not like
what we’ve had—buns and milk, you know ;
and there was to be games afterwards,- and
prices for the good ones.”

768

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

“It is very strange, but' the mothers will
be sure to be coming presently, and, mean¬
time, we must do our best to carry out the
programme.”

“ It was to be c Oranges and lemons ’ next,
please, sir,” said one, anxious to lose no more
time.

“ Mrs. Dalton will, I daresay, be equal
to the oranges; but I should not advise
lemons.”

“ Bless your kind heart, Sir Everard,
‘Oranges and lemons 9 is the name of a game.”

“ Oh, indeed ; give them as much as they
like in that way, and I will see that they are
not disappointed in their prizes; which
mean toys, eh, little man ? ”

“ Ess.”

“ Oh, papa, how good you are ! ” ejaculated
Milicent.

The servants looked on in silent astonish¬
ment. Was this the reticent, unapproachable,
not to say stern, Sir Everard, they had
hitherto known ? Was this their languid
young mistress, who had seemed to take no
interest in anything?

“ How many are there of them ? ”

“Twenty-two, papa.”

Sir Everard looked at his watch. “ Get a
cab for me, James,” he said, addressing one
of the men.

“ Shall I come with
you, uncle? ” said
Gerald, adding a few
words in an under¬
tone, which made Sir
Everard look at him
in glad surprise. Was
the great wish of his
heart to be given
him ?

In less than an
hour they returned ;
a four-wheeler in the
wake, full of pack¬
ages.

It was a merry
party that met the
sight of the two as
they re-entered the
hall. A long queue
of children, ending
up with the ser¬
vants ; cook and
Mrs. Dalton run¬
ning round with
the rest, their skirts
gathered up, laugh¬
ing and panting
with the unwonted

exertion ; and Milicent already caught and
imprisoned, her hair becomingly ruffled by
the embraces of the children, and her face
radiant with happiness.

Sir Everard stood gazing at the scene for a
few moments with appreciative eyes. Then,
as the last prisoner was taken, and they
saw him, he said: “ I think it is now my
turn to go through a little performance. Get
all the little ones to turn their faces to the
wall, and do not let them look round until I
give the word.”

The children were placed in rows against
the wall, Hannah and Jane and Milicent and
Gerald, who affirmed that they needed his
help, keeping guard, while James and Charles
were called to assist their master.

There was much running to and fro, and
then the word was given for the children to
turn round. They found themselves in toy
land. Sir Everard was not accustomed to do
things in a small way, and the floor was
covered with toys—horses and carts, dolls,
boxes of soldiers, Noah’s arks, ships, trains,
puzzles, and what not—-all good of their kind.
Sir Everard had not taken account of the
position of his guests, nor stinted the price,
being, indeed, a little astonished at the extent
to which ten pounds would go.

“ Don’t you think
this young lady de¬
serves something ? ”
Gerald inquired of
the children.

“Yes, her does.”
He took some¬
th i n g from his
pocket. “ Will this
do? Will it, Mili¬
cent ? ”

A hot flush dyed
her cheeks, she put
out her hand, and,
as he slipped a ring
on her finger, she
turned her eyes
towards her father
smiling a benedic¬
tion upon her.

For a few mo¬
ments the children
stood gazing in
silent amazement
at the wonderful
display; then,
drawing a sharp
breath, shifted
their eyes anxi¬
ously towards Sir

HE SLIPPED A RING ON HER FINGER.”

A SURPRISE PARTY

769

Everard. Could those beautiful things be
intended for them ?

He saw something of what was in their
minds, and did not keep them in suspense.
“The gentleman who invited you promised
there should be prizes for the good ones, you
said.”

“Yes,” doubtfully, each conscious of some
little naughtiness in the past.

“ Well, I believe every child here has been
good to-night, and therefore each deserves,
and shall receive, a prize.”

Sudden sunshine on all the little anxious
faces.

and the children standing* in groups hugging
their toys—then suddenly exclaimed:—

“ I do believe it’s them ! ”

“The children, do you mean, Davis?”

“ I know some has been lost, sir, and
there’s been a pretty to-do about them. It’s
even got into the evening papers. Twenty-
two children lost—that’s what they say, and
people have been looking for them all over
London, inquiring at every police-station,
but never a word could be heard of them,
good or bad. ‘ Spirited away,’ the papers
call it! ”

“ Do you know where they were on their

“Now, then, Sally, you begin. What do way to?’
you choose?”

Her eyes, fastened eagerly
upon a doll dressed in the
latest fashion, replied for Sally,
and it was put into her out¬
stretched hands.

‘a dot.l, dressed in the latest fashion, was put into her outstretched hands.”

“And you, Tommy; what do you choose?”

“That!” promptly replied Tommy, point¬
ing to a horse and cart.

Then, one after the other, each child came
forward, and was told to choose.

The remaining toys were reserved to be
distributed amongst the children who had
missed their way.

“ But how in the world shall we get them
home?” said Sir Everard. “ It can’t be very
far off, since they walked here; and four or
five cabs would do it, of course; but Smith’s
Court in a road where there are shops is, to
say the least, indefinite.”

At that moment the coachman entered the
hall, and stood for a moment gazing wide-
eyed at the unwonted scene—Sir Everard and
his daughter and nephew and the servants,

“To the mission-room at the top of our
mews, sir. They say the younger ones
were told to run across the road with one of
the teachers, but somehow they got separated
from her. The policeman, who stopped the
traffic for them, found it had got into such
a block, that he told the superintendent
to keep back the rest until he had let some
of the carts go by, and when the second lot
of children got across there wasn’t a sign to
be seen of the first, and no one could tell
where the little things had gone.”

“ But how was it they came here? Who
brought them ? ”

“It was muvver.”

“ Aunt Jane.”

“ Sister Mary.”

“ Old granny.”

VoL xviii.—97

1 he Largest Statue in the World, and How It Was Built.

By A. Meta.

HE Fourth of July, 1884, the
an n i v ersa r y fes t i val o f A m e r i ca n
Independence, was signalized
in a remarkable manner by
the noteworthy marks of
friendship and goodwill ex¬
changed by two great nations, notably
by the presentation by France of a colossal
statue of Liberty
Illuminating the
World, for the
adornment of the
sister Republic’s
magnificent har¬
bour at New York.

The funds for this
amazing monument
were entirely sub¬
scribed by the
French people,
while the formal
presentation of this
gift was performed
in Paris, in the
absence of M. Jules
Ferry, the French
Prime Minister, by
the late Ferdinand
de Lesseps ; Mr.

Morton, the then
United States
Minister in France,
accepting it .on be¬
half of his nation.

The design of
this colossal statue,
it is said, origi¬
nated with the late
M. Laboulaye,
author of “ Paris
en Amerique,” an
enthusiastic
admirer of Ameri¬
can institutions,
but was zealously
taken up by the
eminent French
sculptor, M. Bartholdi, whose previous works,
the “Souvenir of the Nile,” “Modern
Martyr,” “Funeral Genius,” and “Vercin-
getorix on Horseback,” are familiar enough
to lovers and students of fine art. Above
all, his famous “ Lion de Belfort,” symbolic

of “ Defence,” is by some thought to surpass
our Trafalgar Square lions, or rather the
one lion four times repeated, by Sir Edwin
Landseer.

Bedloe’s Island, near Long Island, outside
the harbour of New York, was chosen as a
suitable site, and there now stands the
colossus, 150ft. high from the feet to the
raised hand. The
figure is higher
than the Column
Vendome in Paris,
and double the
height of the lar¬
gest statue hitherto
known, namely,
that of St. Charles
Borromeo, on the
banks of Lake Mag-
giore. Moreover, it
is placed on a
pedestal 177ft. in
height, making the
top of the torch
about 328ft. above
high - water level.
It weighs 100
tons, its composi¬
tion being three-
fifths iron and two-
fifths copper, and
was not cast, but
composed of nume¬
rous pieces, separ¬
ately hammered
into shape, and then
riveted together.

The • statue was
conveyed to
America in 350
pieces, which upon
arrival were again
riveted together to
form the magnifi¬
cent and harmoni¬
ous whole—a tri¬
umph indeed of the
sculptor’s art! It was taken over in French
vessels of war in 1884, arriving shortly after
the corner stone of the pedestal had been
laid. The statue as it now stands completely
throws both the Colossus of Rhodes and the
statue of Ramses into the shade.

THE STATUE OF LIBERTY.

From a Photo, by J. II. Johnston , New York.

THE LARGEST STATUE IN THE WORLD.

771

From ci Photo, by] ' the huge moulds made of wood and plaster; [Pierre Pettit, Paris.

The extraordinary photos, which are here
reproduced in full for the first time illustrate
the various stages of construction.

In the first photograph of the work itself a
glimpse is given of
the huge wooden
frames, covered
with plaster, by
means of which
the sheets of
metal were given
their required
shape. The im¬
mense sheds in
which the contract
was carried to its
successful end
formed part of the
works of MM.

Gaget Gauthier et
Cie., of Paris.

A visit to these
sheds is said to
have been an ex¬
perience never to
be forgotten.

Here one came
upon the index
finger of a hand

and the toe of a foot. But what fingers and
what toes, what hands and what feet !
Amazing in their bulk, almost uncanny in
their towering proportions, they conjured up

From a Photo, by]

[Pierre Pettit, Paris.

77 2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

in our minds the wonderful sights in some
workshop of fairyland—the men and your¬
selves mere pigmies. Sixty men have worked
for nearly ten years upon the various
parts of the Statue of Liberty, not to count
M. Bartholdi and his immediate assistants.
They were ten years of anxiety unspeakable,
ten years of incessant work and expense.
But M. Bartholdi’s great achievement will
live for centuries to come; his name will
ever stand out in the history of art as that of
a man who, for art’s sake, never flinched, how¬
ever difficult the task before him may have

proper size, and the sheets of metal gained
their required shape, as shown in the next
photo., by being beaten out according to
their respective moulds ; this was done both
by lever pressure and by beating with mallets.

Once ready shaped, the necessary holes
were drilled to receive the millions of rivets
used in the uniting of the plates, and as the
various parts were brought from the works to
the gigantic iron framework built for their
support, they were united one by one into a
homogeneous whole. It is interesting to note
that the entire armature which supports the

From a Photo, by] a titanic finger. [Pierre Pettit , Paris.

been, and also in the history of France as a
patriot second to none.

The model of the statue went through two
stages of enlargement. The first model
made by M. Bartholdi measured 2-11111.,
and was approved by the committee.
This model was subsequently enlarged
four times, the second figure measuring
8-50111. from head to foot. M. Bartholdi
improved and altered it until, judging it
to be perfect in symmetry and design, the
figure was divided* into sections. These
sections were subsequently again enlarged
four times, needless to add, with absolute
mathematical precision.

Moulds of wood were then made of the

figure on the inside was designed by M.
Eiffel, now of Eiffel Tower fame. The
illustration on this page shows the cast of
one of the enormous fingers; the workmen
around seem like so many pigmies in
comparison.

M. Bartholdi has given the greatest
possible stability to the statue by utilizing
the woman’s drapery to give a broad base to
the structure, so that it may stand the brunt
of the strongest hurricane.

The head, which unfortunately was not
photographed separately, is 14ft. high, and
will accommodate no fewer than forty people,
while the flame of the torch will hold fifteen
people comfortably !

THE LARGEST STATUE IJS! THE WORLD.

773

From a Photo, by] the left hand. [Pierre Pettit, Paris.

A gallery is built just above the
hand at the base of and around the
torch in such a manner as to enable
visitors to gaze freely upon the
magnificent view of the harbour,
with its blue waters, its thousands
of ships of all nationalities and
sizes, backed by the house and
dock studded shore.

It is interesting to note that,
some time before the statue was
completed, the right arm with the
torch in its hand made a journey to
America by itself, when it was
exhibited at the Philadelphia
Exhibition.

In all the statue embodies over
4oo,ooolb. of copper and iron!

The index finger measures 2‘45 m.
in length, while the nail measures
no less than 0-35111. by 0-65111. ; the
eye is 0-65111. wide, and the nose
measures 1*12111. from base to tip !

These amazing figures may easily
be verified by travellers to the
States, for a visit to the statue is
generally included by sightseers on
the other side of the Atlantic.

An excellent idea of the size of the
various parts is exemplified by the

From a Photo, by]

THE RIGHT FOOT.

[Pierre Pettit, Paris.

774

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

bridge upon the whole.” After land¬
ing and examining hiswork with criti¬
cal attention, he continued : “ I am
much pleased ; it is a grand sight. I
was very anxious about the formation
of some of the lines—it is a success.”

The dedication of the statue was
attended with much ceremony.
There was a grand military and
civic procession on shore, and then
the President and the most dis¬
tinguished personages embarked on
board thirty-seven steamers for Bed-
loe’s Island. After a prayer and
some music, M. de Lesseps delivered
an address. This was followed by an
address by Senator Evarts, announc¬
ing the presentation of the statue by
France to the United States. The
face, which had been shrouded by
tri-coloured flags, was then unveiled
amid a terrific din of cannon, steam-
whistles, and bells. President Cleve¬
land next formally accepted the
statue, and the ceremony closed with
the singing of the Old Hundredth
Hymn.

titanic hand and equally titanic foot shown in
the preceding two photos., whilst the last two
pictures serve to illustrate two stages of
advanced construction. In the last picture
of all, the framework which is to receive the
extended arm towers high above the scaffold.
In this illustration, also, the hand holding the
torch with its circular visitors’ platform is
easily distinguished on the left. The men
standing on the ground afford an easy means
of comparison in sizes, and if we take them
as our standard measure, we can easily
realize in our minds some idea of the
enormous proportion before us.

The lights in the torch are extremely
powerful, and illuminate the sky by means of
highly polished reflectors. 'These powerful
rays can easily be discerned some thirty or
forty miles away, and are the first lights seen
by ocean steamers nearing New York. When
M. Bartholdi visited his work in a steamer
shortly before the inauguration he exclaimed,
“What a beautiful harbour! Look at that
splendid bridge in the distance (alluding to
Brooklyn Bridge). The two colossal works
do not clash as I feared they might, for the
distance softens the general effect of the

ANOTHER VIEW SHOWING FRAMEWORK FOR RIGHT ARM ALSO
RIGHT HAND HOLDING TORCH—NOTE THE MEN ON THE GROUND.
From a Photo, bu Pien'e Pettit, Paria.

A Master of Craft.

By W. W.

XV.

HE Blue Posts, Chelsea, is
an old-time public-house plea¬
santly situated by the river,
with an extensive connection
amongst gentlemen’s servants,
’busmen, and other skilled
judges of good beer, the subtle and delicate
perfume of which liquor pervades the place
from cellar to basement, and has more
than once taken the policeman on duty to
the back door under the impression that
something wanted looking into.

To some men imprisonment in such a
place would have been little short of ecstasy.

In the heat of summer they would have sat
in the cool cellar amid barrels of honest
beer; in winter they would have led the
conversation cosily seated around the tap-
room fire. For physical exercise, profitable
employment at the beer-engine in the bar;

for intellectual exercise, the study of practical
chemistry in the cellar.

To Captain Fred Flower none of these
things appealed. He had visited the cellar
certainly—in search of subterranean exits ;
he had sat in the tap-room -close to the
open window; but his rabid desire to get

Jacobs.

away from the place and never see it again
could not have been surpassed by the most
bitter teetotaler that ever breathed.

His greatest trouble was with Porson,
whose limpet-like qualities were a source of
never - failing concern to the unfortunate
mariner. Did he ascend to the drawing-room
and gaze yearningly from the windows at the
broad stream of Father Thames and the craft
dropping down on the ebb-tide to the sea :
Uncle Porson, sallow of face and unclean of
collar, was there to talk beery romance of the
ocean. Did he retire to the small yard at
the rear of the premises and gaze from the
back door at the passing life of a Chelsea by¬
street, Uncle Porson was looking over his
shoulder, pointing out milkmen with histories,
and cabmen with a past.

The second week of his stay was drawing
to a close before he fully realized the horror
of his position. His foot, which had been
giving him considerable trouble, was getting
much better, though it was by no means well
enough to give him a chance in a footrace
with Mr. Porson or Dick, and as the
family at the Blue
Posts realized the
improvement, the
attentions of his
personal atten¬
dants were re¬
doubled. The key
of his bedroom
door was turned
every night after
he had retired: a
discovery he had
made the first
night after care¬
fully dressing for
flight and spending
an hour over the
composition of a
farewell note to
Miss Tipping.
There was no chance of reaching the roof
from his bedroom window, and the pavement
below offered him his choice between a
wedding and a funeral.

And amid all this the fiction was main¬
tained of preserving him from his lawless
foes and his own inconvenient devotion to

Copyright, 1899, by W. W. Jacobs, in the United States of America.

776

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

duty. A struggle for escape was not to he
thought of, as the full measure of his deceit¬
fulness would transpire in the event of
failure, and the wedding drew nearer day by
day, while his active brain was still casting
about in vain for any means of escape.

“ Next Tuesday,” said Mrs. Tipping to
her step-daughter, as they sat in the much¬
decorated drawing-room one afternoon,
“ you’ll be Mrs. Robinson.”

Miss Tipping, who was sitting next to the
skipper, looked at him languishingly, and
put her head on his shoulder.

“ I can hardly believe it,” she said, coyly.

Flower, who was in the same predicament,
patted her head tenderly, as being easier
than replying.

“And I must say,” said Mrs. Tipping,
regarding the pair, “ I’m a plain woman and
I speak my mind, that if it was me I should
want to know more about him first.”

“ I’m quite satisfied, mar,” said Miss Tip¬
ping, without raising her head.

“ There’s your relations to be satisfied,
Matilda,” said Uncle Porson, in an important
voice.

Miss Tipping raised her head and favoured
the interrupter with a baleful stare, whereupon
Mr. Porson, scratching his neck feebly,
glanced at Mrs. Tipping for support.

“ Our relations needn’t come to see us,”
said his niece, at length. “ He’s marrying
me, not my relations.”

“ He’s making me his uncle, at any rate,”
said Mr. Porson, with a sudden access of
dignity.

“ You don’t mind, Fred, do you ? ” asked
Miss Tipping, anxiously.

“ I’d put up with more than that for your
sake,” said Flower. “ I needn’t tell people.”

“That’s all very fine,” said Mrs. 'Pipping,
taking up the cudgels for the speechless and
glaring victim of these pleasantries, “ but
there’s no mystery about your uncle: every¬
body knows him. He doesn’t disappear just
as he is going to get married and be brought
back in a cab months afterwards. He isn’t
full of secrets he mustn’t tell people who
ought to know.”

“Never kep’ a secret in my life,” agreed
Uncle Porson, whose head was buzzing
under this unaccustomed praise.

“ I know quite enough about Fred,” said
Miss Tipping, tenderly ; “ when I want your
opinion, mar, I’ll ask you for it.”

Mrs. Tipping’s reply was interrupted by
the entrance of a young man from the
jeweller’s with four brooches for Flower to
present to the bridesmaids. Mrs. 'Pipping

had chosen them, and it did not take the
hapless skipper long to arrive at the conclu¬
sion that she was far fonder of bridesmaids
than he was. His stock of money was
beginning to dwindle, and the purchase of
a second wedding suit within a month was
beginning to tell even upon his soaring
spirits.

“There’s another thing about Fred I don’t
quite like,” said Mrs. Tipping, as she sat with
the brooches ranged upon her capacious lap:
“ he’s extravagant. I don’t like a mean man,
but one who flings his money away is almost
as bad. These ’ere brooches are very pretty
and they do him credit, but I can’t say but
what something cheaper wouldn’t ’ave done
as well.”

“ I thought you liked them,” said the in¬
dignant Flower.

“ I like them well enough,” said Mrs. Tip¬
ping, solemnly ; “there’s nothing to dislike in
them. Seems to me they must have cost a
lot of money, that’s all—I suppose I may
make a remark ! ”

Mower changed the subject, and turning
to Miss 'Pipping began to speak in a low
voice of their new home. Miss Tipping
wanted a sort of Eden with bar improve¬
ments, and it was rather difficult to find.

They had discussed the matter before, and
the wily skipper had almost quarrelled with
his bricle-elect over the part of the country
in which they were to live : Miss Tipping
holding out for the east coast, while Flower
hotly championed the south. Mrs. Tipping,
with some emphasis, had suggested leaving it
until after the honeymoon, but a poetic
advertisement of an inn in Essex catching
her daughter’s eye, it was decided that
instant inspection should be made.

They travelled down from Fenchurch
Street, accompanied by Dick and Mrs.
Tipping; the skipper, who was painfully on
the alert for any chance of escape, making a
great fuss of his foot, and confessing to a
feeling of unusual indisposition. He sat in
one corner of the carriage with his eyes half
closed, while Miss 'Pipping, with her arm
affectionately drawn through his, was the
unconscious means of preventing a dash for
liberty as the train steamed slowly through a
station.

The nearest station to the Rose of Essex
was five miles distant, a fact which (owing
perhaps to the expensive nature of newspaper
charges) did not appear in the advertisement.

“ It’s a nice little place,” said the landlady
of the Railway Hotel, as they asked her
opinion over lunch; “there’s a little land

A MASTER OF CRAFT

111

goes with it. If you want to drive over I’d
better be having something got ready.”

Mrs. Tipping, who halved the duties with
Flower, she doing the ordering and he the
paying, assented, and in a short time they were
bowling rapidly along through narrow country
lanes to their destination. The skipper
noticed with pleasure the lonely nature of
the country, and his heart beat fast as he
thought of the chances of success of a little
plan of escape.

So far as appearance went, the inn was
excellent. Roses clustered round the porch
and hung in fragrant bunches from the walls,
while three or four sturdy lime trees in one
corner threw a grateful shade over a rustic
table and settles. Flower, with a grateful
sigh, said that it was the very thing. Even
Mrs. Tipping, after a careful inspection, said
that they might do worse ; Dick, with an air
of professional gravity, devoted most of his
attention to the cellar, while the engaged
couple walked slowly round the immense
garden in the rear exchanging tender whispers.

“ We’ll think it over and let you know,”
said Mrs. Tipping to the landlord.

“ There’s been a lot after it,” said he
slowly, with a glance at his wife.

“ And yet it ain’t gone,” said the business¬
like Mrs. Tipping, pleasantly.

“ I’m going to take it, mar,” said Miss
Tipping, firmly.

Mrs. Tipping sighed at her haste, but find¬
ing her determined went down the cellar
again, accompanied by Dick, for a last look
round. Captain Flower, leaning heavily on
Miss Tipping’s arm, limped slowly to the
carriage.

“ Tired ? ” she inquired, tenderly, as he
sank back in the cushions.

“ Foot’s painful,” he said, with a faint smile.
“ Good gracious ! ”

“ What’s the matter ? ” asked Miss Tipping,
alarmed by his manner.

“I’ve left my pipe in the garden,” said
Flower, rising, “the one you gave me. I
wouldn’t lose it for the world.”

“ I’ll get it,” said Miss Tipping, springing
out of the carriage. “ Whereabouts did you
leave it, do you think ? ”

“ By the bee-hives,” said Flower, pale with
excitement, as he heard Mrs. Tipping and
Dick coming up from the
cellar. “ Make haste, some¬
body might take it.”

Miss Tipping darted into
the house, and immediately
afterwards the Tippings
ascended from the cellar,
attended by the landlady.

“ Driver,” said Flower,
sharply, prodding him.

“ Sir,” said the man, look¬
ing round and tenderly rub¬
bing his back.

“Take that to the lady
who has just gone in, at
once,” gabbled Flower ;
“ hurry up.”

For want of anything
better, he handed the
astonished driver his to¬
bacco-pouch, and waved him
to the house. The lad
descended from his perch
and ran to the door just as
Dick Tipping, giving vent
to a sharp cry, was rushing
out. The cry acted on the
skipper like magic, and,
snatching up the whip, he
gave the horse a cut in
which were concentrated the
fears of the last fortnight and the hopes of
his future lifetime.

The animal sprang forward madly just as
Dick Tipping, who had pushed the driver

778

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

out of the way, rushed out in pursuit. There
was a hard white road in front and it took it
at a gallop, the vehicle rocking from side to
side behind it as Flower played on it with

at once bounded forward with the intention
of getting out of hearing. A gentle incline
favoured the pace, which was now so con¬
siderable that the skipper, seeing another

the whip. Tipping was close behind, and the
driver a good second. Flower, leaving the
horse to take care of itself for a time, stood
upright in the carriage and hurled cushions
at his foremost pursuer. The third cushion
was long and limp, and, falling on end in
front of him, twined itself round his swift-
moving legs and brought him heavily to the
ground.

“ He’s winded,” said Flower, as he saw the
coachman stop and help the other man
slowly to his feet; “ shows what a cushion
can do.”

He clambered on to the seat, as a bend in
the road shut the others from his sight, and
gathering up the reins gave himself over to
the joyous feeling of his new-found liberty
as they rushed through the air. His ideas
of driving were elementary, and his mode of
turning corners was to turn them quickly and
get it over; but he drove on for miles with¬
out mishap, and, the horse having dropped
to a steady trot, began to consider his future
movements.

“ They’ll be setting the wires to work,
I expect,” he thought, soberly. “ What a
comfortable old world this must have been
before they invented steam and telegraph.
I’ll go a little bit farther, and then tie it up
to a tree.”

He made what he considered an endearing
noise with his mouth, and the startled animal

craft approaching him, waved his hand
towards it warningly.

“ I wonder who ought to get out of the
way ? ” he said, thoughtfully. “ I ’spose the
horse knows.”

He left it to that able quadruped, after
giving it a little bang on the flank with the
butt-end of the whip to keep its faculties
fresh. There was a frenzied shout from the
other vehicle, a sudden violent stoppage,
with the crashing of wood, and Flower
crawling out of the ditch watched with some
admiration the strenuous efforts of his noble
beast to take the carriage along on three
wheels.

“ Look what you’ve done,” roared the
driver of the other vehicle, foaming with
passion as he jumped out and held his
plunging horse by the head. “ Look at my
gig, sir ! Look at it!”

Flower looked, and then returned the
courtesy. “ Look at mine,” he said, impres¬
sively ; “mine’s much the worst.”

“ You were the wrong side of the road,”
shouted the other.

“I was there first,” said Flower; “it
wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried
to get out of my way. The course I was on
I should have passed you easily.”

He looked up the road. His horse,
trembling violently, was standing still, with
the wreck of the carriage behind it. He

A MASTER OF CRAFT

779

stooped mechanically, and picking up the
whip which was lying in the road said that
he would go off for assistance.

“ You stay here, sir,” said the other man,
with an oath.

“ I won’t,” said the skipper.

His adversary made no reply, but, having
by this time soothed his frightened horse,
took his whip out of its socket and strode
towards him with the butt raised over his
head. Flower arranged his own whip the
same way, and both men being new to the
weapon circled round each other two or three
times waiting for a little instruction. Then
the owner of the gig, whose temper was rising
every second, ran in and dealt the skipper a
heavy blow on the head.

The blow dispelled an idea which was
slowly forming there of asking the extent of
the damage, and, if it were not too much,
offering to make it good. Ideas of settlement
vanished ; ideas of honour, morality, and even
escape vanished too : all merged in the one
fixed idea of giving the other man a harder
blow than he had given.

For a minute or two the battle raged fairly
equally; both were securing a fair amount of
punishment. Then under a heavy blow from
blower his foe went down suddenly. For
a second or two the skipper held his breath
with fear, then the other man raised himself
feebly on his knees, and, throwing away his
whip, staggered to his feet, and, unfastening
the reins, clambered unsteadily into his gig
and drove off without a word.

The victorious skipper looked up and
down the lonely road, and, shaking his head
sadly at the noble steed which had brought
him into this mess, tenderly felt his bruised
and aching head, and then set off as fast as
his foot would permit up the road.

He looked about eagerly as he went for
a place of concealment, fully aware of the
inability of a lame shipmaster to outdistance
horseflesh. Hedges and fields bounded both
sides of the road, but half a mile farther
along, on the right-hand side, the field
stretched away upwards to meet a wood.
Towards this wood Captain Flower, having
first squeezed himself through a gap in the
hedge, progressed with all speed.

He sat on the trunk of a fallen pine to
regain his breath, and eagerly looked about
him. To his disappointment he saw that the
wood was of no great depth, but was a mere
belt of pines running almost parallel with
the road he had quitted. With the single idea
of getting as far away from the scene of his
crime as possible, he began to walk through it.

The wood was very still, and the shade
grateful after the heat of the sun. Just
beyond the fields were shimmering in the
heat, and he pricked up his ears as the
unmistakable sound of wheels and hoofs
came across the silent fields. He looked
round wildly, and seeing a tiny cottage
standing in a bit of a clearing, made towards
it.

A little old man, twisted with rheumatism,
rose as he stood at the open door and
regarded him with a pair of bloodshot but
sharp old eyes, while an old woman sitting
in a windsor-chair looked up anxiously.

“ Can I come in ? ” asked Flower.

“ Aye,” said the old man, standing aside to
let him pass.

“ Hot day,” said the skipper, taking a seat.

“ No, ’taint,” said the old man.

“Not so hot as yesterday,” said Flower,
with a conciliatory smile.

“It’s ’otter than it was yesterday,” said the
old man. “ What ha’ you done to your
face ? ”

“ I was climbing a tree,” said Flower, with
a laugh, “and I fell down ; I’ve hurt my foot
too.”

“Served you right if you’d broke your
neck,” said his amiable host, “ climbing trees
at your time o’ life.”

“Nice cottage you’ve got here,” said the
persistent Flower.

“ I wish you ’ad to live in it,” said the old
man.

He took a proffered cigar, and after eyeing
it for some time, like a young carver with a
new joint, took out a huge clasp-knife and
slowly sawed the end off.

“ Can I sleep here for the night ? ” asked
Flower, at length.

“No, you can’t,” said the old man, draw¬
ing at his cigar.

He smoked on, with the air of a man
who has just given a very clever answer to a
very difficult question.

“We ain’t on’ygot one room besides this,”
said the old woman, solemnly. “Years ago
we used to have four and a wash-place.”

“ Oh, I could sleep on the floor here,” said
Flower, lightly. “ I’ll pay you five shillings.”

“ Let’s see your money,” said the old man,
leaning forward.

Flower put the sum in his hand. “ I’ll
pay now,” he said, heartily.

“The floor won’t run away,” said the other,
pulling out an old leathern purse,' “and you
can sleep on any part of it you like.”

Flower thanked him effusively. He was
listening intently for any sounds outside. If

780

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

the Tippings and the man in the gig met
they would scour the country-side, and almost
certainly pay the cottage a visit.

“ If you let me go upstairs and lie down
for an hour or two,” he said, turning to the
old man, “ IT1 give you another half-crown.”

“ i’ll give you another half-crown.'

The old man said nothing, but held out
his hand, and after receiving the sum got up
slowly, and, opening a door by the fire-place,
revealed a few broken stairs, which he slowly
ascended, after beckoning his guest to follow.

u It’s a small place,” he said, tersely, “ but
I daresay you’ve often slept in a worse.”

Flower made no reply. He was looking
from the tiny casement. 'Through an opening
in the trees he saw a couple of figures crossing
the field towards the wood.

“ If anybody asks you whether you have
seen me, say no,” he said, rapidly, to the old
man. “I’ve got into a bit of a mess, and if
you hide me here until it has blown over I’ll
make it worth your while,”

“ How much ? ” said the old man.

Flower hesitated. “ Five pounds for
certain,” he said, hastily, “ and more if you’re
put to much trouble. Run down and stop
your wife’s mouth quietly.”

“ Don’t order me about,” said the old
man, slowly; “ I ain’t said I’ll do it yet.”

“They’re coming now,” said Flower,
impatiently; “ mind, if they catch me you
lose your five pounds.”

“All right,” said the other. “I’m doing
it for the five pounds, mind, not for you,”
added this excellent man.

He went grunting and groaning down the
narrow stairs, and the skipper, closing the
door, went and crouched down by the open
casement. A few indistinct words were
borne in on the still air, and voices
came gradually closer, until footsteps,
which had been deadened by the
grass, became sud¬
denly audible on
the stones outside
the cottage.

Flower held his
breath with anxiety;
then he smiled softly
and pleasantly as he
listened to the terms
in which his some¬
what difficult host
was addressed.

“Now, gaffer,”
said the man of the
gig, roughly.

“Wake up, grand¬
pa,” said Dick Tip¬
ping ; “ have you

seen a man go by
here ? — blue serge
suit, moustache,
face and head

knocked about ? ”

“ No, I ain’t seen ’im,” was the reply.
“ What’s he done ? ”

'Tipping told him briefly. “ We’ll have

him,” he said, savagely. “ We’ve got a
mounted policeman on the job, besides

others. If you can catch him it’s worth half
a sov. to you.”

He went off hurriedly with the other man,
and their voices died away in the distance.
Flower sat in his place on the floor for some
time, and then, seeing from the window
that the coast was clear, went downstairs
again.

The old woman made him up a bed on
the floor after supper, although both he and
the old man assured her that it was unneces¬
sary, and then taking the lamp bade him
good-night and went upstairs.

Flower, left to himself, rolled exultingly on
his poor couch, and for the first time in a
fortnight breathed freely.

“If I do get into trouble,” he mur¬
mured, complacently, “ I generally manage
to get out of it. It wants a good head
in the first place, and a cool one in the
second.”

A MASTER OF CRAFT

781

XVI.

He was awake early in the morning, and,
opening the door, stood delightedly breathing
the fresh, pine-scented air.

The atmosphere of the Blue Posts was
already half forgotten, and he stood looking
dreamily forward to the time when he might
reasonably return to life and Poppy. He
took a few steps into the wood and, after
feeling for his pipe before he remembered
that Miss Tipping was probably keeping it
as a souvenir, sat on a freshly-cut log and
fell into a sentimental reverie, until the
appearance of the restless old man at the door
of the cottage took him back to breakfast.

“ I thought you’d run off,” said his host,
tartly.

I THOUGHT YOU D RUN OFF, SAID HIS HOST.

“ You thought wrong then,” said Flower,
sharply, as he took out his purse. “ Here
are two of the five pounds I promised you;
I’ll give you the rest when I go.”

The old man took the money and closed
his small, hard mouth until the lips almost
disappeared. “ More money than sense,”
he remarked, cordially, as the skipper
replaced his purse.

Flower made no reply. Some slices of fat
bacon were sizzling in a pan over the wood-

fire, and the pungent smell of the woods,
mixed with the sharpness of the morning air,
gave him an appetite to which, since his
enforced idleness, he had been a stranger.
He drew his chair up to the rickety little
table with its covering of frayed oil-cloth,
and, breaking a couple of eggs over his
bacon, set to eagerly.

“ Don’t get eggs like these in London,” he
said to the old woman.

The old woman leaned over and, inspect¬
ing the shells, paid a tribute to the hens who
were responsible for them, and traced back
a genealogy which would have baffled the
entire College of Heralds — a genealogy
hotly contested by the old man, who claimed
a bar sinister through three eggs, bought at
the village shop some genera¬
tions before.

“You’ve got a nice little
place here,” said Flower, by
way of changing the conver¬
sation, which was well on
the way to becoming per¬
sonal ; “ but don’t you
find it rather dull
sometimes ? ”

“Well, I don’t know,”
said the old woman.
“ I finds plenty to do,
and ’e potters about
like. ’E don’t do much,
but it pleases ’im and
it don’t hurt me.”

The object of these
compliments took them
as a matter of course, and after hunting
up the stump of last nighf’s cigar, and shred¬
ding it with his knife, crammed it into a,clay
pipe, and smoked tranquilly. Flower found a
solitary cigar, one of the Blue Posts’ best,
and with a gaze which wandered idly from
the chest of drawers on one side of the room
to the old china dogs on the little mantel¬
shelf on the other, smoked in silence.

The old man brought in news at dinner¬
time. The village was ringing with the news
of yesterday’s affair, and a rigorous search,
fanned into excitement by an offer of two
pounds reward, was taking the place of the
more prosaic labours of the country-side.

“ If it wasn’t for me,” said the old man in
an excess of self-laudation, “ you’d be put in
the gaol—w’here you ought to be ; but I
wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t for the five pounds.
You’d better keep close in the house. There’s
some more of ’em in the wood looking for
you.”

Captain Flower took his advice, and for the

7 8?

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

next two days became a voluntary prisoner.
On the third day the old man reported that
public excitement about him was dying
out, owing partly to the fact that it thought
the villain must have made his escape good,
and partly to the fact that the landlord of
the Wheatsheaf had been sitting at his front
door shooting at snakes on the King’s High¬
way invisible to ordinary folk.

The skipper resolved to make a start on
the following evening, walking the first night
so as to get out of the dangerous zone, and
then training to London. At the prospect
his spirits rose, and in a convivial mood he
purchased a bottle of red currant wine from
the old woman at supper, and handed it
round.

He was still cheerful next morning as he
arose and began to dress. Then he paused,
and in a somewhat anxious fashion patted
his trouser pockets. Minute and painful
investigation revealed a bunch of keys and a
clasp-knife.

He tried his other pockets and then, sink¬
ing in a dazed fashion into a chair, tried to
think what had become of his purse and
loose change. His watch, a silver one, was
under his pillow where he had placed it the
night before, and his ready cash was repre¬
sented by the shilling which hung upon the
chain.

He completed his dressing slowly while
walking about the room, looking into all sorts
of likely and unlikely hiding-places for his
money, and at length gave up the search in
disgust, and sat down to wait until such time
as his host should appear. It was a compli¬
cation for which he had not bargained,
and unable to endure the suspense any
longer, he put his head up the stairway and
bawled to the old man to come down.

“ What’s the matter now ? ” demanded the
old man as he came downstairs, preceded by
his wife. “One would think the place belonged
to you, making all that noise.”

“ I’ve lost my purse,” said Flower, regard¬
ing him sternly; “my purse has been taken
out of one pocket and some silver out of the
other while I was asleep.”

The old man raised his eyebrows at his
wife and scratched his chin roughly.

“I s’pose you’ve lost my three pounds
along with it ? ” he said, raspily.

“ Where’s my purse ? ” demanded the
skipper, roughly; “ don’t play the fool with
me. It won’t pay.”

“ I don’t know nothing about your purse,”
said the other, regarding him closely with his
little, bloodshot eyes; “you’re trying to do

me out o’ my three pounds—me what’s took
you in and ’id you.”

The incensed skipper made no reply, but,
passing upstairs, turned the bedroom topsy¬
turvy in a wild search for his property. It
was unsuccessful, and he came down with a
look in his face which made his respected
host get close to his wife.

“Are you going to give me my money?”
demanded he, striding up to him.

“ I?ve not got your money,” snarled the
other; “ I’m an honest man.”

He started back in alarm, and his wife
gave a faint scream, as Flower caught him by
the collar, and, holding him against the wall,
went through his pockets.

‘ Don’t hurt ’im,” cried the old woman ;
“ he’s on’y a little old man.”

“ If you were younger and bigger,” said
the infuriated skipper, as he gave up the
fruitless search, “ I'd thrash you till you save
it up.”

“I’m an honest man,” said the other,
recovering himself as he saw that his adver¬
sary intended no violence; “if you think I’ve
stole your money, you know what you can
do.”

“ What ? ” demanded Flower.

“Go to the police,” said the old man, his
little slit of a mouth twisted into a baleful
grin ; “ if you think I’ve stole your money, go
and tell the police.”

“ Let ’em come and search the house,”
said the old woman, plucking up spirit.

“ I’ve been married forty-two years and
’ad seven children. Go and fetch the
police.”

Flower stared at them in wrathful concern.

I hreats were of no use, and violence was
out of the question. He went to the door,
and, leaning against it, stood there deep in
thought until, after a time, the old woman,
taking courage from his silence, began to
prepare breakfast. Then he turned, and
drawing his chair up to the table, ate
silently.

He preserved this silence all day despite
the occasional suggestion of the old man
that he should go for the police, and the
aggrieved refrain of the old woman as to the
length of her married life and the number of
her offspring.

He left at night without a word. The old
man smiled almost amiably to see him go;
and the old woman, who had been in a state
of nervous trepidation all day, glanced at
her husband with a look in which wifely
devotion and admiration were almost equally
blended.

A MASTER OF CRAFT.

783

Flower passed slowly through the wood,
and after pausing to make sure that he
was not followed, struck across the fields,
and, with his sailor’s knowledge of the
stars, steered by them in the direction of
London.

He walked all that night unmolested, his
foot giving him but little trouble, and passed
the following day under a haystack, assuaging
his hunger with some bread and cheese he
had put in his pocket.

Travelling by night and sleeping in
secluded spots by day, he reached the City

steps to labourers’ dinners in tin cans and
red handkerchiefs.

At Stratford he pawned his watch and
chain and sat down to a lengthy meal, and
then, with nearly eighteen shillings in his
pocket, took train to Liverpool Street. The
roar of the City greeted his ears like music,
and, investing in a pipe and tobacco, he got
on a ’bus bound eastward, and securing
cheap apartments in the Mile End Road, sat
down to consider his plans. The prompt
appearance of the Tipping family after his
letter to Fraser had given him a wholesome

in three days. Considering that he had no
money, and was afraid to go into a town to
pawn his watch, he did not suffer so much
from hunger as might have been expected—
something which he vaguely referred to as
Providence, but for which the sufferers found
other terms, twice leading his faltering foot-

dread of the post, and until the connection
between the two was satisfactorily explained
he would not risk another, even in his new
name of Thompson. Having come to this
decision he had another supper, and then
went upstairs to the unwonted luxury of a
bed.

( To be continued.)

f.' ^ Ux

jt

THE Cj^^S

AND T*HE ^CCj^TRIOL

A Story for Children.
By E. Nesbit.

DAI UN I) was a boy. The
people who did not like him
said that he was the most
tiresome boy that ever lived,
but his grandmother and his
other friends said he had an
inquiring mind. And his granny often
added that he was the best of boys. But
she was very kind and very old.

Edmund loved to find out about things.
Perhaps you will think that in that case he
was constant in his attendance at school,
since there, if anywhere, we may learn what¬
ever there is to be learned. But Edmund
did not want to learn things : he wanted to
find things out, which is quite different.
His inquiring mind led him to take clocks
to pieces to see what made them go, to take
locks off doors to see what made them stick.
It was Edmund who cut open the india-
rubber ball to see what made it bounce,
and he never did see, any more than you
did when you tried the same experiment.

Edmund lived with his grandmother. She
loved him very much—in spite of his in¬

quiring mind, and hardly scolded him at all
when he frizzled up her tortoiseshell comb in
his anxiety to find out whether it was made
of real tortoiseshell or of something that
would burn. Edmund went to school, .of
course, now and then, and sometimes he
could not prevent himself from learning
something, but he never did it on purpose.

“It is such waste of time,” said he ; “they
only know what everybody knows. I want
to find out new things that nobody has
thought of but me.”

“I don’t think you’re likely to find out
anything that none of the wise men in the
whole world have thought of all these thou¬
sands of years,” said granny.

But Edmund did not agree with her. He
played truant whenever he could, for he was
a kind-hearted boy, and could not bear to
think of a master’s time and labour being
thrown away on a boy like himself, who did
not wish to learn, only to find out—when
there were so many worthy lads thirsting for
instruction in geography and history, and read¬
ing and ciphering, and Mr. Smiles’s Self-Help.

KIND LITTLE EDMUND .

785

Other boys played truant too, of course—
and these went nutting or blackberrying or
wild-plum gathering, but Edmund never
went on the side of the town where the
green woods and hedges grew. He always
went up the mountain where the great rocks
were, and the tall, dark pine trees, and where
other people were afraid to go because of the
strange noises that came out of the caves.

Edmund was not afraid of these noises—
though they were very strange and terrible.
He wanted to find out what made them.
And one day he did. He had invented, all
by himself, a very ingenious and new kind of
lantern, made with a turnip and a tumbler,
and when he had taken the candle out of
granny’s bedroom candlestick to put in it, it
gave quite a splendid light.

He had to go to school next day, and he
was caned for being absent without leave—
although he very straightforwardly explained
that he had been too busy making the
lantern to have time to come to school.

But the day after he got up very early,
and took the lunch granny had got ready
for him to take to school—two boiled eggs
and an apple turnover—and he took his
lantern and went off as straight as a dart to
the mountains to explore the caves.

The caves were very dark, but his lantern
lighted them up beautifully ; and they were
most interesting caves, with stalactites and
stalagmites and fossils, and all the things
you read about in the instructive books for
the young. But Edmund did not care for
any of these things just then. He wanted to
find out what made the noises that people
were afraid of, and there was nothing in the
caves to tell him.

Presently he sat down in the biggest cave
and listened very carefully, and it seemed to
him that he could distinguish three different
sorts of noises. There was a heavy, rumbling
sound, like a very large old gentleman asleep
after dinner; and there was a smaller sort of
rumble going on at the same time, and there
was a sort of crowing, clucking sound, such
as a chicken might make if it happened to
be as big as a haystack.

“ It seems to me,” said Edmund to himself,
“that the clucking is nearer than the others.”
So he started up again and explored the
caves once more. He found out nothing,
only, about half-way up the wall of the cave,
he saw a hole. And, being a boy, he climbed
up to it and crept in; and it was the entrance
to a rocky passage. And now the clucking
sounded more plainly than before, and he
could hardly hear the rumbling at all.

Vol. xviii.—99.

“I am going to find out something at
last,” said Edmund, and on he went. The
passage wound and twisted, and twisted and
turned, and turned and wound—but Edmund
kept on.

“ My lantern’s burning better and better,”
said he presently, but the next minute he
saw that all the light did not come from his
lantern. It was a pale yellow light, and it
shone down the passage far ahead of him
through what looked like the chink of a door.

“ I expect it’s the fire in the middle of the
earth,” said Edmund, who had not been able
to help learning about that at school.

But quite suddenly the fire ahead gave a
pale flicker and went down—and the clucking
ceased.

The next moment Edmund turned a corner
and found himself in front of a rocky door.
The door was ajar. He went in, and there
was a round cave, like the dome of St. Paul’s.
In the middle of the cave was a hole like a
very big wash-hand basin, and in the middle
of the basin Edmund saw a large pale person
sitting. This person had a man’s face and
a griffin’s body, and big, feathery wings, and
a snake’s tail, and a cock’s comb and neck-
feathers.

“ Whatever are you ? ” said Edmund.

“ I’m a poor starving cockatrice,” answered
the pale person, in a very faint voice, “ and
I shall die—oh, I know I shall! My fire’s
gone out ! I can’t think how it happened ; I
must have been asleep. I have to stir it seven
times round with my tail once in a hundred
years to keep it alight, and my watch must
have been wrong. And now I shall die.”

I think I have said before what a kind-
hearted boy Edmund was.

“ Cheer up,” said he. “ I’ll light your fire
for you,” and off he went, and in a few
minutes he came back with a great armful of
sticks from the pine trees outside, and with
these and a lesson book or two that he had
forgotten to lose before, and which, quite by
an oversight, were safe in his pocket, he
lighted a fire all round the cockatrice. The
wood blazed up, and presently something in
the basin caught fire, and Edmund saw that it
was a sort of liquid that burned like the brandy
in a snapdragon. And now the cockatrice
stirred it with his tail, and flapped his wings
in it, so that some of it splashed out on
Edmund’s hand and burnt it rather badly.
But the cockatrice grew red and strong and
happy, and its comb grew scarlet, its feathers
glossy, and it lifted itself up and crowed,
“ Cock-a-trice-a-doodle-doo ! ” very loudly
and clearly.

786

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

'/*/*#•

'A'‘/y ■ 'v?

“cock a-trice-a-doodle-doo.”

Edmund’s kindly nature was charmed to
see the cockatrice so much improved in
health, and he said :—

“ Don’t mention it ; delighted, I’m
sure,” when the cockatrice began to thank
him.

“But what can I do for you? ” said the
creature.

“Tell me stories,” said Edmund.

“ What about ? ” said the cockatrice.

“ About true things that they don’t know
at school,” said Edmund.

So the cockatrice began, and it told him
about mines and treasures, and geological
formations, and about gnomes and fairies and
dragons, and glaciers and the stone age, and
the beginning of the world, and about the
unicorn and the phoenix, and about Magic,
black and white.

And Edmund ate his eggs and his turn¬
over, and listened. And when he got hungry
again he said good-bye and went home.
But he came again next day for more stories,
and the next day, and the next, for a long
time.

He told the boys at school about the
cockatrice and its wonderful true, tales, and
the boys liked the stories; but when he told
the master he was caned for untruthfulness.

“But it’s true,” said Edmund ; “ just you
look where the fire burnt my hand.”

“ I see you’ve been playing with fire—in

mischief as usual,” said the master, and he
caned Edmund harder than ever. The
master was ignorant and unbelieving: but I
am told that some schoolmasters are not like
that.

Now, one day Edmund made a new lantern
out of something chemical which he sneaked
from the school laboratory. And with it he
went exploring again to see if he could find
the things that made the other sorts of noises.
And in quite another part of the mountain
he found a dark passage, all lined with brass,
so that it was like the inside of a huge
telescope, and at the very end of it he found
a bright green door. There was a brass
plate on the door which said : “ Mrs. I).
knock and ring,” and a white label which said:
“ Call me at three.” Edmund had a watch :
it had been given to him on his birthday two
days before, and he had not yet had time to
take it to pieces and see what made it go,
so it was still going. He looked at it now.
It said :—

“ A quarter to three.”

Did I tell you before what a kind-hearted
boy Edmund was ? He sat down on the
brass door-step and waited till three o’clock.
Then he knocked and rang, and there was a
rattling and puffing inside. The great door
flew open, and Edmund had only just time
to hide behind it when out came an immense
yellow dragon and wriggled off down the

KIND LITTLE EDMUND.

787

brass cave like a long, rattling worm—or
perhaps more like a monstrous centipede.

Edmund crept slowly out, and saw the
dragon stretching herself on the rocks in the
sun, and he crept past the great creature and
tore down the hill into the town and burst
into school, crying out :—

“ There's a great dragon coming ! Some¬
body ought to do something, or we shall all
be destroyed.”

He was caned for untruthful ness without
any delay. His master was never one for
postponing a duty.

“ But it's true” said Edmund ; “ you just
see if it isn’t.”

He pointed out of the window, and every¬
one could see a vast yellow cloud rising up
into the air above the mountain.

“ It’s only a thunder-shower,” said the
master, and caned Edmund more than ever.
This master was not like some masters I
know : he was very obstinate, and would not
believe his own eyes if they told him any¬
thing different to what he had been saying

the cockatrice, and ask for its help. It never
occurred to him that the cockatrice might not
believe him. You see, he had heard so many
wonderful tales from it and had believed them
all—and when you believe all a person’s stories
they ought to believe yours. This is only fair.

At the mouth of the cockatrice’s cave
Edmund stopped, very much out of breath,
to look back at the town. As he ran he had
felt his little legs tremble and shake, while
the shadows of the great yellow cloud fell
upon him. Now he stood once more between
warm earth and blue sky, and looked down
on the green plain, dotted with fruit trees
and red-roofed farms and plots of gold corn.
In the middle of that plain the grey town lay,
with its strong walls, with the holes pierced
for the archers, and its square towers with
holes in for dropping melted lead on the
heads of strangers, its bridges, and its
steeples, the quiet river edged with willow
and alder, and the pleasant green garden-
place in the middle of the town, where people
sat on holidays to smoke their pipes and
listen to the band.

Edmund saw it all; and he
saw, too, creeping across the
plain, marking her way by a
black line, as everything with¬
ered at her touch, the great
llow dragon—
that
times
the

before his eyes
spoke.

So while the
master was writ-
ing, “Lying is
very wrong, and fc

liars must be
caned. It is all
for their own
good,” on the black-bo;
for Edmund to copy out
seven hundred tim
Edmund sneaked out
school, and ran for his
across the town to warn
granny, but she was not
home. So then he made
by the back door of the tow
and raced up the hill to tell

CREEPING ACROSS THE PLAIN.

788

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

“ Ob, my poor, dear granny,” said Edmund,
for he had a feeling heart, as I ought to have
told you before.

The yellow dragon crept nearer and nearer,
licking her greedy lips with her long, red
tongue, and Edmund knew that in the school
his master was still teaching earnestly, and
still not believing Edmund’s tale the least
little bit.

“ He’ll jolly well have to believe it soon,
anyhow,” said Edmund to himself—and
though he was a very tender-hearted boy—I
think it only fair to tell you that he was this
—I am afraid he was not so sorry as he
ought to have been to think of the way in
which his master was going to learn how to
believe what Edmund said. Then the dragon
opened her jaws wider and wider and wider.
Edmund shut his eyes close, for though his
master was in the town, yet the amiable
Edmund shrank from beholding the awful
sight.

When he opened his eyes again there was
no town—only a bare place where it had
stood, and the dragon licking her lips and
curling herself up to go to sleep, just as
pussy does when she has quite finished with
a mouse. Edmund gasped once or twice,
and then ran into the cave to tell the
cockatrice.

“Well,” said the cockatrice, thoughtfully,
when the tale had been told, “ what then ? ”

“ I don’t think you quite understand,” said
Edmund, gently; “ the dragon has swallowed
up the town.”

“ Does it matter? ” said the cockatrice.

“But I live there,” said Edmund,
blankly.

“ Never mind,” said the cockatrice, turn¬
ing over in the pool of fire to warm its other
side, which was chilly, because Edmund had,
as usual, forgotten to close the cave door,
“ you can live here with me.”

“ I’m afraid I haven’t made my meaning
clear,” said Edmund, patiently. “ You see,
my granny is in the town, and I can’t bear
to lose my granny like this.”

“ I don’t know what a granny may be,”
said the cockatrice, who seemed to be grow¬
ing weary of the subject; “ but if it’s a
possession to which you attach any import-

“ Of course it is,” said Edmund, losing
patience at last. “ Oh—do help me. What
can I do ? ”

“ If I were you,” said his friend, stretching
itself out in the pool of flame so that the
waves covered it up to the chin, “ I should
find the drakling and bring it here.”

“ But why ? ” said Edmund. He had got
into the habit of asking why at school, and
the master had always found it trying. As
for the cockatrice, it was not going to stand
that sort of thing for a moment.

“ Oh, don’t talk to me ! ” it said, splashing
angrily in the flames. “ I give you advice ;
take it or leave it—I sha’n’t bother about
you any more. If you bring the drakling
here to me, I’ll tell you what to do next.
If not, not.”

And the cockatrice drew the fire up close
round it shoulders, tucked itself up in it, and
went to sleep.

Now this was exactly the right way to
manage Edmund, only no one had ever
thought of trying to do it before.

He stood for a moment looking at the
cockatrice; it looked at him out of the
corner of its eye, and began to snore very
loud, and Edmund understood, once and for
all, that it wasn’t going to put up with any
nonsense. He respected the cockatrice very
much from that moment, and set off at once
to do exactly as he was told—for perhaps the
first time in his life.

Though he had played truant so often, he
knew one or two things that perhaps you
don’t know, though you have always been so
good and gone to school regularly. For
instance, he knew that a drakling is a
dragon’s baby, and he felt sure that what he
had to do was to find the third of the three
noises that people used to hear coming from
the mountains. Of course, the clucking had
been the cockatrice, and the big noise like a
large gentleman asleep after dinner had been
the big dragon. So the smaller rumbling
must have been the drakling.

He plunged boldly into the caves, and
searched and wandered and wandered and
searched, and at last he came to a third door
in the mountain, and on it was written,

“ The baby is asleep.” Just before the door
stood fifty pairs of copper shoes, and no one
could have looked at them for a moment
without seeing what sort of feet they were
made for, for each shoe had five holes in it
for the drakling’s five claws. And there were
fifty pairs, because the drakling took after his
mother, and had a hundred feet—no more
and no less. He was the kind called
Draco centipedis in the learned books.

Edmund was a good deal frightened, but
he remembered the grim expression of the
cockatrice’s eye, and the fixed determination
of its snore still rang in his ears, in spite of
the snoring of the drakling, which was, in
itself, considerable. He screwed up his

KIND LITTLE EDMUND.

789

courage, flung the door open, and called
out:—

“ Halloa, you drakling. Get out of bed
this minute.”

The drakling stopped snoring and said,
sleepily, “ It ain’t time yet.”

“Your mother says you are to, anyhow;
and look sharp about it, what’s more,” said
Edmund, gaining courage from the fact that
the drakling had not yet eaten him.

The drakling sighed, and Edmund could
hear it getting out of bed. The next moment
it began to come out of its room and to put
on its shoes. It was not nearly so big as its
mother; only about the size of a Baptist
chapel.

“ Hurry up,” said Edmund, as it fumbled
clumsily with the seventeenth shoe.

“ Mother said I was never to go out with¬
out my shoes,” said the drakling; so Edmund
had to help it to put them on. It took
some time, and was not a comfortable
occupation.

At last the drakling said it was ready, and
Edmund, who had forgotten to be frightened,
said, “ Come on then,” and they
went back to the cockatrice.

The cave was rather narrow for
the drakling, but it made itself
thin, as you may see a fat worm
do when it wants to get through a
narrow crack in a piece of hard
earth.

“Here it is,” said Edmund, and
the cockatrice woke up at once
and asked the drakling very politely
to sit down and wait. “Your
mother will be here presently,”
said the cockatrice, stirring up its
fire.

The drakling sat down and
waited, but it watched the lire with
hungry eyes.

“ I beg your pardon,” it said
at last, “but I am always accus¬
tomed to have a little basin of
fire directly I get up, and I feel
rather faint. M^ght I ? ”

It reached out a claw towards
the cockatrice’s basin.

“Certainly not,” said the
cockatrice, sharply; “ where were
you brought up ? Did they never
teach you that ‘ we must not ask
for all we see ’ ? Eh ? ”

“ I beg your pardon,” said the
drakling, humbly; “ but I am really
very hungry.”

The cockatrice beckoned Edmund

to the side of the basin, and whispered in his
ear so long and so earnestly that one side of
the dear boy’s hair was quite burnt off. And
he never once interrupted the cockatrice to
ask why. But when the whispering was over,
Edmund—whose heart, as I may have men¬
tioned, was very tender—said to the drak-
ling

“ If you are really hungry, poor thing, I
can show you where there is plenty of fire.”
And off he went through the caves, and the
drakling followed.

When Edmund came to the proper place
he stopped.

There was a round iron thing in the floor,
like the ones the men shoot the coals down
into your cellar, only much larger. Edmund
heaved it up by a hook that stuck out at one
side, and a rush of hot air came up that
nearly choked him. But the drakling came
close, and looked down with one eye, and
sniffed, and said :—

“ That smells good, eh ? ”

“ Yes,” said Edmund; “ well, that’s the
fire in the middle of the earth. There’s

‘ THAT SMELLS GOOD, EH i

7 Q 0

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

plenty of it, all done to a turn. You’d better
go down and begin your breakfast, hadn’t
you ? ”

So the drakling wriggled through the hole,
and began to crawl faster and faster down
the slanting shaft that leads to the fire in the
middle of the earth. And Edmund, doing
exactly as he had been told, for a wonder,
caught the end of the drakling’s tail, and ran
the iron hook through it, so that the drakling
was held fast. And it could not turn round
and wriggle up again to look after its poor
tail, because, as everyone knows, the way to
the fires below is very easy to go down, but
quite impossible to come back on. There is
something about it in Latin, beginning:

4 i Facilis descensus. ”

So there was the drakling, fast by the silly
tail of it, and there was Edmund very busy
and important, and very pleased with himself,
hurrying back to the cockatrice.

“ Now,” said he.

“Well, now,” said it, “go to the mouth of
the cave and laugh at the dragon so that she
hears you.”

Edmund very nearly said, “ Why ? ” but he
stopped in time, and instead, said :—

“ She won’t hear me-”

“ Oh, very well,” said the cockatrice, “ no
doubt you know best,” and it began to tuck
itself up again in the fire, so Edmund did as
he was bid.

And when he began to laugh his laughter
echoed in the mouth of the cave till it
sounded like the laughter of a whole castleful
of giants.

And the dragon, lying asleep in the sun,
woke up and said, very crossly :—

“ What are you laughing at ? ”

“ At you,” said Edmund, and went on
laughing. The dragon bore it as long as she
could, but, like everyone else, she couldn’t
stand being made fun of—so presently she
dragged herself up the mountain very slowly,
because she had just had a rather heavy
meal, and stood outside, and said, “ What
are you laughing at ? ” in a voice that made
Edmund feel as if he should never laugh
again.

Then the good cockatrice called out:—

“ At you ! You’ve eaten your own drak¬
ling—swallowed it with the town. Your
own little drakling ! He, he, he ! Ha, ha,
ha! ”

And Edmund found courage to cry “ Ha,
ha ! ” which sounded like tremendous laughter
in the echo of the cave.

“ Dear me,” said the dragon. “ I thought
the town stuck in my throat rather. I must

take it out, and look through it more care¬
fully.” And with that he coughed—and
choked—and there was the town on the hill¬
side.

Edmund had run back to the cockatrice,
and it had told him what to do. So before
the dragon had time to look through the
town again for her drakling, the voice of the
drakling itself was heard howling miserably
from inside the mountain, because Edmund
was pinching its tail as hard as he could in
the round iron door, like the one where the
men pour the coals out of the sacks into the
cellar. And the dragon heard the voice and
said:—

“ Why, whatever’s the matter with baby ?
He’s not here ! ” and made itself thin, and
crept into the mountain to find its drakling.
The cockatrice kept on laughing as loud as it
could, and Edmund kept on pinching, and
presently the great dragon—very long and
narrow she had made herself—found her
head where the round hole was with the iron
lid. Her tail was a mile or two off—outside
the mountain. When Edmund heard her
coming he gave one last nip to the drakling’s
tail, and then heaved up the lid and stood
behind it, so that the dragon could not see
him. Then he loosed the drakling’s tail from
the hook, and the dragon peeped down the
hole just in time to see her drakling’s tail dis¬
appear down the smooth, slanting shaft with
one last squeak of pain. Whatever may have
been the poor dragon’s other faults, she was
an excellent mother. She plunged head first
into the hole, and slid down the shaft after
her baby. Edmund watched her head go—
and then the rest of her. She was so long,
now she had stretched herself thin, that it
took all night. It was like watching a goods
train go by in Germany. When the last
joint of her tail had gone Edmund slammed
down the iron door. He was a kind-hearted
boy, as you have guessed, and he was glad to
think that dragon and drakling would now
have plenty to eat of their favourite food, for
ever and ever. He thanked the cockatrice
for its kindness, and got home just in time
to have breakfast and get to school by nine.
Of course, he could not have done this if the
town had been in its old place by the river
in the middle of the plain, but it had taken
root on the hillside just where the dragon
left it.

“ Well,” said the master, “ where were you
yesterday ? ”

Edmund explained, and the master at once
caned him for not speaking the truth.

“But it is true,” said Edmund. “Why,

KIND LITTLE EDMUND.

And then
Edmund
that this

“she slid down the shaft after her baby.

the whole town was swallowed by the dragon.

You know it was-”

“Nonsense,” said the master; “there was
a thunderstorm and an earthquake, that’s
all.”

And he caned Edmund more than ever.

“ But,” said Edmund, who always would
argue, even in the least favourable circum¬
stances, “ how do you account for the town
being on the hillside now, instead of by the
river as it used to be ? ”

“It was always on the hillside,” said the
master. And all the class said the same, for
they had more sense than to argue with a
person who carried a cane.

“ But look at the maps,” said Edmund,
who wasn’t going to be beaten in argument,
whatever he might be in the flesh. The

master pointed to the map on the
wall.

There was the town, on the
hillside! And nobody but Edmund
could see that of course the shock
of being swallowed by the dragon
had upset all the maps and put
them wrong.

the master caned
again, explaining
time it was not for
untruthfulness, but for his
vexatious argumentative
habits. This will show you
what a prejudiced and
ignorant man Edmund’s
master was — how different
from the revered Head
of the nice school where
your good parents are
kind enough to send you.

Next day Edmund
thought he would
prove his tale by show¬
ing people the cocka¬
trice, and he actually
persuaded some people
to go into the cave with
him; but the cocka¬
trice had bolted itself
in, and would not open
the door—so Edmund
got nothing by that
except a scolding for
taking people on a wild-goose chase.

“ A wild goose,” said they, “ is nothing like
a cockatrice.”

And poor Edmund could not say a word,
though he knew how wrong they were. The
only person who believed him was his granny.
But then she was very old and very kind, and
had always said he was the best of boys.

Only one good thing came of all this long
story. Edmund has never been quite the
same boy since. He does not argue quite so
much, and he agreed to be apprenticed to a
locksmith, so that he might some day be able
to pick the lock of the cockatrice’s front
door—and learn some more of the things
that other people don’t know.

But he is quite an old man now, and he
hasn’t got that door open yet!

Curiosities*

[ m shall be glad to receive Contributions to this section, and to pay for such as are accepted .]

Hotel Open Night and Day.

- 32

RULES FOR VISITORS.

Board, 50 cts. per square foot. Meals extra.

Breakfast at five, dinner at six, supper at seven.

Guests are requested not to speak to the dumb waiter.

Guests wishing to get up without being called can have
seLf-raising flour for supper.

Not responsible for diamonds, bicycles or other valu¬
ables kept under the pillows; they should be depos¬
ited in the safe.

“Bicycle” Playing Cards kept on sale at the oflice; but
country visitors are requested not to play any
game more exciting than Old Maid after 7 r. m., as
their noise may disturb the night clerk’s slumbers.

The hotel is convenient to all cemeteries. Hearses to
hire at 25 cents a day.

Guests wishing to do a little driving will find hammer
and nails in the closet.

If the room gets too warm, open the window and see the
fire escape.

If you’re fond of athletics and like good jumping, lift
the matress and see the bed spring.

Base-ballists desiring a little practice will find a pitcher
on the stand.

If the lamp goes out, take a feather out of the pillow;
that’s light enough for any room.

Any one troubled with night-mare will find a halter on
the bed-post.

Don’t worry about paying your bill; the house is
ported by its foundation^

the whole pipe was stopped up with old nests, which had one
by one settled down in the pipe as new ones were built
above. Perhaps the covering over the nest was the attrac¬
tion ; any way, the birds seemed to think the place a highly
desirable site for a home.

THE WORK OF A CONVICT.

The beautiful fountain of which we next reproduce a
photograph is the unaided work of a convict. It happened
this way : In 1S53 an Englishman, in search of gold, came
to Melbourne. Fate, however, was unkind to him, and
more by accident than anything else he fell into trouble,
and was subsequently arrested for robbing a bank manager

^ 5 °p- hie was awarded a long term of imprisonment,
and whilst there the felon, who had never before displayed
any signs of an artistic temperament, suddenly developed a
mania for secreting tools and bits of wood and stone, out
of which he carved exquisite representations of fruit and
human forms. Though repeatedly punished for these breaches
of the prison rules his ardour was in no way diminished.
Then Mr. Panton, the police magistrate, himself an artist,

interested himself in him, with the result that the
convict was provided with a workshop. It was
here that the
prisoner- sculptor
carved from solid
bluestone this magni¬
ficent fountain. On
hi’s release from
gaol the sculptor set
up in the business
which he so strangely
developed, and the true
touch of genius in his
carving brought him
fame and fortune. Mr.
T. Kelynack, of the
Herald Office, Mel¬
bourne, who has sent
us the photograph,
says that the fountain
now stands in a
public square along¬
side the Houses of
Parliament in Mel¬
bourne.

A CONVENIENT HOTEL.

Mr. George P. Starling, of Stanley
House, Addington Square, S.E., has
kindly sent us the hotel card which we
reproduce. Needless to say, the card hails
from America. It speaks for itself. Item
No. 7 on the sheet is not calculated to
induce patrons to stop long at the hotel,
but the last paragraph would probably
cover a multitude of evils.

WHY THE VENTILATOR WENT WRONG.

Mr. II. C. Leat, of 2, Richmond Street,
Totterdown, Bristol, comes next with three
interesting pictures. For some while the
ventilator shown in the photos, had ceased
to perform its duties, and on inspection it
was found that a bird had built a nest in
the pipe. This is the more remarkable
inasmuch as the ventilator carried off foul
gases from the house drains. On further investigation
it was found, as will be seen by the third picture, that

* Copyright, 1899, by George Newnes, Limited.

CURIOSITIES.

793

THE ORIGIN OF THE TURKISH BATH.

The Pacific North-West Indians have a peculiar
method wherewith they take what they are pleased to
call their .sweat-baths. A sweat-house, such as is
shown in the photograph, which was kindly sent by
Miss Fay Fuller, of Tacoma, Washington, is used in
the following manner : A number of rocks are well
heated in an open fire and then placed in the little
wick-i-up, where cold water is poured upon them.
The sweat-house, built of rushes and branches and
covered tightly with blankets, is at once filled with
steam, and the sufferer locks himself inside for a short
time. The treatment is said to be most beneficial.

A MARVELLOUS COINCIDENCE.

photographer, and, before killing the serpent, he
look a snap-shot at it with his camera. It was found
to measure four and a half feet in length. We are
indebted for this interesting photo, to Mr. Rene
Bache, of 1S23 Q. Street, Washington, D.C.

A PRIMITIVE BELFRY.

The accompanying
photograph shows one of
the most curious belfries
that may be found in any
part of the world. It is
to be seen in a little
village churchyard in the
Isle of Wight, where it is
used to call the villagers
to worship. The bell,
which is struck with a
hammer, weighs about
icwt., and is some sixty
years old. The photo,
was kindly sent by
Mr. T. Stokes, of New¬
port, Isle of Wight.

come under our notice. The idea was to take a
snap-shot of the boats as they sailed into
Douglas, Isle of Man. On developing the plate,
however, the operator was tremendously aston¬
ished to find the picture of a man falling from
the rigging of one of the boats to the deck
below. On inquiry it was found that the unfor¬
tunate sailor really had fallen in the manner
shown, breaking his arm in two places. '

A PLUCKY PHOTOGRAPHER.

Professor Willard D. Johnson, of the United
States Geological Sutvey, while on an exploring
trip through the Great American Desert last
summer, fell in with a rattlesnake under some¬
what remarkable circumstances. lie found
it comfortably ensconced upon his camp-bed,
and, when he approached, the dangerous
reptile exhibited displeasure and shook its rattle
threateningly. Prof. Johnson is an enthusiastic
Vol. xviii.— 100

Mr. E. H. Best, of The Hollies, Porthill, Stoke-on-
Trent, has taken, quite unawares let it be said, one
of the most extraordinary snap-shots that have ever

794

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

AN IRONWARE BICYCLE.

Here is a photograph of a bicycle made (save for
(he lamp and bell) entirely of the component parts
of an ordinary stove. The machine was made by the
Omaha Stove Repair Works in order to advertise
their wares. This extraordinary machine may hence¬
forth be known as the “ bone-shaker ” par excellence ,
while it may also boast of the biggest bicycle bell and
bicycle lamp on record. Mr. S. L. Baetens, of 204,
Boyd’s Theatre, Omaha, sent us this photo., taken by
Fyock, Omaha.

THE MOST EXTRAORDINARY DEED IN
EXISTENCE.

Solomon Parsons, of Worcester, Mass., many
years ago bought a tract of land on Rattlesnake Hill,
adjoining the town of Leicester, Mass., which he
desired to dedicate to worship according to his some¬
what peculiar religious ideas. He caused to be
carved on a large flat rock a deed in which he
bequeaths the place to the Almighty. It is probably
the only deed of the kind in existence. Of course,
it was never recorded, and on his death, a few years
ago, bis heirs sold the land to a wealthy citizen, who
built a house there and made it his country residence.
Naturally there were some curious proceedings in the

courts over the matter. Mr. Parsons had
been to Jerusalem, where he became inspired
with the idea of building a humble imitation
of the ancient Temple of the Jews. On his
return he set to work and built one on this
land with his own hands. Here he held
Sunday services before considerable audi¬
ences, attracted, no doubt, by curiosity.
The building was aptly named “ Solomon’s
Temple,” as well from the Christian name of
the builder as from the original. Mr. Parsons
also built a shed for the use of his parish¬
ioners’ horses and a hut for a nephew
of his, who lived there many years as a
hermit. The place is in the midst of a
forest of trees and rocks, an old resort
of Indians and rattlesnakes, and a most
charming and beautiful spot. We are
indebted to Mr. F. B. Harlow, of
48, 49, Burnside Buildings, Worcester,
Mass., for the use of this photograph.

THE WITCH’S CAULDRON.

An interesting legend is attached to this cauldron,
which is to be seen at Frensham Parish Church.
Mr. Quintin Walford, of 9, Belsize Crescent,
Hampstead, kindly supplies the photograph, and
also the particulars that follow. On the Borough
Hill, Surrey, there is a strange mass of stone,
and on this those in need knocked, where¬
upon the witch who
lived under it lent the
knockers the required
article, viz., the caul¬
dron. One night,
however, a wicked
petitioner on the eve
of a feast went to
the stone and begged
for the loan of the
cauldron, which was
readily given to him.
He carried it away,
used it, but, alas!
neglected to return it
at the appointed time,
and since then no
more loans have been
made. The cauldron
was taken to Fren¬
sham Church, and
the story goes that,
should it ever be
removed, it wou 1 d
invariably find its own
way back 1

CURIOSITIES .

795

QUITE OVERCOME.

Mr. J. J. Butler, of Launceston, Bland-
ford, Dorset, has sent us this amusing photo¬
graph. These candles when arranged a few
minutes before the evening service at All
Saints’ Church, Tarrant Monckton, Bland-

ford, were perfectly straight, but the heat
proved too much for their delicate consti¬
tutions, and after a very short while they
collapsed in the manner shown in our picture.

A CHINAMAN’S KITE.

Probably few of our readers have ever seen
a Chinaman fly his kite. Our two pictures
show Mr. Tom Lee, a Celestial gentleman
who is quite an adept at the game. The
photos, were taken just after Mr. Lee had
given a display of his skill in the Driving
Park, Buffalo, N.Y. A reporter who was
watching Mr. Lee’s great crimson dragon
sailing gracefully hundreds of feet in the air,
asked the Chinaman if it w ; as difficult to hold
the kites. “ You tlake hold,” remarked the
Celestial, “ him no pullee velly hard.” The
reporter confidently grasped the cord and
was immediately dragged along the ground,
w hile the Chinee laughed in his own gleeful

manner. Mr. Lee winds the cord round his body
and throws his w’eight against the strain of the
kite, and thus escapes having his hands cut by the
cord or his arm dislocated by the aerial monster.
The photos, were sent to us by Mr. R. W. King,
of 378, Main Street, Buffalo, N.Y.

AN EXTRAORDINARY GUN.

At the time of taking this photograph war mate¬
rial was being dispatched to the Transvaal by the
ton. A young boy, whose patriotic spirit is out of
all proportion to his size, has caught the war fever
and manufactured a gun. This gun we are allowed
to reproduce by permission of Miss Dresser, of
Springfield, Bexley Heath, who says that the gun
will actually fire a projectile; the resulting damage
is no fit subject for discussion.

79*3

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

A QUAINT IDEA.

Mr. Gerald H. Rose writes from the Madame Ina
Gold Mine, Bealiba, Victoria, Australia, as follows:
“ I am sending you a picture taken by me with a
small guinea kodak from the bottom of a shaft on our
claim at a depth of 50ft. It shows the windlass and
rope and the brakeman looking down the shaft with
his pipe in his mouth.” The idea is a quaint one.

A FRESH-WATER SNAKE.

1 I.C.M. is modest, and would rather hide his blushes behind
the veil of anonymity. “This serpent was several times seen
near Bay View, on Lake Erie, in Ohio, but caused such fright
that no accurate account could be gotten from any of the people
who had seen it. Fortunately for science and a much-
scared public, the serpent was actually captured by
a young college graduate, whose gallantry and
courage were suddenly aroused on hearing the
screams of the ladies of his party. The young hero,
being accustomed to snakes of all kinds, rushed into
the water where the snake had sought refuge, grappled
with the writhing thing before it reached deep water,
and actually dragged it high and dry on to the bank.

The monster soon became domesticated, but died for
want of food, this probably being due to the fact that
the serpent was only the root of a tree after all ! ”

HIVING BEES UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Mr. 1 \. E. Richardson, gardener, of The
Terrace Gardens, Wollaton Hall, Notting¬
ham, sends a very curious photo, illustrating
an adventure with bees. He says : “It is
a case of hiving bees under exceptionally
difficult circumstances. The swarm took up
its quarters in an orifice in the masonry of
Wollaton Hall, caused by the breaking of
a hole for a pipe from the lead gutters of
the roof to the spout-head beneath the outer
cornice. Here they had to be ousted from
4ft. of stonework with only a hole a few
inches in diameter to work at. A drain¬
testing machine was brought into use, the
smoke being driven through the pipe as
shown, and the operator secured by a rope
at the tip-top of a long ladder. The pipe
being thrust into the back of them, the blast
was put on, and after a good deal of diffi¬
culty and the exercise of a lot of patience
they were driven into the box placed
for their reception. The hole was then
plugged and the bees left all night to
settle, but as soon as the sun began to
warm the air next morning they took
flight and were lost, after all our trouble
and neck-risking.”

CURIOSITIES.

797

THE COST OF MEAT 133 YEARS
AGO.

Mr. A. Sweeting, of 87, Lord
Street, is the proud possessor of an
extraordinary butcher’s bill, which
will give an idea of the prices of
meat nearly a century and a half ago.
Some amusement will be found in
comparing the prices with those paid
at the present time. We see, for
instance, that I2lb. of mutton cost
3s., and 5st. of beef 17s. 6d., which
gives the price of both as 3d. per lb.
Apart from the various sums, there
is also the quaintness of the receipt
which should not be overlooked.

AN ECCENTRIC OYSTER.

Here is a photograph of an oyster

men inside her were found to have been drowned like
so many rats in a trap.

A GHASTLY SUBMARINE FAILURE.

Mr. Joseph Adams, of 41, Union Square,
New York, sends this photo, of an unsightly
submarine boat whose record is an awful
one. Over forty lives have been lost in her
at the various trials extending over a period
of several years. Her last trip, a memorable
one, took place in the East River, just off
the Navy Yard Dock ; after having been
sunk for a longer time than was at first
calculated, she was fished up, and the poor

that has taken up its abode in the bowl of an
ordinary clay pipe. It was fished up from the
bottom of Falmouth Harbour. When young
the spat had evidently fallen inside the bowl,
which seemed so congenial a situation that
it remained there till it grew to the dimen¬
sions shown in the picture. We are in¬
debted for the use of this photograph to
Mr. R. A. Gregg, of 5, Adelaide Terrace,
Truro, N.B.

WAS IT AN ACCIDENT?

A most unusual occurrence is illustrated here. Mr.
P. G. Lechen, of Milwaukee, Wis., who sends the
photo., vouches for the following statement. He
says : “ One of the prominent citizens of this town,
while walking in his garden early one morning, was
attracted by the futile struggle of a huge dragon-fly
endeavouring to free itself from the tight grip of one of the ten¬
drils of a wild cucumber vine. Apparently the tendril had twined

itself so securely around
the fly’s body that the
poor insect became a
total prisoner. It strug¬
gled for two days, and
finally died of exhaus¬
tion. The question sug¬
gests itself: was it an
accident, or did the
tendril act as a trap,
after the manner of
certain species which
are recognised as insect-
catching plants ?

79 s

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

obliged to Miss Louise Sassoon,
of 7, Queen’s Gardens, Brighton,
for her kindness in sending this
interesting picture.

A HUMMING-BIRD’S NEST.

The humming-bird which built
this fluffy little nest of down and
feathers, decorated with moss,
found its home in Alameda, a city
on the shore of San Francisco Bay.
The photo, shows the remarkable
situation the bird has chosen for
its nest, the cosy structure being
deftly fashioned on top of a green

THE CAPTURE OF A SHARK.

Here is a dramatic photograph, sent by Mr. Chas.
S. Brad dock. It illustrates the death struggles of a
monster shark which was caught by the crew of one
the United States warships off Key West. This
sport is a very popular one among the Jack tars of all
countries, and there seems a particular fitness in the
wholesale destruction of these voracious monsters by
their human enemies, who not infrequently become
the unhappy victims of these tigers of the deep.

AN EIGHTH WONDER.

The accompanying photograph illustrates only a
small portion of the Grotto at Margate, which, by
reason of the extraordinary patience and skill involved
in its construction, may fitly rank as the eighth
wonder of the world. This memorial of human
ingenuity was discovered in 1837, but its origin is
shrouded in mystery. The winding walls and ceiling
of the cavern are decorated throughout by shells
arranged in the most intricate patterns of marvellous
symmetry. Space forbids a fuller description, which,
however detailed, would yet be inadequate. We are

peach, which hung
from a twig about
1 o f t. from the
ground, directly over
a walk and close to a
residence on the bay
shore. The two tiny
white eggs can just
be discerned. The
wonderful little
builder of this ex¬
quisite nest belongs
to the species ot
h u m m i 11 g - b i r d s
known as Anna’s
humming-bird, and
is the largest species
in the United States.
We are indebted to
Mr. H. R. Taylor, of
Alameda, Cal., for the
use of this interesting
picture, the photo, of
which was taken
by the Can ova
Studio, Alameda,

CURIOSITIES,

799

A BICYCLE BEER-CASK.

This interesting photo, was sent to us by Mr. J.
Butterfield, of 236, Grove Green Road, Leytonstone.
The bicycle is decorated to represent a beer-cask, and
obtained first prize at the Clacton Regatta and second
prize at the Romford Carnival, where it was prettily
illuminated with Chinese lanterns. The sides of the
cask, which are of canvas, measure 5ft. 2in. in
diameter. There is scarcely I2in. left each side,
between the back-wheel and the canvas, for mounting
and dismounting purposes', so it can easily be under¬
stood that Mr. Butterfield finds some difficulty in
riding his original though somewhat unwieldy
machine. IIow he would manage in a strong wind
we leave to the readers’ imagination.

A SICK DONKEY.

Who ever heard of a sick donkey being put to
bed and nursed back to health by his master? Yet

p a n y i n g p h o t o g r a p h
represented a number of
II. M. battleships ? Yet it is
so. Mr. T. H. Binny, belong¬
ing to H.M.S. Resolution , of
the Channel Squadron, the
sender of the photo., writes :
“ I am sending you this
curious photo, which I took
when the squadron was at
Aranci Bay and was visited
by the King of Italy in
April last. The photograph
does not represent some
stacks of wood as would ap¬
pear to be the case, but the
British Squadron illuminated
in honour of the King and
Queen of Italy. Each ship
was outlined with electric
lights, and the slight movement of the ships in the
water produced this curious effect.”

that is what our photograph represents. Mr. G. W.
Vickery, of the Royal Army Medical Corps, North
Front, Gibraltar, who
has kindly forwarded
us the photo., says
that his donkey has
been accustomed to
this sort of treatment
for a long while ; in
fact, he has an ordinary
barrack bed all to him¬
self. In one picture
Mr. Vickery is seen
trying to induce his
patient to take some
medicine, but the
patient has evidently
had some before. The
donkey is the pet of the
detachment quartered
at North Front, Gib¬
raltar.

ILLUMINATED MEN-
O’-WAR.

Who would ever
have thought that the
queer - looking objects
shown in the accom-

8 oo

THE STRAND MAGAZINE .

distinctly seen. The
operation speaks
volumes for the nerve
and judgment of those
occupied in such peril¬
ous work, for it must
be understood that the
demolished part of the huge pile of masonry had to fall in a
certain limited space in order that no accidents should follow.
The operation, we are pleased to add, was entirely successful,
and we are indebted to Mr. Francis W. Cron by, 11 ! A. , of
Hartford, Conn., for the photos, which he has been good enough
to send, and which he obtained for reproduction through the
kindness of Dr. J. E. Root, who took these cJever snap-shots.

NATURE’S AUTOGRAPH.

Here we have the actual autograph of an earthquake ! It
was obtained by a recording instrument, called a seismometer,
which consists of a pendulum fitted with a pen, so that any
vibration of the earth is recorded on paper by a more or less
undulating line. This was photographed and sent by Frau von
Holback, from Smyrna. This lady says: “The earthquake
which is recorded here was a very heavy one ; it took place in
the Turkish province of A'l'din, on the 20th September, 1S99.
It did enormous' damage at Denisli, Nasli, and Atdin, the loss

HOW STEEPLES

ARE FELLED.

Here are two
most interesting
pictures. They serve
to illustrate how
church steeples are
felled when they
become a danger to
surrounding build¬
ings. The first and
larger photograph
shows how the
steeple is braced by
means of huge
pieces of timber
around the parti¬
cular spot where
it is desired to
“break” it, so to
speak. The second
photo, depicts the
upper part of the
steeple in the act of
falling. The ropes
wherewith its down¬
fall has been brought
about can also be

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of life totalling 800, whilst 600 persons
were wounded or suffered from shock.”
The translation of the inscription on the
photo, reads: “20th of September,
1899. — Seismometer of the French
College of the Sacred Heart.—Earth¬
quake at 4.5 a.in.—Initial direction,
south-west to north-west. Duration,
4isec.” _

A MISLEADING SNAP-SHOT.

Mr. Thos. M. Hammond, Mil¬
waukee, Wis., has no small sense of
humour. He would have us believe
at first that this plucky little boy was
caught in the act of jumping from an.
upper window —which, on confession,
he says he is not. The youngster is
really suspended by a hook in the wall.

INDEX

PAGE

ALPS IN A BALLOON, OVER THE. By Charles Herbert .175

(Illustrations from Photographs by Captain F.. Spelter ini.)

AMATEUR BUDDHA, AN. By John Foster Fraser. 3°4

(.Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN, R.I.)

ANIMAL ACTUALITIES.

XIV.- 'A Sad Dog. 77

XV. —Misunderstood . 333

XVI. —A Forced Exchange . 547

{Illustrated by J. A. Shepherd.)

ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION, THE “SOUTHERN CROSS.” By Sir George Newnes, Bart. 278
(Illustrations from Photographs.)

ARKS OF ARKTOWN, THE. By Laura B. Starr . 98

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

ARMY, SIGNALLING IN THE NAVY AND. By Herbert C. Fyke . 7 H

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

ARMY, CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE. By Horace Wyndham . 754

[Illustrations by Frank Feli.er.)

ARRIVAL OF THE UNEXPECTED, THE. By Robert Barr .648

[Illustrations by Alfred Pearse.)

ASSASSIN OF THE EMPRESS, THE. By Benj. H. Ridgely, U.S. Consul at Geneva ... 298
[Illustrations from Photographs.)

AUSTRALIAN CRICKETERS AT HOME, THE. By M. Randal Roberts .218

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

“ BIGGEST ON RECORD.” By George Dollar. II.396

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

BISHOP AND THE BOY, THE. By John Oxenham. 569

[Illustrations by \V. S. Stacey.)

BULL-FIGHT, A BURLESQUE. By Albert II. Broadweli.679

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

CHAMPION ORANGE-PEELER, THE. By A. B. Henn .642

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

CHRISTMAS DAY IN THE ARMY. By Horace Wyndham . 754

[Illustrations by Frank Feller.)

COVENT GARDEN STARS IN THEIR FAVOURITE ROLES. By Kathleen Schlesinger 81
[Illustrations from Photographs.)

CROXLEY MASTER, THE. By A. Conan Doyle. (In Three Parts.) . 363* 4 § 3 > 615

[Illustrations by SIDNEY PAGET.)

CURIOSITIES . 116, 236, 356, 476, 596, 792

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

CYCLES, REMARKABLE. By Harold J. Shepstone . 18

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

So2

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

DERELICT, IN SEARCH OF A. By A. P. Buller.

{Illustrations from Photographs and a Sketch-Chart.)

DEVIL’S CORKSCREWS, THE. A Puzzle for Geologists. By Rene Bache
{Illustrations from Photographs.)

ELECTION BET, PAYING AN .

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

EMPRESS, THE ASSASSIN OF THE. By Benj. FI. Ridgely, U.S. Consul at Geneva
{Illustrations from Photographs.)

ENGINE-DRIVER, THE YOUNGEST IN THE WORLD. By George Dollar
{Illustrations from Photographs and a Facsimile.)

EVENT OF THE DAY, THE. By Neil Wynn Williams.

{Illustrations by Alfred Pearse.)

148

298

343

336

FLOWER-WORK, MRS. DELANY’S .

{Illustrations from Photographs and a Picture.)

472

GORGON’S HEAD, THE. By Gertrude Bacon
(.Illustrations by W. S. Stacey. )

635

HEROES OF 1899. By Alfred T. Story .696

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

HILDA WADE. By Grant Allen.

V. —The Episode of the Needle that did not Match . ... 65

VI.— The Episode of the Letter with the Basingstoke Post-Mark . 184

VII. —The Episode of the Stone that Looked About It .321

VIII. —The Episode of the European with the Kaffir Heart .461

IX.— The Episode of the Lady who was Very Exclusive .496

X. —The Episode of the Guide who Knew the Coun.try .684

{Illustrations by Gordon Browne, R.B.A.)

HUNDRED YEARS AGO, A (1799). By Alfred Whitman .734

{Illustrations from Old Prints.)

ILLUSTRATED INTERVIEWS.

LXVI. —Mr. Marcus Stone, R.A.123

{Illustrations from Pictures and a Photograph.)

LXVII. —The Lord Bishop of London. By Rudolph de Cordova . 526

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

LXVIII. —Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, R.A. By Frederick Dolman . 603

{Illustrations from Pictures and a Photograph.)

INDIAN JUGGLERS HUMBUGS, ARE? An Interview with Mr. Charles Bertram ... 657

{Illustrations by A. J. Johnson.)

KIND LITTLE EDMUND ; OR, THE CAVES AND THE COCKATRICE. A Story for

Children. By E. Nesbit .784

{Illustrations by H. R. Millar.)

LARGEST STATUE IN THE WORLD, THE. By A. Meta .770

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

LAUNCHED AT SOCIETY. A Tale of Henley Regatta. By Victor L. Whitechurch... 50
{Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson.)

LINDA: A STORY OF THE GIPPSLAND BUSH. By Basil Marnan .419

{Illustrations by H. R. Millar.)

MAKING OF HOWARD CARRUTII, TIIE. By Robert Barr . 208

{Illustrations by Alfred Pearse.)

MAN WHO STOLE THE CASTLE, THE. By Tom Gallon .704

{Illustrations by Warwick Goble.)

MASTER OF CRAFT, A. By W. W. Jacobs . 88, 153, 289, 387, 536, 775

{Illustrations by Will Owen.)

MESALLIANCES, ROYAL. By A. de Burgh . 57

{Illustrations from Photographs.)

INDEX.

803

PAGE

NATURE’S WORKSHOP, IN. By Grant Allen.

VII.—The Day of the Canker-Worm ... * . 4°9

(//hist rations by Fred Knock.)

NAVY AND ARMY, SIGNALLING IN THE. By Herbert C. Fyfe . 7 H

(.Illustrations from Photographs.)

NIAGARA BRIDGES, THE ROMANCE OF. By Orrin E. Dunlap .425

[Illustrations from Photographs and an Old Print.)

ORANGE-PEELER, THE CHAMPION. By A. B. Henn . . 642

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

PIERRE COURNET’S LAST RUN. By Victor L. Whitechurch ... .. 74 *

[Illustrations by W. B. Woli.en, R.I.)

“ PUNCH,” A PEEP INTO. By John Holt Schooling.

Part VII.—1875 to 1879 3 2

„ VIII.—1880 to 1884 !96

„ IX.—1885 to 1889 2 52

,, X.—1890 to 1894 375

,, XI.—1895 to 1898 5°8

,, XII.—1842 to 1899 (“ Punch’s” Almanacks, etc.) ... 623

[Illustrated by facsimiles.)

PURPLE TERROR, THE. By Fred M. White.243

[Illustratiofis by Paul Hardy.)

PUZZLE CARDS, OLD... . 5 So

[Illustrations from old Prints.)

QUILT, A REMARKABLE. By R. G. Bassett.233

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

REMARKABLE CYCLES. By Harold J. Shepstone. 18

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

REMARKABLE QUILT, A. By R. G. Bassett.233

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

REVENGE OF THE “ADOLPHUS,” THE. By Stephen Crane.724

[Illustrations by C. J. Staniland, R.I.)

ROMANCE OF NIAGARA BRIDGES. THE. By Orrin E. Dunlap .425

[Illustrations from Photographs and an Old Print.)

ROYAL MESALLIANCES. By A. de Burgh.. 57

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

SAND ART. By Thomas E. Curtis . 102

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

SAVED BY A TRAIN-WRECKER. By Victor L. Whitechurch.170

[Illustrations by W. D. ALMOND, R.I.)

SEARCH OF A DERELICT, IN. By A. P. Bui.ler.490

[Illustrations from Photographs and a Sketch-Chart.)

SEVEN DRAGONS, THE. By E. Nesbit.

V. —Ti-ie Island of the Nine Whirlpools ... .... . 106

VI. —The Dragon Tamers .. .224

VII.—The Fiery Dragon ; or, The Heart of Stone and the Heart of Gold ... 347

[Illustrations by IT. R. Millar.)

SHOOTING STARS, GREAT SHOWERS OF. By Sir Robert Ball . 562

[Illustrations from Photographs, and a Diagram.)

SIGNALLING IN THE NAVY AND ARMY. By Herbert C. Fyfe . 7 H

[Illustrations from Photographs.)

SNOWFLAKE OF THE SERVICE, THE. By Frank R. Stockton .401

[Illustrations by C. J. Staniland, R.I.)

“SOUTHERN CROSS” ANTARCTIC EXPEDITION, THE. By Sir George Newnes, Bart. 278
[Illustrations from Photographs.)

SPEAKER’S CHAIR, FROM BEHIND THE. By Henry W. Lucy . 44 , 164

[Illiistratio?is by F. C. Gould.)

8 o 4 THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

SPECIAL WORKING INSTRUCTIONS. A Station-Master’s Story. By Victor

Whitechurch .

{Illustrations by Alfred Pearse.)

STATUE, THE LARGEST IN THE WORLD. By A. Meta
[Illustrations from Photographs.)

STORIES OP" THE SANCTUARY CLUB. By L. T Meade and Robert Eustace.

I.—The Death Chair.

II. —A Visible Sound .

III. —The Diana Sapphire .

IV. —East of North . .

V. —“A Handful of Ashes”.

VI.— The Secret of the Prison House .

(Illustrations by Sidney Paget.)

SURPRISE PARTY, A. By Mrs. Newman .

{Illustrations by Dorothy Hardy.)

TALE OP" A JUDY SPIOW, A. By R. E. Vernede . .

{Illustrations by Paul Hardy.)

TRIAL OF THE “ WATCH BELOW,” THE. By J. H. Whitfield .

{Illustrations by Alfred Pearse.)

TYRANNY CRUSHED, A. By George Manville Fenn .

{Illustrations by Claude A. Shepperson.)

WALKING THE POLE. By Albert PI. Broadwei.l. .

{Illustrations from Photographs by A. J. Johnson.)

WATER-POLO. By Albert IT. Broadwell .

[Illustrations from Photographs by A. J. Johnson.)

WPIEREYOUWANTOGOTO ; OR, THE BOUNCIBLE BALL. By E. Nesbit ...
{Illustrations by IT. R. Millar.)

YOUNGEST ENGINE-DRIVER IN THE WORLD, THE. By George Dollar
{Illustrations from Photographs ancl a Facsimile.)

GEORGE NEWNES, LIMITED, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, AND EXETER STREET, STRAND, \V.C.

H

PAGE
.. 520

770

3

134
264
437
549
665

760

449
26
746

457
315
585

343