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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..618a1b4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #50543 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50543) diff --git a/old/50543-0.txt b/old/50543-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f22224a..0000000 --- a/old/50543-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14539 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Short Stories for High Schools, by -Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the -United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you -are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Short Stories for High Schools - -Author: Various - -Editor: Rosa M. R. Mikels - -Release Date: November 23, 2015 [EBook #50543] -Last Updated: July 26, 2022 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH -SCHOOLS *** - - - - -Produced by Giovanni Fini, Andrew Sly, Al Haines and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - SHORT STORIES - - FOR HIGH SCHOOLS - - EDITED - - WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES - - BY - - ROSA M. R. MIKELS - - SHORTRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL, INDIANAPOLIS, IND. - - - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - -[Illustration: LOGO] - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - PREFACE vii - - INTRODUCTION - - REQUIREMENTS OF THE SHORT STORY xi - - HOW THIS BOOK MAY BE USED xviii - - THE FIRST CHRISTMAS-TREE Henry van Dyke 1 - - A FRENCH TAR-BABY Joel Chandler Harris 27 - - SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’ Ruth McEnery Stuart 35 - - CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN John Fox, Jr. 51 - - A NEST-EGG James Whitcomb Riley 67 - - WEE WILLIE WINKLE Rudyard Kipling 79 - - THE GOLD BUG Edgar Allan Poe 95 - - THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF O. Henry 143 - - THE FRESHMAN FULL-BACK Ralph D. Paine 159 - - GALLEGHER Richard Harding Davis 181 - - THE JUMPING FROG Mark Twain 221 - - THE LADY OR THE TIGER? Frank R. Stockton 231 - - THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT Francis Bret Harte 243 - - THE REVOLT OF MOTHER Mary E. Wilkins Freeman 259 - - MARSE CHAN Thomas Nelson Page 283 - - “POSSON JONE’” George W. Cable 315 - - OUR AROMATIC UNCLE Henry Cuyler Bunner 341 - - QUALITY John Galsworthy 361 - - THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT Edith Wharton 373 - - A MESSENGER Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews 407 - - MARKHEIM Robert Louis Stevenson 431 - - - - -PREFACE - - -WHY must we confine the reading of our children to the older literary -classics? This is the question asked by an ever-increasing number of -thoughtful teachers. They have no wish to displace or to discredit the -classics. On the contrary, they love and revere them. But they do wish -to give their pupils something additional, something that pulses with -present life, that is characteristic of to-day. The children, too, -wonder that, with the great literary outpouring going on about them, -they must always fill their cups from the cisterns of the past. - -The short story is especially adapted to supplement our high-school -reading. It is of a piece with our varied, hurried, efficient American -life, wherein figure the business man’s lunch, the dictagraph, the -telegraph, the telephone, the automobile, and the railway “limited.” -It has achieved high art, yet conforms to the modern demand that our -literature—since it must be read with despatch, if read at all—be -compact and compelling. Moreover, the short story is with us in almost -overwhelming numbers, and is probably here to stay. Indeed, our boys -and girls are somewhat appalled at the quantity of material from which -they must select their reading, and welcome any instruction that -enables them to know the good from the bad. It is certain, therefore, -that, whatever else they may throw into the educational discard when -they leave the high school, they will keep and use anything they -may have learned about this form of literature which has become so -powerful a factor in our daily life. - -This book does not attempt to select the greatest stories of the time. -What tribunal would dare make such a choice? Nor does it attempt to -trace the evolution of the short story or to point out natural types -and differences. These topics are better suited to college classes. -Its object is threefold: to supply interesting reading belonging to -the student’s own time, to help him to see that there is no divorce -between classic and modern literature, and, by offering him material -structurally good and typical of the qualities represented, to assist -him in discriminating between the artistic and the inartistic. The -stories have been carefully selected, because in the period of -adolescence “nothing read fails to leave its mark”;[1] they have also -been carefully arranged with a view to the needs of the adolescent boy -and girl. Stories of the type loved by primitive man, and therefore -easily approached and understood, have been placed first. Those which -appealed in periods of higher development follow, roughly in the -order of their increasing difficulty. It is hoped, moreover, that -this arrangement will help the student to understand and appreciate -the development of the story. He begins with the simple tale of -adventure and the simple story of character. As he advances he sees the -story develop in plot, in character analysis, and in setting, until -he ends with the psychological study of _Markheim_, remarkable for -its complexity of motives and its great spiritual problem. Both the -selection and the arrangement have been made with this further purpose -in view—“to keep the heart warm, reinforcing all its good motives, -preforming choices, universalizing sympathies.”[2] - -It is a pleasure to acknowledge, in this connection, the suggestions -and the criticism of Mr. William N. Otto, Head of the Department of -English in Shortridge High School, Indianapolis; and the courtesies of -the publishers who have permitted the use of their material. - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -I - -REQUIREMENTS OF THE SHORT STORY - -CRITICS have agreed that the short story must conform to certain -conditions. First of all, the writer must strive to make one and only -one impression. His time is too limited, his space is too confined, his -risk of dividing the attention of the reader is too great, to admit -of more than this one impression. He therefore selects some moment of -action or some phase of character or some particular scene, and focuses -attention upon that. Life not infrequently gives such brief, clear-cut -impressions. At the railway station we see two young people hurry to -a train as if fearful of being detained, and we get the impression -of romantic adventure. We pass on the street corner two men talking, -and from a chance sentence or two we form a strong impression of the -character of one or both. Sometimes we travel through a scene so -desolate and depressing or so lovely and uplifting that the effect is -never forgotten. Such glimpses of life and scene are as vivid as the -vignettes revealed by the searchlight, when its arm slowly explores a -mountain-side or the shore of a lake and brings objects for a brief -moment into high light. To secure this single strong impression, the -writer must decide which of the three essentials—plot character, or -setting—is to have first place. - -As action appeals strongly to most people, and very adequately reveals -character, the short-story writer may decide to make plot pre-eminent. -He accordingly chooses his incidents carefully. Any that do not -really aid in developing the story must be cast aside, no matter how -interesting or attractive they may be in themselves. This does not -mean that an incident which is detached from the train of events may -not be used. But such an incident must have proper relations provided -for it. Thus the writer may wish to use incidents that belong to two -separate stories, because he knows that by relating them he can produce -a single effect. Shakespeare does this in _Macbeth_. Finding in the -lives of the historic Macbeth and the historic King Duff incidents -that he wished to use, he combined them. But he saw to it that they -had the right relation, that they fitted into the chain of cause and -effect. The reader will insist, as the writer knows, that the story be -logical, that incident 1 shall be the cause of incident 2, incident 2 -of incident 3, and so on to the end. The triangle used by Freytag to -illustrate the plot of a play may make this clear. - -[Illustration] - -AC is the line of rising action along which the story climbs, incident -by incident, to the point C; C is the turning point, the crisis, or the -climax; CB is the line of falling action along which the story descends -incident by incident to its logical resolution. Nothing may be left -to luck or chance. In life the element of chance does sometimes seem -to figure, but in the story it has no place. If the ending is not the -logical outcome of events, the reader feels cheated. He does not want -the situation to be too obvious, for he likes the thrill of suspense. -But he wants the hints and foreshadowings to be sincere, so that he may -safely draw his conclusions from them. This does not condemn, however, -the “surprise” ending, so admirably used by O. Henry. The reader, in -this case, admits that the writer has “played fair” throughout, and -that the ending which has so surprised and tickled his fancy is as -logical as that he had forecast. - -To aid in securing the element of suspense, the author often makes use -of what Carl H. Grabo, in his _The Art of the Short Story_, calls the -“negative” or “hostile” incident. Incidents, as he points out, are of -two kinds—positive and negative. The first openly help to untangle -the situation; the second seem to delay the straightening out of the -threads or even to make the tangle worse. He illustrates this by the -story of Cinderella. The appearance of the fairy and her use of the -magic wand are positive, or openly helpful incidents, in rescuing -Cinderella from her lonely and neglected state. But her forgetfulness -of the hour and her loss of the glass slipper are negative or hostile -incidents. Nevertheless, we see how these are really blessings in -disguise, since they cause the prince to seek and woo her. - -The novelist may introduce many characters, because he has time and -space to care for them. Not so the short-story writer: he must employ -only one main character and a few supporting characters. However, when -the plot is the main thing, the characters need not be remarkable in -any way. Indeed, as Brander Matthews has said, the heroine may be “a -woman,” the hero “a man,” not any woman or any man in particular. Thus, -in _The Lady or the Tiger?_ the author leaves the princess without -definite traits of character, because his problem is not “what this -particular woman would do, but what a woman would do.” Sometimes, after -reading a story of thrilling plot, we find that we do not readily -recall the appearance or the names of the characters; we recall only -what happened to them. This is true of the women of James Fenimore -Cooper’s stories. They have no substantiality, but move like veiled -figures through the most exciting adventures. - -Setting may or may not be an important factor in the story of incident. -What is meant by setting? It is an inclusive term. Time, place, local -conditions, and sometimes descriptions of nature and of people are -parts of it. When these are well cared for, we get an effect called -“atmosphere.” We know the effect the atmosphere has upon objects. Any -one who has observed distant mountains knows that, while they remain -practically unchanged, they never look the same on two successive -days. Sometimes they stand out hard and clear, sometimes they are soft -and alluring, sometimes they look unreal and almost melt into the -sky behind them. So the atmosphere of a story may envelop people and -events and produce a subtle effect upon the reader. Sometimes the plot -material is such as to require little setting. The incidents might have -happened anywhere. We hardly notice the absence of setting in our hurry -to see what happens. This is true of many of the stories we enjoyed -when we were children. For instance, in _The Three Bears_ the incidents -took place, of course, in the woods, but our imagination really -supplied the setting. Most stories, however, whatever their character, -use setting as carefully and as effectively as possible. Time and -place are often given with exactness. Thus Bret Harte says: “As Mr. -John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker Flat on -the morning of the twentythird of November, 1850, he was conscious -of a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night.” This -definite mention of time and place gives an air of reality to the -story. As to descriptions, the writer sifts them in, for he knows that -few will bother to read whole paragraphs of description. He often uses -local color, by which we mean the employment of epithets, phrases, and -other expressions that impart a “feeling” for the place. This use of -local color must not be confused with that intended to produce what -is called an “impressionistic” effect. In the latter case the writer -subordinates everything to this effect of scene. This use of local -color is discussed elsewhere. - -Perhaps the writer wishes to make character the dominant element. -Then he subordinates plot and setting to this purpose and makes them -contribute to it. In selecting the character he wishes to reveal he -has wide choice. “Human nature is the same, wherever you find it,” -we are fond of saying. So he may choose a character that is quite -common, some one he knows; and, having made much of some one trait -and ignored or subordinated others, bring him before us at some -moment of decision or in some strange, perhaps hostile, environment. -Or the author may take some character quite out of the ordinary: -the village miser, the recluse, or a person with a peculiar mental -or moral twist. But, whatever his choice, it is not enough that the -character be actually drawn from real life. Indeed, such fidelity to -what literally exists may be a hinderance to the writer. The original -character may have done strange things and suffered strange things that -cannot be accounted for. But, in the story, inconsistencies must be -removed, and the conduct of the characters must be logical. Life seems -inconsistent to all of us at times, but it is probably less so than -it seems. People puzzle us by their apparent inconsistencies, when -to themselves their actions seem perfectly logical. But, as Mr. Grabo -points out, “In life we expect inconsistencies; in a story we depend -upon their elimination.” The law of cause and effect, which we found -so indispensable in the story of plot, we find of equal importance -in the story of character. There must be no sudden and unaccountable -changes in the behavior or sentiments of the people in the story. On -the contrary, there must be reason in all they say and do. - -Another demand of the character story is that the characters be -lifelike. In the plot story, or in the impressionistic story, we may -accept the flat figures on the canvas; our interest is elsewhere. But -in the character story we must have real people whose motives and -conduct we discuss pro and con with as much interest as if we knew them -in the flesh. A character of this convincing type is Hamlet. About him -controversy has always raged. It is impossible to think of him as other -than a real man. Whenever the writer finds that the characters in his -story have caused the reader to wax eloquent over their conduct, he may -rest easy: he has made his people lifelike. - -Setting in the character story is important, for it is in this that the -chief actor moves and has his being. His environment is continually -causing him to speak and act. The incidents selected, even though -some of them may seem trivial in themselves, must reveal depth after -depth in his soul. Whatever the means by which the author reveals -the character—whether by setting, conduct, analysis, dialogue, or -soliloquy—his task is a hard one. In _Markheim_ we have practically -all of these used, with the result that the character is unmistakable -and convincing. - -Stories of scenes are neither so numerous nor so easy to produce -successfully as those of plot and character. But sometimes a place so -profoundly impresses a writer that its demands may not be disregarded. -Robert Louis Stevenson strongly felt the influence of certain places. -“Certain dank gardens cry aloud for murder; certain old houses demand -to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwreck. Other spots -seem to abide their destiny, suggestive and impenetrable.” Perhaps all -of us have seen some place of which we have exclaimed: “It is like a -story!” When, then, scene is to furnish the dominant interest, plot and -character become relatively insignificant and shadowy. “The pressure of -the atmosphere,” says Brander Matthews, holds our attention. _The Fall -of the House of Usher_, by Edgar Allan Poe, is a story of this kind. It -is the scene that affects us with dread and horror; we have no peace -until we see the house swallowed up by the tarn, and have fled out of -sight of the tarn itself. The plot is extremely slight, and the Lady -Madeline and her unhappy brother hardly more than shadows. - -It must not be supposed from the foregoing explanation that the three -essentials of the short story are ever really divorced. They are -happily blended in many of our finest stories. Nevertheless, analysis -of any one of these will show that in the mind of the writer one -purpose was pre-eminent. On this point Robert Louis Stevenson thus -speaks: “There are, so far as I know, three ways and three only of -writing a story. You may take a plot and fit characters to it, or you -may take a character and choose incidents and situations to develop -it, or, lastly, you may take a certain atmosphere and get actions and -persons to express and realize it.” When to this clear conception of -his limitations and privileges the author adds an imagination that -clearly visualizes events and the “verbal magic” by which good style is -secured, he produces the short story that is a masterpiece. - - -II - -HOW THIS BOOK MAY BE USED - -THIS book may be used in four ways. First, it may serve as an -appetizer. Even the casual reading of good literature has a tendency -to create a demand for more. Second, it may be made the basis for -discussion and comparison. By using these stories, the works of -recognized authors, as standards, the student may determine the value -of such stories as come into his home. Third, these selections may be -studied in a regular short-story course, such as many high schools -have, to illustrate the requirements and the types of this form of -narration. The chapter on “The Requirements of the Short Story” will -be found useful both in this connection and in the comparative study -of stories. Fourth, the student will better appreciate and understand -the short story if he attempts to tell or to write one. This does not -mean that we intend to train him for the literary market. Our object is -entirely different. No form of literature brings more real joy to the -child than the story. Not only does he like to hear stories; he likes -to tell them. And where the short-story course is rightly used, he -likes to write them. He finds that the pleasure of exercising creative -power more than offsets the drudgery inevitable in composition. A plan -that has been satisfactorily carried out in the classroom is here -briefly outlined. - -The teacher reads with the class a story in which plot furnishes the -main interest. This type is chosen because it is more easily analyzed -by beginners. The class discusses this, applying the tests of the short -story given elsewhere in this book. Then a number of short stories of -different types are read and compared. Next, each member of the class -selects from some recent book or magazine a short story he enjoys. -This he outlines and reports to the class. If this report is not -satisfactory, the class insists that either the author or the reporter -be exonerated. The story is accordingly read to the class, or is read -and reported on by another member. The class is then usually able to -decide whether the story is faulty or the first report inadequate. - -Next the class gives orally incidents that might or might not be -expanded into short stories. The students soon discover that some of -these require the lengthy treatment of a novel, that others are good -as simple incidents but nothing more, and that still others might -develop into satisfactory short stories. The class is now asked to -develop original plots. Since plots cannot be produced on demand, but -require time for the mind to act subconsciously, the class practises, -during the “period of incubation,” the writing of dialogue. For these -the teacher suggests a list of topics, although any student is free -to substitute one of his own. Among the topics that have been used -are: “Johnny goes with his mother to church for the first time,” “Mrs. -Hennessy is annoyed by the chickens of Mrs. Jones,” “Albert applies for -a summer job.” Sometimes the teacher relates an incident, and has the -class reproduce it in dialogue. By comparing their work with dialogue -by recognized writers the youthful authors soon learn how to punctuate -and paragraph conversation, and where to place necessary comment and -explanation. They also discover that dialogue must either reveal -character or advance the story; and that it must be in keeping with -the theme and maintain the tone used at the beginning. A commonplace -dialogue must not suddenly become romantic in tone, and dialect must -not lapse into ordinary English. - -The original plots the class offers later may have been suggested in -many ways. Newspaper accounts, court reports, historical incidents, -family traditions—all may contribute. Sometimes the student proudly -declares of his plot, “I made it out of my own head.” These plots are -arranged in outline form to show how incident 1 developed incident 2, -that incident 3, and so on to the conclusion. The class points out -the weak places in these plots and offers helpful suggestions. This -co-operation often produces surprisingly good results. A solution that -the troubled originator of the plot never thought of may come almost -as an inspiration from the class. Criticism throughout is largely -constructive. After the student has developed several plots in outline, -he usually finds among them one that he wishes to use for his story. -This is worked out in some detail, submitted to the class, and later in -a revised form to the teacher. The story when complete is corrected and -sometimes rewritten. - -Most of the class prefer to write stories of plot, but some insist upon -trying stories of character or of setting. These pupils are shown the -difficulties in their way, but are allowed to try their hand if they -insist. Sometimes the results are good; more often the writer, after -an honest effort, admits that he cannot handle his subject well and -substitutes a story of plot. - -In any case the final draft is sure to leave much to be desired; but -even so, the gain has been great. The pupil writer has constantly been -measuring his work by standards of recognized excellence in form and -in creative power; as a result he has learned to appreciate the short -story from the art side. Moreover, he has had a large freedom in his -work that has relieved it of drudgery. And, best of all, he has been -doing original work with plastic material; and to work with plastic -material is always a source of joy, whether it be the mud that the -child makes into pies, the clay that the artist moulds into forms of -beauty, or the facts of life that the creative imagination of the -writer shapes into literature. - - - - - THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE - - A STORY OF THE FOREST - - BY - - HENRY VAN DYKE - -This story is placed first because it is of the type that first -delighted man. It is the story of high adventure, of a struggle with -the forces of nature, barbarous men, and heathen gods. The hero is -“a hunter of demons, a subduer of the wilderness, a woodman of the -faith.” He seeks hardships and conquers them. The setting is the -illimitable forest in the remote past. The forest, like the sea, makes -an irresistible appeal to the imagination. Either may be the scene of -the marvellous and the thrilling. Quite unlike the earliest tales, -this story is enriched with description and exposition; nevertheless, -it has their simplicity and dignity. It reminds us of certain of the -great Biblical narratives, such as the contest between Elijah and the -prophets of Baal and the victory of Daniel over the jealous presidents -and princes of Darius. In “The First Christmas Tree,” as in many others -of these stories, a third person is the narrator. But the hero may -tell his own adventures. “I did this. I did that. Thus I felt at the -conclusion.” Instances are Defoe’s “Robinson Crusoe” and Stevenson’s -“Kidnapped.” But whether in the first or third person, the story holds -us by the magic of adventure. - - - - -THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE[3] - - -I - -THE CALL OF THE WOODSMAN - -The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722. - -Broad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks of the river -Moselle; pallid hill-sides blooming with mystic roses where the glow -of the setting sun still lingered upon them; an arch of clearest, -faintest azure bending overhead; in the centre of the aerial landscape -the massive walls of the cloister of Pfalzel, gray to the east, purple -to the west; silence over all,—a gentle, eager, conscious stillness, -diffused through the air like perfume, as if earth and sky were hushing -themselves to hear the voice of the river faintly murmuring down the -valley. - -In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset hour. All day -long there had been a strange and joyful stir among the nuns. A breeze -of curiosity and excitement had swept along the corridors and through -every quiet cell. - -The elder sisters,—the provost, the deaconess, the stewardess, the -portress with her huge bunch of keys jingling at her girdle,—had been -hurrying to and fro, busied with household cares. In the huge kitchen -there was a bustle of hospitable preparation. The little bandy-legged -dogs that kept the spits turning before the fires had been trotting -steadily for many an hour, until their tongues hung out for want of -breath. The big black pots swinging from the cranes had bubbled and -gurgled and shaken and sent out puffs of appetizing steam. - -St. Martha was in her element. It was a field-day for her virtues. - -The younger sisters, the pupils of the convent, had forsaken their -Latin books and their embroidery-frames, their manuscripts and their -miniatures, and fluttered through the halls in little flocks like -merry snow-birds, all in black and white, chattering and whispering -together. This was no day for tedious task-work, no day for grammar or -arithmetic, no day for picking out illuminated letters in red and gold -on stiff parchment, or patiently chasing intricate patterns over thick -cloth with the slow needle. It was a holiday. A famous visitor had come -to the convent. - -It was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman tongue was -Boniface, and whom men called the Apostle of Germany. A great preacher; -a wonderful scholar; he had written a Latin grammar himself,—think of -it,—and he could hardly sleep without a book under his pillow; but, -more than all, a great and daring traveller, a venturesome pilgrim, a -high-priest of romance. - -He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; he would not stay -in the rich monastery of Nutescelle, even though they had chosen him -as the abbot; he had refused a bishopric at the court of King Karl. -Nothing would content him but to go out into the wild woods and preach -to the heathen. - -Up and down through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, and along -the borders of Saxony, he had wandered for years, with a handful of -companions, sleeping under the trees, crossing mountains and marshes, -now here, now there, never satisfied with ease and comfort, always in -love with hardship and danger. - -What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a spear and strong -as an oaken staff. His face was still young; the smooth skin was -bronzed by wind and sun. His gray eyes, clear and kind, flashed like -fire when he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil deeds of the -false priests with whom he contended. - -What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought by sacred -relics; not of courts and councils and splendid cathedrals; though he -knew much of these things, and had been at Rome and received the Pope’s -blessing. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings by sea and land; -of perils by fire and flood; of wolves and bears and fierce snowstorms -and black nights in the lonely forest; of dark altars of heathen gods, -and weird, bloody sacrifices, and narrow escapes from murderous bands -of wandering savages. - -The little novices had gathered around him, and their faces had grown -pale and their eyes bright as they listened with parted lips, entranced -in admiration, twining their arms about one another’s shoulders and -holding closely together, half in fear, half in delight. The older nuns -had turned from their tasks and paused, in passing by, to hear the -pilgrim’s story. Too well they knew the truth of what he spoke. Many a -one among them had seen the smoke rising from the ruins of her father’s -roof. Many a one had a brother far away in the wild country to whom -her heart went out night and day, wondering if he were still among the -living. - -But now the excitements of that wonderful day were over; the hour of -the evening meal had come; the inmates of the cloister were assembled -in the refectory. - -On the daïs sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter of King Dagobert, -looking a princess indeed, in her violet tunic, with the hood and cuffs -of her long white robe trimmed with fur, and a snowy veil resting like -a crown on her snowy hair. At her right hand was the honored guest, and -at her left hand her grandson, the young Prince Gregor, a big, manly -boy, just returned from the high school. - -The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown rafters and beams; the -double rows of nuns, with their pure veils and fair faces; the ruddy -glow of the slanting sunbeams striking upwards through the tops of the -windows and painting a pink glow high up on the walls,—it was all as -beautiful as a picture, and as silent. For this was the rule of the -cloister, that at the table all should sit in stillness for a little -while, and then one should read aloud, while the rest listened. - -“It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day,” said the abbess to -Winfried; “we shall see how much he has learned in the school. Read, -Gregor; the place in the book is marked.” - -The tall lad rose from his seat and turned the pages of the manuscript. -It was a copy of Jerome’s version of the Scriptures in Latin, and the -marked place was in the letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians,—the -passage where he describes the preparation of the Christian as the -arming of a warrior for glorious battle. The young voice rang out -clearly, rolling the sonorous words, without slip or stumbling, to the -end of the chapter. - -Winfried listened smiling. “My son,” said he, as the reader paused, -“that was bravely read. Understandest thou what thou readest?” - -“Surely, father,” answered the boy; “it was taught me by the masters at -Treves; and we have read this epistle clear through, from beginning to -end, so that I almost know it by heart.” - -Then he began again to repeat the passage, turning away from the page -as if to show his skill. - -But Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of the hand. - -“Not so, my son; that was not my meaning. When we pray, we speak to -God; when we read, it is God who speaks to us. I ask whether thou hast -heard what He has said to thee, in thine own words, in the common -speech. Come, give us again the message of the warrior and his armor -and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so that all can understand it.” - -The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came around to -Winfried’s seat, bringing the book. “Take the book, my father,” he -cried, “and read it for me. I cannot see the meaning plain, though I -love the sound of the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines of our -faith, and the life of priests and nuns in the cloister, for which my -grandmother designs me, though it likes me little. And fighting I know, -and the life of warriors and heroes, for I have read of it in Virgil -and the ancients, and heard a bit from the soldiers at Treves; and I -would fain taste more of it, for it likes me much. But how the two -lives fit together, or what need there is of armor for a clerk in holy -orders, I can never see. Tell me the meaning, for if there is a man in -all the world that knows it, I am sure it is none other than thou.” - -So Winfried took the book and closed it, clasping the boy’s hand with -his own. - -“Let us first dismiss the others to their vespers,” said he, “lest they -should be weary.” - -A sign from the abbess; a chanted benediction; a murmuring of sweet -voices and a soft rustling of many feet over the rushes on the floor; -the gentle tide of noise flowed out through the doors and ebbed away -down the corridors; the three at the head of the table were left alone -in the darkening room. - -Then Winfried began to translate the parable of the soldier into the -realities of life. - -At every turn he knew how to flash a new light into the picture out -of his own experience. He spoke of the combat with self, and of the -wrestling with dark spirits in solitude. He spoke of the demons that -men had worshipped for centuries in the wilderness, and whose malice -they invoked against the stranger who ventured into the gloomy forest. -Gods, they called them, and told strange tales of their dwelling among -the impenetrable branches of the oldest trees and in the caverns of the -shaggy hills; of their riding on the wind-horses and hurling spears -of lightning against their foes. Gods they were not, but foul spirits -of the air, rulers of the darkness. Was there not glory and honor in -fighting with them, in daring their anger under the shield of faith, in -putting them to flight with the sword of truth? What better adventure -could a brave man ask than to go forth against them, and wrestle with -them, and conquer them? - -“Look you, my friends,” said Winfried, “how sweet and peaceful is this -convent to-night, on the eve of the nativity of the Prince of Peace! It -is a garden full of flowers in the heart of winter; a nest among the -branches of a great tree shaken by the winds; a still haven on the edge -of a tempestuous sea. And this is what religion means for those who are -chosen and called to quietude and prayer and meditation. - -“But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what storms are raving -to-night in the hearts of men, though all the woods are still? who -knows what haunts of wrath and cruelty and fear are closed to-night -against the advent of the Prince of Peace? And shall I tell you what -religion means to those who are called and chosen to dare and to -fight, and to conquer the world for Christ? It means to launch out into -the deep. It means to go against the strongholds of the adversary. It -means to struggle to win an entrance for their Master everywhere. What -helmet is strong enough for this strife save the helmet of salvation? -What breastplate can guard a man against these fiery darts but the -breastplate of righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of these -journeys but the preparation of the gospel of peace?” - -“Shoes?” he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden thought had struck -him. He thrust out his foot, covered with a heavy cowhide boot, laced -high about his leg with thongs of skin. - -“See here,—how a fighting man of the cross is shod! I have seen the -boots of the Bishop of Tours,—white kid, broidered with silk; a day in -the bogs would tear them to shreds. I have seen the sandals that the -monks use on the highroads,—yes, and worn them; ten pair of them have -I worn out and thrown away in a single journey. Now I shoe my feet with -the toughest hides, hard as iron; no rock can cut them, no branches can -tear them. Yet more than one pair of these have I outworn, and many -more shall I outwear ere my journeys are ended. And I think, if God -is gracious to me, that I shall die wearing them. Better so than in a -soft bed with silken coverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, a -woodsman,—these are my preparation of the gospel of peace.” - -“Come, Gregor,” he said, laying his brown hand on the youth’s shoulder, -“come, wear the forester’s boots with me. This is the life to which we -are called. Be strong in the Lord, a hunter of the demons, a subduer of -the wilderness, a woodsman of the faith. Come!” - -The boy’s eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother. She shook her -head vigorously. - -“Nay, father,” she said, “draw not the lad away from my side with -these wild words. I need him to help me with my labors, to cheer my old -age.” - -“Do you need him more than the Master does?” asked Winfried; “and will -you take the wood that is fit for a bow to make a distaff?” - -“But I fear for the child. Thy life is too hard for him. He will perish -with hunger in the woods.” - -“Once,” said Winfried, smiling, “we were camped by the bank of the -river Ohru. The table was spread for the morning meal, but my comrades -cried that it was empty; the provisions were exhausted; we must go -without breakfast, and perhaps starve before we could escape from -the wilderness. While they complained, a fish-hawk flew up from the -river with flapping wings, and let fall a great pike in the midst of -the camp. There was food enough and to spare. Never have I seen the -righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.” - -“But the fierce pagans of the forest,” cried the abbess,—“they may -pierce the boy with their arrows, or dash out his brains with their -axes. He is but a child, too young for the dangers of strife.” - -“A child in years,” replied Winfried, “but a man in spirit. And if the -hero must fall early in the battle, he wears the brighter crown, not a -leaf withered, not a flower fallen.” - -The aged princess trembled a little. She drew Gregor close to her side, -and laid her hand gently on his brown hair. - -“I am not sure that he wants to leave me yet. Besides, there is no -horse in the stable to give him, now, and he cannot go as befits the -grandson of a king.” - -Gregor looked straight into her eyes. - -“Grandmother,” said he, “dear grandmother, if thou wilt not give me a -horse to ride with this man of God, I will go with him afoot.” - - -II - -THE TRAIL THROUGH THE FOREST - -Two years had passed, to a day, almost to an hour, since that Christmas -eve in the cloister of Pfalzel. A little company of pilgrims, less than -a score of men, were creeping slowly northward through the wide forest -that rolled over the hills of central Germany. - -At the head of the band marched Winfried, clad in a tunic of fur, with -his long black robe girt high about his waist, so that it might not -hinder his stride. His hunter’s boots were crusted with snow. Drops of -ice sparkled like jewels along the thongs that bound his legs. There -was no other ornament to his dress except the bishop’s cross hanging on -his breast, and the broad silver clasp that fastened his cloak about -his neck. He carried a strong, tall staff in his hand, fashioned at the -top into the form of a cross. - -Close beside him, keeping step like a familiar comrade, was the young -Prince Gregor. Long marches through the wilderness had stretched his -limbs and broadened his back, and made a man of him in stature as well -as in spirit. His jacket and cap were of wolf-skin, and on his shoulder -he carried an axe, with broad, shining blade. He was a mighty woodsman -now, and could make a spray of chips fly around him as he hewed his way -through the trunk of spruce-tree. - -Behind these leaders followed a pair of teamsters, guiding a rude -sledge, loaded with food and the equipage of the camp, and drawn by two -big, shaggy horses, blowing thick clouds of steam from their frosty -nostrils. Tiny icicles hung from the hairs on their lips. Their flanks -were smoking. They sank above the fetlocks at every step in the soft -snow. - -Last of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and javelins. It was -no child’s play, in those days, to cross Europe afoot. - -The weird woodland, sombre and illimitable, covered hill and vale, -tableland and mountain-peak. There were wide moors where the wolves -hunted in packs as if the devil drove them, and tangled thickets where -the lynx and the boar made their lairs. Fierce bears lurked among the -rocky passes, and had not yet learned to fear the face of man. The -gloomy recesses of the forest gave shelter to inhabitants who were -still more cruel and dangerous than beasts of prey,—outlaws and sturdy -robbers and mad were-wolves and bands of wandering pillagers. - -The pilgrim who would pass from the mouth of the Tiber to the mouth of -the Rhine must travel with a little army of retainers, or else trust in -God and keep his arrows loose in the quiver. - -The travellers were surrounded by an ocean of trees, so vast, so -full of endless billows, that it seemed to be pressing on every side -to overwhelm them. Gnarled oaks, with branches twisted and knotted -as if in rage, rose in groves like tidal waves. Smooth forests of -beech-trees, round and gray, swept over the knolls and slopes of land -in a mighty ground-swell. But most of all, the multitude of pines and -firs, innumerable and monotonous, with straight, stark trunks, and -branches woven together in an unbroken flood of darkest green, crowded -through the valleys and over the hills, rising on the highest ridges -into ragged crests, like the foaming edge of breakers. - -Through this sea of shadows ran a narrow stream of shining -whiteness,—an ancient Roman road, covered with snow. It was as if some -great ship had ploughed through the green ocean long ago, and left -behind it a thick, smooth wake of foam. Along this open track the -travellers held their way,—heavily, for the drifts were deep; warily, -for the hard winter had driven many packs of wolves down from the moors. - -The steps of the pilgrims were noiseless; but the sledges creaked over -the dry snow, and the panting of the horses throbbed through the still, -cold air. The pale-blue shadows on the western side of the road grew -longer. The sun, declining through its shallow arch, dropped behind the -tree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly, as if it had been a bird of prey -waiting for this sign to swoop down upon the world. - -“Father,” said Gregor to the leader, “surely this day’s march is done. -It is time to rest, and eat, and sleep. If we press onward now, we -cannot see our steps; and will not that be against the word of the -psalmist David, who bids us not to put confidence in the legs of a man?” - -Winfried laughed. “Nay, my son Gregor,” said he, “thou hast tripped, -even now, upon thy text. For David said only, ’I take no pleasure in -the legs of a man.’ And so say I, for I am not minded to spare thy legs -or mine, until we come farther on our way, and do what must be done -this night. Draw the belt tighter, my son, and hew me out this tree -that is fallen across the road, for our camp-ground is not here.” - -The youth obeyed; two of the foresters sprang to help him; and while -the soft fir-wood yielded to the stroke of the axes, and the snow flew -from the bending branches, Winfried turned and spoke to his followers -in a cheerful voice, that refreshed them like wine. - -“Courage, brothers, and forward yet a little! The moon will light us -presently, and the path is plain. Well know I that the journey is -weary; and my own heart wearies also for the home in England, where -those I love are keeping feast this Christmas eve. But we have work to -do before we feast to-night. For this is the Yuletide, and the heathen -people of the forest have gathered at the thunder-oak of Geismar to -worship their god, Thor. Strange things will be seen there, and deeds -which make the soul black. But we are sent to lighten their darkness; -and we will teach our kinsmen to keep a Christmas with us such as the -woodland has never known. Forward, then, and let us stiffen up our -feeble knees!” - -A murmur of assent came from the men. Even the horses seemed to take -fresh heart. They flattened their backs to draw the heavy loads, and -blew the frost from their nostrils as they pushed ahead. - -The night grew broader and less oppressive. A gate of brightness was -opened secretly somewhere in the sky; higher and higher swelled the -clear moon-flood, until it poured over the eastern wall of forest -into the road. A drove of wolves howled faintly in the distance, but -they were receding, and the sound soon died away. The stars sparkled -merrily through the stringent air; the small, round moon shone like -silver; little breaths of the dreaming wind wandered whispering across -the pointed fir-tops, as the pilgrims toiled bravely onward, following -their clue of light through a labyrinth of darkness. - -After a while the road began to open out a little. There were spaces of -meadow-land, fringed with alders, behind which a boisterous river ran, -clashing through spears of ice. - -Rude houses of hewn logs appeared in the openings, each one casting a -patch of inky blackness upon the snow. Then the travellers passed a -larger group of dwellings, all silent and unlighted; and beyond, they -saw a great house, with many out-buildings and enclosed courtyards, -from which the hounds bayed furiously, and a noise of stamping horses -came from the stalls. But there was no other sound of life. The fields -around lay bare to the moon. They saw no man, except that once, on a -path that skirted the farther edge of a meadow, three dark figures -passed by, running very swiftly. - -Then the road plunged again into a dense thicket, traversed it, and -climbing to the left, emerged suddenly upon a glade, round and level -except at the northern side, where a swelling hillock was crowned with -a huge oak-tree. It towered above the heath, a giant with contorted -arms, beckoning to the host of lesser trees. “Here,” cried Winfried, -as his eyes flashed and his hand lifted his heavy staff, “here is the -thunder-oak; and here the cross of Christ shall break the hammer of the -false god Thor.” - - -III - -THE SHADOW OF THE THUNDER-OAK - -Withered leaves still clung to the branches of the oak: torn and -faded banners of the departed summer. The bright crimson of autumn -had long since disappeared, bleached away by the storms and the cold. -But to-night these tattered remnants of glory were red again: ancient -blood-stains against the dark-blue sky. For an immense fire had been -kindled in front of the tree. Tongues of ruddy flame, fountains of -ruby sparks, ascended through the spreading limbs and flung a fierce -illumination upward and around. The pale, pure moonlight that bathed -the surrounding forests was quenched and eclipsed here. Not a beam of -it sifted downward through the branches of the oak. It stood like a -pillar of cloud between the still light of heaven and the crackling, -flashing fire of earth. - -But the fire itself was invisible to Winfried and his companions. A -great throng of people were gathered around it in a half-circle, their -backs to the open glade, their faces towards the oak. Seen against that -glowing background, it was but the silhouette of a crowd, vague, black, -formless, mysterious. - -The travellers paused for a moment at the edge of the thicket, and took -counsel together. - -“It is the assembly of the tribe,” said one of the foresters, “the -great night of the council. I heard of it three days ago, as we passed -through one of the villages. All who swear by the old gods have been -summoned. They will sacrifice a steed to the god of war, and drink -blood, and eat horse-flesh to make them strong. It will be at the peril -of our lives if we approach them. At least we must hide the cross, if -we would escape death.” - -“Hide me no cross,” cried Winfried, lifting his staff, “for I have come -to show it, and to make these blind folk see its power. There is more -to be done here to-night than the slaying of a steed, and a greater -evil to be stayed than the shameful eating of meat sacrificed to idols. -I have seen it in a dream. Here the cross must stand and be our rede.” - -At his command the sledge was left in the border of the wood, with -two of the men to guard it, and the rest of the company moved forward -across the open ground. They approached unnoticed, for all the -multitude were looking intently towards the fire at the foot of the oak. - -Then Winfried’s voice rang out, “Hail, ye sons of the forest! A -stranger claims the warmth of your fire in the winter night.” - -Swiftly, and as with a single motion, a thousand eyes were bent upon -the speaker. The semicircle opened silently in the middle; Winfried -entered with his followers; it closed again behind them. - -Then, as they looked round the curving ranks, they saw that the hue of -the assemblage was not black, but white,—dazzling, radiant, solemn. -White, the robes of the women clustered together at the points of the -wide crescent; white, the glittering byrnies of the warriors standing -in close ranks; white, the fur mantles of the aged men who held -the central place in the circle; white, with the shimmer of silver -ornaments and the purity of lamb’s-wool, the raiment of a little group -of children who stood close by the fire; white, with awe and fear, the -faces of all who looked at them; and over all the flickering, dancing -radiance of the flames played and glimmered like a faint, vanishing -tinge of blood on snow. - -The only figure untouched by the glow was the old priest, Hunrad, with -his long, spectral robe, flowing hair and beard, and dead-pale face, -who stood with his back to the fire and advanced slowly to meet the -strangers. - -“Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek you here?” His voice was -heavy and toneless as a muffled bell. - -“Your kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood,” answered Winfried, “and -from England, beyond the sea, have I come to bring you a greeting from -that land, and a message from the All-Father, whose servant I am.” - -“Welcome, then,” said Hunrad, “welcome, kinsman, and be silent; for -what passes here is too high to wait, and must be done before the moon -crosses the middle heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some sign or token -from the gods. Canst thou work miracles?” - -The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope had flashed -through the tangle of the old priest’s mind. But Winfried’s voice sank -lower and a cloud of disappointment passed over his face as he replied: -“Nay, miracles have I never wrought, though I have heard of many; but -the All-Father has given no power to my hands save such as belongs to -common man.” - -“Stand still, then, thou common man,” said Hunrad, scornfully, “and -behold what the gods have called us hither to do. This night is the -death-night of the sun-god, Baldur the Beautiful, beloved of gods -and men. This night is the hour of darkness and the power of winter, -of sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the great Thor, the god of -thunder and war, to whom this oak is sacred, is grieved for the death -of Baldur, and angry with this people because they have forsaken his -worship. Long is it since an offering has been laid upon his altar, -long since the roots of his holy tree have been fed with blood. -Therefore its leaves have withered before the time, and its boughs are -heavy with death. Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in -battle. Therefore the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have -ravaged the folds, and the strength has departed from the bow, and the -wood of the spear has broken, and the wild boar has slain the huntsman. -Therefore the plague has fallen on our dwellings, and the dead are more -than the living in all our villages. Answer me, ye people, are not -these things true?” - -A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A chant, in which -the voices of the men and women blended, like the shrill wind in the -pine-trees above the rumbling thunder of a waterfall, rose and fell in -rude cadences. - - “O Thor, the Thunderer, - Mighty and merciless, - Spare us from smiting! - Heave not thy hammer, - Angry, against us; - Plague not thy people. - Take from our treasure - Richest of ransom. - Silver we send thee, - Jewels and javelins, - Goodliest garments, - All our possessions, - Priceless, we proffer. - Sheep will we slaughter, - Steeds will we sacrifice; - Bright blood shall bathe thee, - O tree of Thunder, - Life-floods shall lave thee, - Strong wood of wonder. - Mighty, have mercy, - Smite us no more, - Spare us and save us, - Spare us, Thor! Thor!” - -With two great shouts the song ended, and a stillness followed so -intense that the crackling of the fire was heard distinctly. The old -priest stood silent for a moment. His shaggy brows swept down over his -eyes like ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face and spoke. - -“None of these things will please the god. More costly is the offering -that shall cleanse your sin, more precious the crimson dew that shall -send new life into this holy tree of blood. Thor claims your dearest -and your noblest gift.” - -Hunrad moved nearer to the handful of children who stood watching the -red mines in the fire and the swarms of spark-serpents darting upward. -They had heeded none of the priest’s words, and did not notice now that -he approached them, so eager were they to see which fiery snake would -go highest among the oak branches. Foremost among them, and most intent -on the pretty game, was a boy like a sunbeam, slender and quick, with -blithe brown eyes and laughing lips. The priest’s hand was laid upon -his shoulder. The boy turned and looked up in his face. - -“Here,” said the old man, with his voice vibrating as when a thick rope -is strained by a ship swinging from her moorings, “here is the chosen -one, the eldest son of the Chief, the darling of the people. Hearken, -Bernhard, wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the heroes dwell with the -gods, to bear a message to Thor?” - -The boy answered, swift and clear: - -“Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me. Is it far away? Shall I -run quickly? Must I take my bow and arrows for the wolves?” - -The boy’s father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing among his bearded -warriors, drew his breath deep, and leaned so heavily on the handle of -his spear that the wood cracked. And his wife, Irma, bending forward -from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair from her forehead with -one hand. The other dragged at the silver chain about her neck until -the rough links pierced her flesh, and the red drops fell unheeded on -the snow of her breast. - -A sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur of the forest before -the storm breaks. Yet no one spoke save Hunrad: - -“Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou have, for the way is -long, and thou art a brave huntsman. But in darkness thou must journey -for a little space, and with eyes blindfolded. Fearest thou?” - -“Naught fear I,” said the boy, “neither darkness, nor the great bear, -nor the were-wolf. For I am Gundhar’s son, and the defender of my folk.” - -Then the priest led the child in his raiment of lamb’s-wool to a broad -stone in front of the fire. He gave him his little bow tipped with -silver, and his spear with shining head of steel. He bound the child’s -eyes with a white cloth, and bade him kneel beside the stone with his -face to the east. Unconsciously the wide arc of spectators drew inward -toward the centre, as the ends of the bow draw together when the cord -is stretched. Winfried moved noiselessly until he stood close behind -the priest. - -The old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone from the -ground,—the sacred hammer of the god Thor. Summoning all the strength -of his withered arms, he swung it high in the air. It poised for an -instant above the child’s fair head—then turned to fall. - -One keen cry shrilled out from where the women stood: “Me! take me! not -Bernhard!” - -The flight of the mother towards her child was swift as the falcon’s -swoop. But swifter still was the hand of the deliverer. - -Winfried’s heavy staff thrust mightily against the hammer’s handle as -it fell. Sideways it glanced from the old man’s grasp, and the black -stone, striking on the altar’s edge, split in twain. A shout of awe and -joy rolled along the living circle. The branches of the oak shivered. -The flames leaped higher. As the shout died away the people saw the -lady Irma, with her arms clasped round her child, and above them, on -the altar-stone, Winfried, his face shining like the face of an angel. - - -IV - -THE FELLING OF THE TREE - -A swift mountain-flood rolling down its channel; a huge rock tumbling -from the hill-side and falling in mid-stream; the baffled waters broken -and confused, pausing in their flow, dash high against the rock, -foaming and murmuring, with divided impulse, uncertain whether to turn -to the right or the left. - -Even so Winfried’s bold deed fell into the midst of the thoughts and -passions of the council. They were at a standstill. Anger and wonder, -reverence and joy and confusion surged through the crowd. They knew not -which way to move: to resent the intrusion of the stranger as an insult -to their gods, or to welcome him as the rescuer of their darling prince. - -The old priest crouched by the altar, silent. Conflicting counsels -troubled the air. Let the sacrifice go forward; the gods must be -appeased. Nay, the boy must not die; bring the chieftain’s best horse -and slay it in his stead; it will be enough; the holy tree loves the -blood of horses. Not so, there is a better counsel yet; seize the -stranger whom the gods have led hither as a victim and make his life -pay the forfeit of his daring. - -The withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered overhead. The fire -flared and sank again. The angry voices clashed against each other and -fell like opposing waves. Then the chieftain Gundhar struck the earth -with his spear and gave his decision. - -“All have spoken, but none are agreed. There is no voice of the -council. Keep silence now, and let the stranger speak. His words shall -give us judgment, whether he is to live or to die.” - -Winfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a roll of parchment -from his bosom, and began to read. - -“A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits on a golden throne, -to the people of the forest, Hessians and Thuringians, Franks and -Saxons. _In nomine Domini, sanctae et individuae trinitatis, amen!_” - -A murmur of awe ran through the crowd. “It is the sacred tongue of the -Romans: the tongue that is heard and understood by the wise men of -every land. There is magic in it. Listen!” - -Winfried went on to read the letter, translating it into the speech of -the people. - -“‘We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and appointed him your -bishop, that he may teach you the only true faith, and baptize you, and -lead you back from the ways of error to the path of salvation. Hearken -to him in all things like a father. Bow your hearts to his teaching. -He comes not for earthly gain, but for the gain of your souls. Depart -from evil works. Worship not the false gods, for they are devils. Offer -no more bloody sacrifices, nor eat the flesh of horses, but do as our -Brother Boniface commands you. Build a house for him that he may dwell -among you, and a church where you may offer your prayers to the only -living God, the Almighty King of Heaven.’” - -It was a splendid message: proud, strong, peaceful, loving. The dignity -of the words imposed mightily upon the hearts of the people. They were -quieted, as men who have listened to a lofty strain of music. - -“Tell us, then,” said Gundhar, “what is the word that thou bringest -to us from the Almighty. What is thy counsel for the tribes of the -woodland on this night of sacrifice?” - -“This is the word, and this is the counsel,” answered Winfried. “Not a -drop of blood shall fall to-night, save that which pity has drawn from -the breast of your princess, in love for her child. Not a life shall -be blotted out in the darkness to-night; but the great shadow of the -tree which hides you from the light of heaven shall be swept away. For -this is the birth-night of the white Christ, son of the All-Father, and -Saviour of mankind. Fairer is He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater -than Odin the Wise, kinder than Freya the Good. Since He has come to -earth the bloody sacrifices must cease. The dark Thor, on whom you -vainly call, is dead. Deep in the shades of Niffelheim he is lost -forever. His power in the world is broken. Will you serve a helpless -god? See, my brothers, you call this tree his oak. Does he dwell here? -Does he protect it?” - -A troubled voice of assent rose from the throng. The people stirred -uneasily. Women covered their eyes. Hunrad lifted his head and muttered -hoarsely, “Thor! take vengeance! Thor!” - -Winfried beckoned to Gregor. “Bring the axes, thine and one for me. -Now, young woodsman, show thy craft! The king-tree of the forest must -fall, and swiftly, or all is lost!” - -The two men took their places facing each other, one on each side of -the oak. Their cloaks were flung aside, their heads bare. Carefully -they felt the ground with their feet, seeking a firm grip of the earth. -Firmly they grasped the axe-helves and swung the shining blades. - -“Tree-god!” cried Winfried, “art thou angry? Thus we smite thee!” - -“Tree-god!” answered Gregor, “art thou mighty? Thus we fight thee!” - -Clang! clang! the alternate strokes beat time upon the hard, ringing -wood. The axe-heads glittered in their rhythmic flight, like fierce -eagles circling about their quarry. - -The broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening gashes in the sides -of the oak. The huge trunk quivered. There was a shuddering in the -branches. Then the great wonder of Winfried’s life came to pass. - -Out of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing noise -sounded overhead. - -Was it the ancient gods on their white battle-steeds, with their black -hounds of wrath and their arrows of lightning, sweeping through the air -to destroy their foes? - -A strong, whirling wind passed over the tree-tops. It gripped the oak -by its branches and tore it from its roots. Backward it fell, like a -ruined tower, groaning and crashing as it split asunder in four great -pieces. - -Winfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a moment in the -presence of almighty power. - -Then he turned to the people, “Here is the timber,” he cried, “already -felled and split for your new building. On this spot shall rise a -chapel to the true God and his servant St. Peter.” - -“And here,” said he, as his eyes fell on a young fir-tree, standing -straight and green, with its top pointing towards the stars, amid the -divided ruins of the fallen oak, “here is the living tree, with no -stain of blood upon it, that shall be the sign of your new worship. See -how it points to the sky. Let us call it the tree of the Christ-child. -Take it up and carry it to the chieftain’s hall. You shall go no more -into the shadows of the forest to keep your feasts with secret rites of -shame. You shall keep them at home, with laughter and song and rites of -love. The thunder-oak has fallen, and I think the day is coming when -there shall not be a home in all Germany where the children are not -gathered around the green fir-tree to rejoice in the birth-night of -Christ.” - -So they took the little fir from its place, and carried it in joyous -procession to the edge of the glade, and laid it on the sledge. The -horses tossed their heads and drew their load bravely, as if the new -burden had made it lighter. - -When they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade them throw open the -doors of the hall and set the tree in the midst of it. They kindled -lights among the branches until it seemed to be tangled full of -fire-flies. The children encircled it, wondering, and the sweet odor of -the balsam filled the house. - -Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on the daïs at the -end of the hall, and told the story of Bethlehem; of the babe in the -manger, of the shepherds on the hills, of the host of angels and their -midnight song. All the people listened, charmed into stillness. - -But the boy Bernhard, on Irma’s knee, folded by her soft arm, grew -restless as the story lengthened, and began to prattle softly at his -mother’s ear. - -“Mother,” whispered the child, “why did you cry out so loud, when the -priest was going to send me to Valhalla?” - -“Oh, hush, my child,” answered the mother, and pressed him closer to -her side. - -“Mother,” whispered the boy again, laying his finger on the stains upon -her breast, “see, your dress is red! What are these stains? Did some -one hurt you?” - -The mother closed his mouth with a kiss. “Dear, be still, and listen!” - -The boy obeyed. His eyes were heavy with sleep. But he heard the last -words of Winfried as he spoke of the angelic messengers, flying over -the hills of Judea and singing as they flew. The child wondered and -dreamed and listened. Suddenly his face grew bright. He put his lips -close to Irma’s cheek again. - -“Oh, mother!” he whispered very low, “do not speak. Do you hear them? -Those angels have come back again. They are singing now behind the -tree.” - -And some say that it was true; but others say that it was only Gregor -and his companions at the lower end of the hall, chanting their -Christmas hymn: - - “‘All glory be to God on high, - And to the earth be peace! - Good-will, henceforth, from heaven to men - Begin, and never cease.’” - - - - - A FRENCH TAR-BABY - - BY - - JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS - -The fable was one of the first tributaries to the stream of -story-telling. Primitive man with a kind of fine democracy claimed -kinship with the animals about him. So Hiawatha learned the language -and the secrets of birds and beasts, - - “Talked with them whene’er he met them, - Called them Hiawatha’s Brothers.” - -Out of this intimacy and understanding grew the fable, wherein animals -thought, acted, and talked in the terms of human life. This kind of -story is illustrated by the “Fables” of Æsop, the animal stories of -Ernest Thompson-Seton, the “Jungle Books” of Rudyard Kipling, and the -“Uncle Remus” stories of Joel Chandler Harris. The fable is a tale -rather than a true short-story. - - - - -A FRENCH TAR-BABY[4] - - -In the time when there were hobgoblins and fairies, Brother Goat and -Brother Rabbit lived in the same neighborhood, not far from each other. - -Proud of his long beard and sharp horns, Brother Goat looked on Brother -Rabbit with disdain. He would hardly speak to Brother Rabbit when he -met him, and his greatest pleasure was to make his little neighbor the -victim of his tricks and practical jokes. For instance, he would say: - -“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Fox,” and this would cause Brother Rabbit -to run away as hard as he could. Again he would say: - -“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Wolf,” and poor Brother Rabbit would shake -and tremble with fear. Sometimes he would cry out: - -“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Tiger,” and then Brother Rabbit would -shudder and think that his last hour had come. - -Tired of this miserable existence, Brother Rabbit tried to think of -some means by which he could change his powerful and terrible neighbor -into a friend. After a time he thought he had discovered a way to make -Brother Goat his friend, and so he invited him to dinner. - -Brother Goat was quick to accept the invitation. The dinner was a -fine affair, and there was an abundance of good eating. A great many -different dishes were served. Brother Goat licked his mouth and shook -his long beard with satisfaction. He had never before been present at -such a feast. - -“Well, my friend,” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, when the dessert was -brought in, “how do you like your dinner?” - -“I could certainly wish for nothing better,” replied Brother Goat, -rubbing the tips of his horns against the back of his chair; “but my -throat is very dry and a little water would hurt neither the dinner nor -me.” - -“Gracious!” said Brother Rabbit, “I have neither wine-cellar nor water. -I am not in the habit of drinking while I am eating.” - -“Neither have I any water, Brother Rabbit,” said Brother Goat. “But I -have an idea! If you will go with me over yonder by the big poplar, we -will dig a well.” - -“No, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit, who hoped to revenge -himself—“no, I do not care to dig a well. At daybreak I drink the dew -from the cups of the flowers, and in the heat of the day I milk the -cows and drink the cream.” - -“Well and good,” said Brother Goat. “Alone I will dig the well, and -alone I will drink out of it.” - -“Success to you, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit. - -“Thank you kindly, Brother Rabbit.” - -Brother Goat then went to the foot of the big poplar and began to dig -his well. He dug with his forefeet and with his horns, and the well got -deeper and deeper. Soon the water began to bubble up and the well was -finished, and then Brother Goat made haste to quench his thirst. He was -in such a hurry that his beard got in the water, but he drank and drank -until he had his fill. - -Brother Rabbit, who had followed him at a little distance, hid himself -behind a bush and laughed heartily. He said to himself: “What an -innocent creature you are!” - -The next day, when Brother Goat, with his big beard and sharp horns, -returned to his well to get some water, he saw the tracks of Brother -Rabbit in the soft earth. This put him to thinking. He sat down, pulled -his beard, scratched his head, and tapped himself on the forehead. - -“My friend,” he exclaimed after a while, “I will catch you yet.” - -Then he ran and got his tools (for Brother Goat was something of a -carpenter in those days) and made a large doll out of laurel wood. -When the doll was finished, he spread tar on it here and there, on the -right and on the left, and up and down. He smeared it all over with the -sticky stuff, until it was as black as a Guinea negro. - -This finished, Brother Goat waited quietly until evening. At sunset he -placed the tarred doll near the well, and ran and hid himself behind -the trees and bushes. The moon had just risen, and the heavens twinkled -with millions of little star-torches. - -Brother Rabbit, who was waiting in his house, believed that the time -had come for him to get some water, so he took his bucket and went to -Brother Goat’s well. On the way he was very much afraid that something -would catch him. He trembled when the wind shook the leaves of the -trees. He would go a little distance and then stop and listen; he hid -here behind a stone, and there behind a tuft of grass. - -At last he arrived at the well, and there he saw the little negro. He -stopped and looked at it with astonishment. Then he drew back a little -way, advanced again, drew back, advanced a little, and stopped once -more. - -“What can that be?” he said to himself. He listened, with his long ears -pointed forward, but the trees could not talk, and the bushes were -dumb. He winked his eyes and lowered his head: - -“Hey, friend! who are you?” he asked. - -The tar-doll didn’t move. Brother Rabbit went up a little closer, and -asked again: - -“Who are you?” - -The tar-doll said nothing. Brother Rabbit breathed more at ease. Then -he went to the brink of the well, but when he looked in the water the -tar-doll seemed to look in too. He could see her reflection in the -water. This made Brother Rabbit so mad that he grew red in the face. - -“See here!” he exclaimed, “if you look in this well I’ll give you a rap -on the nose!” - -Brother Rabbit leaned over the brink of the well, and saw the tar-doll -smiling at him in the water. He raised his right hand and hit her—bam! -His hand stuck. - -“What’s this?” exclaimed Brother Rabbit. “Turn me loose, imp of Satan! -If you do not, I will rap you on the eye with my other hand.” - -Then he hit her—bim! The left hand stuck also. Then Brother Rabbit -raised his right foot, saying: - -“Mark me well, little Congo! Do you see this foot? I will kick you in -the stomach if you do not turn me loose this instant.” - -No sooner said than done. Brother Rabbit let fly his right foot—vip! -The foot stuck, and he raised the other. - -“Do you see this foot?” he exclaimed. “If I hit you with it, you will -think a thunderbolt has struck you.” - -Then he kicked her with the left foot, and it also stuck like the -other, and Brother Rabbit held fast his Guinea negro. - -“Watch out, now!” he cried. “I’ve already butted a great many people -with my head. If I butt you in your ugly face I’ll knock it into a -jelly. Turn me loose! Oho! you don’t answer?” Bap! - -“Guinea girl!” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, “are you dead? Gracious -goodness! how my head does stick!” - -When the sun rose, Brother Goat went to his well to find out something -about Brother Rabbit. The result was beyond his expectations. - -“Hey, little rogue, big rogue!” exclaimed Brother Goat. “Hey, Brother -Rabbit! what are you doing there? I thought you drank the dew from the -cups of the flowers, or milk from the cows. Aha, Brother Rabbit! I will -punish you for stealing my water.” - -“I am your friend,” said Brother Rabbit; “don’t kill me.” - -“Thief, thief!” cried Brother Goat, and then he ran quickly into the -woods, gathered up a pile of dry limbs, and made a great fire. He took -Brother Rabbit from the tar-doll, and prepared to burn him alive. As he -was passing a thicket of brambles with Brother Rabbit on his shoulders, -Brother Goat met his daughter Bélédie, who was walking about in the -fields. - -“Where are you going, papa, muffled up with such a burden? Come and -eat the fresh grass with me, and throw wicked Brother Rabbit in the -brambles.” - -Cunning Brother Rabbit raised his long ears and pretended to be very -much frightened. - -“Oh, no, Brother Goat!” he cried. “Don’t throw me in the brambles. They -will tear my flesh, put out my eyes, and pierce my heart. Oh, I pray -you, rather throw me in the fire.” - -“Aha, little rogue, big rogue! Aha, Brother Rabbit!” exclaimed Brother -Goat, exultingly, “you don’t like the brambles? Well, then, go and -laugh in them,” and he threw Brother Rabbit in without a feeling of -pity. - -Brother Rabbit fell in the brambles, leaped to his feet, and began to -laugh. - -“Ha-ha-ha! Brother Goat, what a simpleton you are!—ha-ha-ha! A better -bed I never had! In these brambles I was born!” - -Brother Goat was in despair, but he could not help himself. Brother -Rabbit was safe. - -A long beard is not always a sign of intelligence. - - - - -SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’ - -BY - -RUTH MCENERY STUART - -This is the story of character, in the form of dramatic monologue. -There is only one speaker, but we know by his words that another is -present and can infer his part in the conversation. This story has the -additional values of humor and local color. - - - - -SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’[5] - - -Yas, sir, wife an’ me, we’ve turned ’Piscopals—all on account o’ -Sonny. He seemed to prefer that religion, an’ of co’se we wouldn’t have -the family divided, so we’re a-goin’ to be ez good ’Piscopals ez we can. - -I reckon it’ll come a little bit awkward at first. Seem like I never -will git so thet I can sass back in church ’thout feelin’ sort o’ -impident—but I reckon I’ll chirp up an’ come to it, in time. - -I never was much of a hand to sound the amens, even in our own -Methodist meetin’s. - -Sir? How old is he? Oh, Sonny’s purty nigh six—but he showed a -pref’ence for the ’Piscopal Church long fo’ he could talk. - -When he wasn’t no mo’ ’n three year old we commenced a-takin’ him -round to church wherever they held meetin’s,—’Piscopals, Methodists -or Presbyterians,—so’s he could see an’ hear for hisself. I ca’yed -him to a baptizin’ over to Chinquepin Crik, once-t, when he was three. -I thought I’d let him see it done an’ maybe it might make a good -impression; but no, sir! The Baptists didn’t suit him! Cried ever’ -time one was douced, an’ I had to fetch him away. In our Methodist -meetin’s he seemed to git worked up an’ pervoked, some way. An’ the -Presbyterians, he didn’t take no stock in them at all. Ricollect, one -Sunday the preacher, he preached a mighty powerful disco’se on the -doctrine o’ lost infants not ’lected to salvation—an’ Sonny? Why, he -slep’ right thoo it. - -The first any way lively interest he ever seemed to take in religious -services was at the ’Piscopals, Easter Sunday. When he seen the lilies -an’ the candles he thess clapped his little hands, an’ time the folks -commenced answerin’ back he was tickled all but to death, an’ started -answerin’ hisself—on’y, of co’se he’d answer sort o’ hit an’ miss. - -I see then thet Sonny was a natu’al-born ‘Piscopal, an’ we might ez -well make up our minds to it—an’ I told _her_ so, too. They say some -is born so. But we thought we’d let him alone an’ let nature take its -co’se for a while—not pressin’ him one way or another. He never had -showed no disposition to be christened, an’ ever sence the doctor tried -to vaccinate him he seemed to git the notion that christenin’ an’ -vaccination was mo’ or less the same thing; an’ sence that time, he’s -been mo’ opposed to it than ever. - -Sir? Oh no, sir. He didn’t vaccinate him; he thess tried to do it; -but Sonny, he wouldn’t begin to allow it. We all tried to indoose -’im. I offered him everything on the farm ef he’d thess roll up his -little sleeve an’ let the doctor look at his arm—promised him thet he -wouldn’t tech a needle to it tell he said the word. But he wouldn’t. He -’lowed thet me an’ his mamma could git vaccinated ef we wanted to, but -he wouldn’t. - -Then we showed him our marks where we had been vaccinated when we was -little, an’ told him how it had kep’ us clair o’ havin’ the smallpock -all our lives. - -Well, sir, it didn’t make no diff’ence whether we’d been did befo’ or -not, he ’lowed thet he wanted to see us vaccinated ag’in. - -An’ so, of co’se, thinkin’ it might encour’ge him, we thess had it did -over—tryin’ to coax him to consent after each one, an’ makin’ pertend -like we enjoyed it. - -Then, nothin’ would do but the nigger, Dicey, had to be did, an’ -then he ’lowed thet he wanted the cat did, an’ I tried to strike a -bargain with him thet if Kitty got vaccinated he would. But he wouldn’t -comp’omise. He thess let on thet Kit had to be did whe’r or no. So I -ast the doctor ef it would likely kill the cat, an’ he said he reckoned -not, though it might sicken her a little. So I told him to go ahead. -Well, sir, befo’ Sonny got thoo, he had had that cat an’ both dogs -vaccinated—but let it tech hisself he would not. - -I was mighty sorry not to have it did, ’cause they was a nigger thet -had the smallpock down to Cedar Branch, fifteen mile away, an’ he -didn’t die, neither. He got well. An’ they say when they git well -they’re more fatal to a neighborhood ‘n when they die. - -That was fo’ months ago now, but to this day ever’ time the wind blows -from sou’west I feel oneasy, an’ try to entice Sonny to play on the far -side o’ the house. - -Well, sir, in about ten days after that we was the down-in-the-mouthest -crowd on that farm, man an’ beast, thet you ever see. Ever’ last one o’ -them vaccinations took, sir, an’ took severe, from the cat up. - -But I reckon we’re all safe-t guarded now. They ain’t nothin’ on the -place thet can fetch it to Sonny, an’ I trust, with care, he may never -be exposed. - -But I set out to tell you about Sonny’s christenin’ an’ us turnin’ -‘Piscopal. Ez I said, he never seemed to want baptism, though he had -heard us discuss all his life both it an’ vaccination ez the two -ordeels to be gone thoo with some time, an’ we’d speculate ez to -whether vaccination would take or not, an’ all sech ez that, an’ then, -ez I said, after he see what the vaccination was, why he was even -mo’ prejudyced agin’ baptism ‘n ever, an’ we ’lowed to let it run on -tell sech a time ez he’d decide what name he’d want to take an’ what -denomination he’d want to bestow it on him. - -Wife, she’s got some ‘Piscopal relations thet she sort o’ looks up -to,—though she don’t own it,—but she was raised Methodist an’ I was -raised a true-blue Presbyterian. But when we professed after Sonny -come we went up together at Methodist meetin’. What we was after was -righteous livin’, an’ we didn’t keer much which denomination helped us -to it. - -An’ so, feelin’ friendly all roun’ that-a-way, we thought we’d -leave Sonny to pick his church when he got ready, an’ then they -wouldn’t be nothin’ to undo or do over in case he went over to the -‘Piscopals, which has the name of revisin’ over any other church’s -performances—though sence we’ve turned ‘Piscopals we’ve found out that -ain’t so. - -Of co’se the preachers, they used to talk to us about it once-t in a -while,—seemed to think it ought to be did,—’ceptin’, of co’se, the -Baptists. - -Well, sir, it went along so till last week. Sonny ain’t but, ez I said, -thess not quite six year old, an’ they seemed to be time enough. But -last week he had been playin’ out o’ doors bare-feeted, thess same ez -he always does, an’ he tramped on a pine splinter some way. Of co’se, -pine, it’s the safe-t-est splinter a person can run into a foot, on -account of its carryin’ its own turpentine in with it to heal up -things; but any splinter thet dast to push itself up into a little pink -foot is a messenger of trouble, an’ we know it. An’ so, when we see -this one, we tried ever’ way to coax him to let us take it out, but he -wouldn’t, of co’se. He never will, an’ somehow the Lord seems to give -’em ambition to work their own way out mos’ gen’ally. - -But, sir, this splinter didn’t seem to have no energy in it. It thess -lodged there, an’ his little foot it commenced to swell, an’ it swole -an’ swole tell his little toes stuck out so thet the little pig thet -went to market looked like ez ef it wasn’t on speakin’ terms with -the little pig thet stayed home, an’ wife an’ me we watched it, an’ I -reckon she prayed over it consider’ble, an’ I read a extry psalm at -night befo’ I went to bed, all on account o’ that little foot. An’ -night befo’ las’ it was lookin’ mighty angry an’ swole, an’ he had -limped an’ “ouched!” consider’ble all day, an’ he was mighty fretful -bed-time. So, after he went to sleep, wife she come out on the po’ch -where I was settin’, and she says to me, says she, her face all drawed -up an’ workin’, says she: “Honey,” says she, “I reckon we better -sen’ for him an’ have it did.” Thess so, she said it. “Sen’ for who, -wife?” says I, “an’ have what did?” “Why, sen’ for him, the ‘Piscopal -preacher,” says she, “an’ have Sonny christened. Them little toes o’ -hisn is ez red ez cherry tomatoes. They burnt my lips thess now like a -coal o’ fire an’—an’ lockjaw is goin’ roun’ tur’ble. - -“Seems to me,” says she, “when he started to git sleepy, he didn’t gap -ez wide ez he gen’ly does—an’ I’m ’feered he’s a-gittin’ it now.” An’, -sir, with that, she thess gathered up her apron an’ mopped her face in -it an’ give way. An’ ez for me, I didn’t seem to have no mo’ backbone -down my spinal colume ‘n a feather bolster has, I was that weak. - -I never ast her why she didn’t sen’ for our own preacher. I knowed then -ez well ez ef she’d ’a’ told me why she done it—all on account o’ -Sonny bein’ so tickled over the ‘Piscopals’ meetin’s. - -It was mos’ nine o’clock then, an’ a dark night, an’ rainin’, but I -never said a word—they wasn’t no room round the edges o’ the lump in -my throat for words to come out ef they’d ’a’ been one surgin’ up there -to say, which they wasn’t—but I thess went out an’ saddled my horse -an’ I rid into town. Stopped first at the doctor’s an’ sent him out, -though I knowed ’twouldn’t do no good; Sonny wouldn’t ’low him to tech -it; but I sent him out anyway, to look at it, an’, ef possible, console -wife a little. Then I rid on to the rector’s an’ ast him to come out -immejate an’ baptize Sonny. But nex’ day was his turn to preach down -at Sandy Crik, an’ he couldn’t come that night, but he promised to -come right after services nex’ mornin’—which he done—rid the whole -fo’teen mile from Sandy Crik here in the rain, too, which I think is a -evidence o’ Christianity, though no sech acts is put down in my book o’ -“evidences” where they ought rightfully to be. - -Well, sir, when I got home that night, I found wife a heap cheerfuler. -The doctor had give Sonny a big apple to eat an’ pernounced him free -from all symptoms o’ lockjaw. But when I come the little feller had -crawled ’back under the bed an’ lay there, eatin’ his apple, an’ they -couldn’t git him out. Soon ez the doctor had teched a poultice to his -foot he had woke up an’ put a stop to it, an’ then he had went off -by hisself where nothin’ couldn’t pester him, to enjoy his apple in -peace. An’ we never got him out tell he heered us tellin’ the doctor -good-night. - -I tried ever’ way to git him out—even took up a coal o’ fire an’ poked -it under at him; but he thess laughed at that an’ helt his apple agin’ -it an’ made it sizz. Well, sir, he seemed so tickled that I helt that -coal o’ fire for him tell he cooked a good big spot on one side o’ the -apple, an’ et it, an’ then, when I took it out, he called for another, -but I didn’t give it to him. I don’t see no use in over-indulgin’ a -child. An’ when he knowed the doctor was gone, he come out an’ finished -roastin’ his apple by the fire—thess what was left of it ’round the -co’e. - -Well, sir, we was mightily comforted by the doctor’s visit, but nex’ -mornin’ things looked purty gloomy ag’in. That little foot seemed -a heap worse, an’ he was sort o’ flushed an’ feverish, an’ wife she -thought she heard a owl hoot, an’ Rover made a mighty funny gurgly -sound in his th’oat like ez ef he had bad news to tell us, but didn’t -have the courage to speak it. - -An’ then, on top o’ that, the nigger Dicey, she come in an’ ’lowed -she had dreamed that night about eatin’ spare-ribs, which everybody -knows to dream about fresh pork out o’ season, which this is July, -is considered a shore sign o’ death. Of co’se, wife an’ me, we don’t -b’lieve in no sech ez that, but ef you ever come to see yo’ little -feller’s toes stand out the way Sonny’s done day befo’ yesterday, why, -sir, you’ll be ready to b’lieve anything. It’s so much better now, you -can’t judge of its looks day befo’ yesterday. We never had even so much -ez considered it necessary thet little children should be christened -to have ’em saved, but when things got on the ticklish edge, like they -was then, why, we felt thet the safest side is the wise side, an’, of -co’se, we want Sonny to have the best of everything. So, we was mighty -thankful when we see the rector comin’. But, sir, when I went out to -open the gate for him, what on top o’ this round hemisp’ere do you -reckon Sonny done? Why, sir, he thess took one look at the gate an’ -then he cut an’ run hard ez he could—limped acrost the yard thess like -a flash o’ zig-zag lightnin’—an’ ’fore anybody could stop him, he had -clumb to the tip top o’ the butter-bean arbor—clumb it thess like a -cat—an’ there he set, a-swingin’ his feet under him, an’ laughin’, the -rain thess a-streakin’ his hair all over his face. - -That bean arbor is a favoryte place for him to escape to, ’cause it’s -too high to reach, an’ it ain’t strong enough to bear no grown-up -person’s weight. - -Well, sir, the rector, he come in an’ opened his valise an’ ’rayed -hisself in his robes an’ opened his book, an’ while he was turnin’ the -leaves, he faced ’round an’ says he, lookin’ at me _di_rec’, says he: - -“Let the child be brought forward for baptism,” says he, thess -that-a-way. - -Well, sir, I looked at wife, an’ wife, she looked at me, an’ then we -both thess looked out at the butter-bean arbor. - -I knowed then thet Sonny wasn’t never comin’ down while the rector -was there, an’ rector, he seemed sort o’ fretted for a minute when he -see how things was, an’ he did try to do a little settin’ fo’th of -opinions. He ’lowed, speakin’ in a mighty pompious manner, thet holy -things wasn’t to be trifled with, an’ thet he had come to baptize the -child accordin’ to the rites o’ the church. - -Well, that sort o’ talk, it thess rubbed me the wrong way, an’ I up an’ -told him thet that might be so, but thet the rites o’ the church didn’t -count for nothin’, on our farm, to the rights o’ the boy! - -I reckon it was mighty disrespec’ful o’ me to face him that-a-way, an’ -him adorned in all his robes, too, but I’m thess a plain up-an’-down -man an’ I hadn’t went for him to come an’ baptize Sonny to uphold the -granjer of no church. I was ready to do that when the time come, but -right now we was workin’ in Sonny’s interests, an’ I intended to have -it understood that way. An’ it was. - -Rector, he’s a mighty good, kind-hearted man, git down to the man -inside the preacher, an’ when he see thess how things stood, why, he -come ’round friendly, an’ he went out on the po’ch an’ united with -us in tryin’ to help coax Sonny down. First started by promisin’ him -speritual benefits, but he soon see that wasn’t no go, and he tried -worldly persuasion; but no, sir, stid o’ him comin’ down, Sonny started -orderin’ the rest of us christened thess the way he done about the -vaccination. But, of co’se, we had been baptized befo’, an’ we nachelly -helt out agin’ that for some time. But d’rec’ly rector, he seemed to -have a sudden idee, an’ says he, facin’ ’round, church-like, to wife -an’ me, says he: - -“Have you both been baptized accordin’ to the rites o’ the church?” - -An’ me, thinkin’ of co’se he meant the ‘Piscopal Church, says: “No, -sir,” says I, thess so. And then we see that the way was open for us -to be did over ag’in ef we wanted to. So, sir, wife an’ me we was took -into the church, then an’ there. We wouldn’t ’a’ yielded to him, -thoo an’ thoo, that-a-way ag’in ef his little foot hadn’t ’a’’ been -so swole, an’ he maybe takin’ his death o’ cold settin’ out in the -po’in’-down rain; but things bein’ as they was, we went thoo it with -all due respects. - -Then he commenced callin’ for Dicey, an’ the dog, an’ the cat, to be -did, same ez he done befo’; but, of co’se, they’s some liberties thet -even a innocent child can’t take with the waters o’ baptism, an’ the -rector he got sort o’ wo’e-out and disgusted an’ ’lowed thet ’less’n we -could get the child ready for baptism he’d haf to go home. - -Well, sir, I knowed we wouldn’t never git ’im down, an’ I had went for -the rector to baptize him, an’ I intended to have it did, ef possible. -So, says I, turnin’ ’round an’ facin’ him square, says I: “Rector,” -says I, “why not baptize him where he is? I mean it. The waters o’ -Heaven are descendin’ upon him where he sets, an’ seems to me ef he’s -favo’bly situated for anything it is for baptism.” Well, parson, he -thess looked at me up an’ down for a minute, like ez ef he s’picioned -I was wanderin’ in my mind, but he didn’t faze me. I thess kep’ up my -argiment. Says I: “Parson,” says I, speakin’ thess ez ca’m ez I am -this minute—“Parson,” says I, “his little foot is mighty swole, an’ -so’e, an’ that splinter—thess s’pose he was to take the lockjaw an’ -die—don’t you reckon you might do it where he sets—from where you -stand?” - -Wife, she was cryin’ by this time, an’ parson, he claired his th’oat -an’ coughed, an’ then he commenced walkin’ up an’ down, an’ treckly he -stopped, an’ says he, speakin’ mighty reverential an’ serious: - -“Lookin’ at this case speritually, an’ as a minister o’ the Gospel,” -says he, “it seems to me thet the question ain’t so much a question of -_doin’_ ez it is a question of _withholdin’_. I don’t know,” says he, -“ez I’ve got a right to withhold the sacrament of baptism from a child -under these circumstances or to deny sech comfort to his parents ez -lies in my power to bestow.” - -An’, sir, with that he stepped out to the end o’ the po’ch, opened -his book ag’in, an’ holdin’ up his right hand to’ards Sonny, settin’ -on top o’ the bean-arbor in the rain, he commenced to read the -service o’ baptism, an’ we stood proxies—which is a sort o’ a dummy -substitutes—for whatever godfather an’ mother Sonny see fit to choose -in after life. - -Parson, he looked half like ez ef he’d laugh once-t. When he had thess -opened his book and started to speak, a sudden streak o’ sunshine shot -out an’ the rain started to ease up, an’ it looked for a minute ez ef -he was goin’ to lose the baptismal waters. But d’rec’ly it come down -stiddy ag’in an’ he went thoo the programme entire. - -An’ Sonny, he behaved mighty purty; set up perfec’ly ca’m an’ composed -thoo it all, an’ took everything in good part, though he didn’t -p’intedly know who was bein’ baptized, ’cause, of co’se, he couldn’t -hear the words with the rain in his ears. - -He didn’t rightly sense the situation tell it come to the part where it -says: “Name this child,” and, of co’se, I called out to Sonny to name -hisself, which it had always been our intention to let him do. - -“Name yo’self, right quick, like a good boy,” says I. - -Of co’se Sonny had all his life heered me say thet I was Deuteronomy -Jones, Senior, an’ thet I hoped some day when he got christened he’d be -the junior. He knowed that by heart, an’ would agree to it or dispute -it, ’cordin’ to how the notion took him, and I sort o’ ca’culated thet -he’d out with it now. But no, sir! Not a word! He thess sot up on thet -bean-arbor an’ grinned. - -An’ so, feelin’ put to it, with the services suspended over my head, I -spoke up, an’ I says: “Parson,” says I, “I reckon ef he was to speak -his little heart, he’d say Deuteronomy Jones, Junior.” An’ with thet -what does Sonny do but conterdic’ me flat! “No, not Junior! I want to -be named Deuteronomy Jones, Senior!” says he, thess so. An’ parson, -he looked to’ards me, an’ I bowed my head an’ he pronounced thess one -single name, “Deuteronomy,” an’ I see he wasn’t goin’ to say no more -an’ so I spoke up quick, an’ says I: “Parson,” says I, “he has spoke -his heart’s desire. He has named hisself after me entire—Deuteronomy -Jones, Senior.” - -An’ so he was obligated to say it, an’ so it is writ in the family -record colume in the big Bible, though I spelt his Senior with a little -s, an’ writ him down ez the only son of the Senior with the big S, -which it seems to me fixes it about right for the time bein’. - -Well, when the rector had got thoo an’ he had wropped up his robes an’ -put ’em in his wallet, an’ had told us to prepare for conformation, he -pernounced a blessin’ upon us an’ went. - -Then Sonny seein’ it was all over, why, _he come down_. He was wet ez -a drownded rat, but wife rubbed him off an’ give him some hot tea an’ -he come a-snuggin’ up in my lap, thess ez sweet a child ez you ever -see in yo’ life, an’ I talked to him ez fatherly ez I could, told him -we was all ‘Piscopals now, an’ soon ez his little foot got well I was -goin’ to take him out to Sunday-school to tote a banner—all his little -‘Piscopal friends totes banners—an’ thet he could pick out some purty -candles for the altar, an’ he ’lowed immejate thet he’d buy pink ones. -Sonny always was death on pink—showed it from the time he could snatch -a pink rose—an’ wife she ain’t never dressed him in nothin’ else. -Ever’ pair o’ little breeches he’s got is either pink or pink-trimmed. - -Well, I talked along to him till I worked ’round to shamin’ him a -little for havin’ to be christened settin’ up on top a bean-arbor, same -ez a crow-bird, which I told him the parson he wouldn’t ’a’’ done ef -he’d ’a’’ felt free to ’ve left it undone. ’Twasn’t to indulge him he -done it, but to bless him an’ to comfort our hearts. Well, after I had -reasoned with him severe that-a-way a while, he says, says he, thess ez -sweet an’ mild, says he, “Daddy, nex’ time y’all gits christened, I’ll -come down an’ be christened right—like a good boy.” - -Th’ ain’t a sweeter child in’ardly ‘n what Sonny is, nowheres, git him -to feel right comf’table, and I know it, an’ that’s why I have patience -with his little out’ard ways. - -“Yes, sir,” says he; “nex’ time I’ll be christened like a good boy.” - -Then, of co’se, I explained to him thet it couldn’t never be did no -mo’, ’cause it had been did, an’ did ‘Piscopal, which is secure. An’ -then what you reckon the little feller said? - -Says he, “Yes, daddy, but _s’pos’in’ mine don’t take_. How ’bout that?” - -An’ I didn’t try to explain no further. What was the use? Wife, she -had drawed a stool close-t up to my knee, an’ set there sortin’ out -the little yaller rings ez they’d dry out on his head, an’ when he -said that I thess looked at her an’ we both looked at him, an’ says I, -“Wife,” says I, “ef they’s anything in heavenly looks an’ behavior, I -b’lieve that christenin’ is started to take on him a’ready.” - -An’ I b’lieve it had. - - CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN - BY - JOHN FOX, JR. - - “All that is literature seeks to communicate power.”[6] Here the power - communicated is that of sympathizing with God’s “lesser children.” - The humanitarian story is a long step in advance of the fable. It - recognizes the true relations of the animal world to man, and insists - that it be dealt with righteously and sympathetically. - - - - -CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN[7] - - -No night was this in Hades with solemn-eyed Dante, for Satan was only -a woolly little black dog, and surely no dog was ever more absurdly -misnamed. When Uncle Carey first heard that name, he asked gravely: - -“Why, Dinnie, where in h——,” Uncle Carey gulped slightly, “did you -get him?” And Dinnie laughed merrily, for she saw the fun of the -question, and shook her black curls. - -“He didn’t come f’um _that place_.” - -Distinctly Satan had not come from that place. On the contrary, -he might by a miracle have dropped straight from some Happy -Hunting-Ground, for all the signs he gave of having touched pitch in -this or another sphere. Nothing human was ever born that was gentler, -merrier, more trusting or more lovable than Satan. That was why Uncle -Carey said again gravely that he could hardly tell Satan and his -little mistress apart. He rarely saw them apart, and as both had black -tangled hair and bright black eyes; as one awoke every morning with a -happy smile and the other with a jolly bark; as they played all day -like wind-shaken shadows and each won every heart at first sight—the -likeness was really rather curious. I have always believed that Satan -made the spirit of Dinnie’s house, orthodox and severe though it was, -almost kindly toward his great namesake. I know I have never been able, -since I knew little Satan, to think old Satan as bad as I once painted -him, though I am sure the little dog had many pretty tricks that the -“old boy” doubtless has never used in order to amuse his friends. - -“Shut the door, Saty, please,” Dinnie would say, precisely as she would -say it to Uncle Billy, the butler, and straightway Satan would launch -himself at it—bang! He never would learn to close it softly, for Satan -liked that—bang! - -If you kept tossing a coin or marble in the air, Satan would keep -catching it and putting it back in your hand for another throw, till -you got tired. Then he would drop it on a piece of rag carpet, snatch -the carpet with his teeth, throw the coin across the room, and rush for -it like mad, until he got tired. If you put a penny on his nose, he -would wait until you counted, one—two—_three_! Then he would toss it -up himself and catch it. Thus, perhaps, Satan grew to love Mammon right -well, but for another and better reason than that he liked simply to -throw it around—as shall now be made plain. - -A rubber ball with a hole in it was his favorite plaything, and he -would take it in his mouth and rush around the house like a child, -squeezing it to make it whistle. When he got a new ball, he would hide -his old one away until the new one was the worse worn of the two, and -then he would bring out the old one again. If Dinnie gave him a nickel -or a dime, when they went down-town, Satan would rush into a store, -rear up on the counter where the rubber balls were kept, drop the coin, -and get a ball for himself. Thus, Satan learned finance. He began to -hoard his pennies, and one day Uncle Carey found a pile of seventeen -under a corner of the carpet. Usually he carried to Dinnie all coins -that he found in the street, but he showed one day that he was going -into the ball-business for himself. Uncle Carey had given Dinnie a -nickel for some candy, and, as usual, Satan trotted down the street -behind her. As usual, Satan stopped before the knick-knack shop. - -“Tum on, Saty,” said Dinnie. Satan reared against the door as he always -did, and Dinnie said again: - -“Tum on, Saty.” As usual, Satan dropped to his haunches, but what was -unusual, he failed to bark. Now Dinnie had got a new ball for Satan -only that morning, so Dinnie stamped her foot. - -“I tell you to tum on, Saty.” Satan never moved. He looked at Dinnie as -much as to say: - -“I have never disobeyed you before, little mistress, but this time -I have an excellent reason for what must seem to you very bad -manners——” and being a gentleman withal, Satan rose on his haunches -and begged. - -“You’re des a pig, Saty,” said Dinnie, but with a sigh for the candy -that was not to be, Dinnie opened the door, and Satan, to her wonder, -rushed to the counter, put his forepaws on it, and dropped from his -mouth a dime. Satan had found that coin on the street. He didn’t bark -for change, nor beg for two balls, but he had got it in his woolly -little head, somehow, that in that store a coin meant a ball, though -never before nor afterward did he try to get a ball for a penny. - -Satan slept in Uncle Carey’s room, for of all people, after Dinnie, -Satan loved Uncle Carey best. Every day at noon he would go to an -upstairs window and watch the cars come around the corner, until a very -tall, square-shouldered young man swung to the ground, and down Satan -would scamper—yelping—to meet him at the gate. If Uncle Carey, after -supper and when Dinnie was in bed, started out of the house, still in -his business clothes, Satan would leap out before him, knowing that he -too might be allowed to go; but if Uncle Carey had put on black clothes -that showed a big, dazzling shirt-front, and picked up his high hat, -Satan would sit perfectly still and look disconsolate; for as there -were no parties or theatres for Dinnie, so there were none for him. But -no matter how late it was when Uncle Carey came home, he always saw -Satan’s little black nose against the window-pane and heard his bark of -welcome. - -After intelligence, Satan’s chief trait was lovableness—nobody -ever knew him to fight, to snap at anything, or to get angry; after -lovableness, it was politeness. If he wanted something to eat, if he -wanted Dinnie to go to bed, if he wanted to get out of the door, he -would beg—beg prettily on his haunches, his little red tongue out and -his funny little paws hanging loosely. Indeed, it was just because -Satan was so little less than human, I suppose, that old Satan began -to be afraid he might have a soul. So the wicked old namesake with the -Hoofs and Horns laid a trap for little Satan, and, as he is apt to do, -he began laying it early—long, indeed, before Christmas. - -When Dinnie started to kindergarten that autumn, Satan found that there -was one place where he could never go. Like the lamb, he could not go -to school; so while Dinnie was away, Satan began to make friends. He -would bark, “Howdy-do?” to every dog that passed his gate. Many stopped -to rub noses with him through the fence—even Hugo the mastiff, and -nearly all, indeed, except one strange-looking dog that appeared every -morning at precisely nine o’clock and took his stand on the corner. -There he would lie patiently until a funeral came along, and then Satan -would see him take his place at the head of the procession; and thus he -would march out to the cemetery and back again. Nobody knew where he -came from nor where he went, and Uncle Carey called him the “funeral -dog” and said he was doubtless looking for his dead master. Satan even -made friends with a scrawny little yellow dog that followed an old -drunkard around—a dog that, when his master fell in the gutter, would -go and catch a policeman by the coat-tail, lead the officer to his -helpless master, and spend the night with him in jail. - -By and by Satan began to slip out of the house at night, and Uncle -Billy said he reckoned Satan had “jined de club”; and late one night, -when he had not come in, Uncle Billy told Uncle Carey that it was -“powerful slippery and he reckoned they’d better send de kerridge after -him”—an innocent remark that made Uncle Carey send a boot after the -old butler, who fled chuckling down the stairs, and left Uncle Carey -chuckling in his room. - -Satan had “jined de club”—the big club—and no dog was too lowly in -Satan’s eyes for admission; for no priest ever preached the brotherhood -of man better than Satan lived it—both with man and dog. And thus he -lived it that Christmas night—to his sorrow. - -Christmas Eve had been gloomy—the gloomiest of Satan’s life. Uncle -Carey had gone to a neighboring town at noon. Satan had followed him -down to the station, and when the train started, Uncle Carey had -ordered him to go home. Satan took his time about going home, not -knowing it was Christmas Eve. He found strange things happening to dogs -that day. The truth was, that policemen were shooting all dogs found -that were without a collar and a license, and every now and then a bang -and a howl somewhere would stop Satan in his tracks. At a little yellow -house on the edge of town he saw half a dozen strange dogs in a kennel, -and every now and then a negro would lead a new one up to the house -and deliver him to a big man at the door, who, in return, would drop -something into the negro’s hand. While Satan waited, the old drunkard -came along with his little dog at his heels, paused before the door, -looked a moment at his faithful follower, and went slowly on. Satan -little knew the old drunkard’s temptation, for in that yellow house -kind-hearted people had offered fifteen cents for each dog brought to -them, without a license, that they might mercifully put it to death, -and fifteen cents was the precise price for a drink of good whiskey. -Just then there was another bang and another howl somewhere, and Satan -trotted home to meet a calamity. Dinnie was gone. Her mother had taken -her out in the country to Grandmother Dean’s to spend Christmas, as was -the family custom, and Mrs. Dean would not wait any longer for Satan; -so she told Uncle Billy to bring him out after supper. - -“Ain’t you ’shamed o’ yo’self—suh—?” said the old butler, “keeping me -from ketchin’ Christmas gifts dis day?” - -Uncle Billy was indignant, for the negroes begin at four o’clock in -the afternoon of Christmas Eve to slip around corners and jump from -hiding-places to shout “Christmas Gif’—Christmas Gif’”; and the one -who shouts first gets a gift. No wonder it was gloomy for Satan—Uncle -Carey, Dinnie, and all gone, and not a soul but Uncle Billy in the -big house. Every few minutes he would trot on his little black legs -upstairs and downstairs, looking for his mistress. As dusk came on, he -would every now and then howl plaintively. After begging his supper, -and while Uncle Billy was hitching up a horse in the stable, Satan -went out in the yard and lay with his nose between the close panels of -the fence—quite heart-broken. When he saw his old friend, Hugo the -mastiff, trotting into the gas-light, he began to bark his delight -frantically. The big mastiff stopped and nosed his sympathy through -the fence for a moment and walked slowly on, Satan frisking and barking -along inside. At the gate Hugo stopped, and raising one huge paw, -playfully struck it. The gate flew open, and with a happy yelp Satan -leaped into the street. The noble mastiff hesitated as though this were -not quite regular. He did not belong to the club, and he didn’t know -that Satan had ever been away from home after dark in his life. For a -moment he seemed to wait for Dinnie to call him back as she always did, -but this time there was no sound, and Hugo walked majestically on, with -absurd little Satan running in a circle about him. On the way they met -the “funeral dog,” who glanced inquiringly at Satan, shied from the -mastiff, and trotted on. On the next block the old drunkard’s yellow -cur ran across the street, and after interchanging the compliments of -the season, ran back after his staggering master. As they approached -the railroad track a strange dog joined them, to whom Hugo paid no -attention. At the crossing another new acquaintance bounded toward -them. This one—a half-breed shepherd—was quite friendly, and he -received Satan’s advances with affable condescension. Then another came -and another, and little Satan’s head got quite confused. They were a -queer-looking lot of curs and half-breeds from the negro settlement -at the edge of the woods, and though Satan had little experience, his -instincts told him that all was not as it should be, and had he been -human he would have wondered very much how they had escaped the carnage -that day. Uneasy, he looked around for Hugo; but Hugo had disappeared. -Once or twice Hugo had looked around for Satan, and Satan paying no -attention, the mastiff trotted on home in disgust. Just then a powerful -yellow cur sprang out of the darkness over the railroad track, and -Satan sprang to meet him, and so nearly had the life scared out of him -by the snarl and flashing fangs of the new-comer that he hardly had the -strength to shrink back behind his new friend, the half-breed shepherd. - -A strange thing then happened. The other dogs became suddenly quiet, -and every eye was on the yellow cur. He sniffed the air once or twice, -gave two or three peculiar low growls, and all those dogs except Satan -lost the civilization of centuries and went back suddenly to the time -when they were wolves and were looking for a leader. The cur was Lobo -for that little pack, and after a short parley, he lifted his nose high -and started away without looking back, while the other dogs silently -trotted after him. With a mystified yelp, Satan ran after them. The -cur did not take the turnpike, but jumped the fence into a field, -making his way by the rear of houses, from which now and then another -dog would slink out and silently join the band. Every one of them -Satan nosed most friendlily, and to his great joy the funeral dog, on -the edge of town, leaped into their midst. Ten minutes later the cur -stopped in the midst of some woods, as though he would inspect his -followers. Plainly, he disapproved of Satan, and Satan kept out of his -way. Then he sprang into the turnpike and the band trotted down it, -under flying black clouds and shifting bands of brilliant moonlight. -Once, a buggy swept past them. A familiar odor struck Satan’s nose, and -he stopped for a moment to smell the horse’s tracks; and right he was, -too, for out at her grandmother’s Dinnie refused to be comforted, and -in that buggy was Uncle Billy going back to town after him. - -Snow was falling. It was a great lark for Satan. Once or twice, as he -trotted along, he had to bark his joy aloud, and each time the big cur -gave him such a fierce growl that he feared thereafter to open his -jaws. But he was happy for all that, to be running out into the night -with such a lot of funny friends and not to know or care where he was -going. He got pretty tired presently, for over hill and down hill they -went, at that unceasing trot, trot, trot! Satan’s tongue began to hang -out. Once he stopped to rest, but the loneliness frightened him and -he ran on after them with his heart almost bursting. He was about to -lie right down and die, when the cur stopped, sniffed the air once or -twice, and with those same low growls, led the marauders through a rail -fence into the woods, and lay quietly down. How Satan loved that soft, -thick grass, all snowy that it was! It was almost as good as his own -bed at home. And there they lay—how long, Satan never knew, for he -went to sleep and dreamed that he was after a rat in the barn at home; -and he yelped in his sleep, which made the cur lift his big yellow -head and show his fangs. The moving of the half-breed shepherd and the -funeral dog waked him at last, and Satan got up. Half crouching, the -cur was leading the way toward the dark, still woods on top of the -hill, over which the Star of Bethlehem was lowly sinking, and under -which lay a flock of the gentle creatures that seemed to have been -almost sacred to the Lord of that Star. They were in sore need of a -watchful shepherd now. Satan was stiff and chilled, but he was rested -and had had his sleep, and he was just as ready for fun as he always -was. He didn’t understand that sneaking. Why they didn’t all jump and -race and bark as he wanted to, he couldn’t see; but he was too polite -to do otherwise than as they did, and so he sneaked after them; and one -would have thought he knew, as well as the rest, the hellish mission on -which they were bent. - -Out of the woods they went, across a little branch, and there the big -cur lay flat again in the grass. A faint bleat came from the hill-side -beyond, where Satan could see another woods—and then another bleat, -and another. And the cur began to creep again, like a snake in the -grass; and the others crept too, and little Satan crept, though it -was all a sad mystery to him. Again the cur lay still, but only long -enough for Satan to see curious, fat, white shapes above him—and -then, with a blood-curdling growl, the big brute dashed forward. Oh, -there was fun in them after all! Satan barked joyfully. Those were -some new playmates—those fat, white, hairy things up there; and Satan -was amazed when, with frightened snorts, they fled in every direction. -But this was a new game, perhaps, of which he knew nothing, and as did -the rest, so did Satan. He picked out one of the white things and fled -barking after it. It was a little fellow that he was after, but little -as he was, Satan might never have caught up, had not the sheep got -tangled in some brush. Satan danced about him in mad glee, giving him a -playful nip at his wool and springing back to give him another nip, and -then away again. Plainly, he was not going to bite back, and when the -sheep struggled itself tired and sank down in a heap, Satan came close -and licked him, and as he was very warm and woolly, he lay down and -snuggled up against him for a while, listening to the turmoil that was -going on around him. And as he listened, he got frightened. - -If this was a new game it was certainly a very peculiar one—the wild -rush, the bleats of terror, gasps of agony, and the fiendish growls of -attack and the sounds of ravenous gluttony. With every hair bristling, -Satan rose and sprang from the woods—and stopped with a fierce -tingling of the nerves that brought him horror and fascination. One of -the white shapes lay still before him. There was a great steaming red -splotch on the snow, and a strange odor in the air that made him dizzy; -but only for a moment. Another white shape rushed by. A tawny streak -followed, and then, in a patch of moonlight, Satan saw the yellow cur -with his teeth fastened in the throat of his moaning playmate. Like -lightning Satan sprang at the cur, who tossed him ten feet away and -went back to his awful work. Again Satan leaped, but just then a shout -rose behind him, and the cur leaped too as though a bolt of lightning -had crashed over him, and, no longer noticing Satan or sheep, began -to quiver with fright and slink away. Another shout rose from another -direction—another from another. - -“Drive ’em into the barn-yard!” was the cry. - -Now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl of death-agony, as -some dog tried to break through the encircling men, who yelled and -cursed as they closed in on the trembling brutes that slunk together -and crept on; for it is said, every sheep-killing dog knows his fate if -caught, and will make little effort to escape. With them went Satan, -through the barn-yard gate, where they huddled in a corner—a shamed -and terrified group. A tall overseer stood at the gate. - -“Ten of ’em!” he said grimly. - -He had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy, for there -had recently been a sheep-killing raid on several farms in that -neighborhood, and for several nights he had had a lantern hung out on -the edge of the woods to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand -had neglected his duty that Christmas Eve. - -“Yassuh, an’ dey’s jus’ sebenteen dead sheep out dar,” said a negro. - -“Look at the little one,” said a tall boy who looked like the overseer; -and Satan knew that he spoke of him. - -“Go back to the house, son,” said the overseer, “and tell your mother -to give you a Christmas present I got for you yesterday.” With a glad -whoop the boy dashed away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new -.32 Winchester in his hand. - -The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on Christmas Day. It was -the hour when Satan usually rushed upstairs to see if his little -mistress was asleep. If he were only at home now, and if he only had -known how his little mistress was weeping for him amid her playthings -and his—two new balls and a brass-studded collar with a silver plate -on which was his name, Satan Dean; and if Dinnie could have seen him -now, her heart would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun. -There was a jet of smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the funeral dog -started on the right way at last toward his dead master. Another crack, -and the yellow cur leaped from the ground and fell kicking. Another -crack and another, and with each crack a dog tumbled, until little -Satan sat on his haunches amid the writhing pack, alone. His time was -now come. As the rifle was raised, he heard up at the big house the -cries of children; the popping of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and -whistles and loud shouts of “Christmas Gif’, Christmas Gif’!” His -little heart beat furiously. Perhaps he knew just what he was doing; -perhaps it was the accident of habit; most likely Satan simply wanted -to go home—but when that gun rose, Satan rose too, on his haunches, -his tongue out, his black eyes steady and his funny little paws hanging -loosely—and begged! The boy lowered the gun. - -“Down, sir!” Satan dropped obediently, but when the gun was lifted -again, Satan rose again, and again he begged. - -“Down, I tell you!” This time Satan would not down, but sat begging for -his life. The boy turned. - -“Papa, I can’t shoot that dog.” Perhaps Satan had reached the stern old -overseer’s heart. Perhaps he remembered suddenly that it was Christmas. -At any rate, he said gruffly: - -“Well, let him go.” - -“Come here, sir!” Satan bounded toward the tall boy, frisking and -trustful and begged again. - -“Go home, sir!” - -Satan needed no second command. Without a sound he fled out the -barn-yard, and, as he swept under the front gate, a little girl ran out -of the front door of the big house and dashed down the steps, shrieking: - -“Saty! Saty! Oh, Saty!” But Satan never heard. On he fled, across the -crisp fields, leaped the fence and struck the road, lickety-split! for -home, while Dinnie dropped sobbing in the snow. - -“Hitch up a horse, quick,” said Uncle Carey, rushing after Dinnie and -taking her up in his arms. Ten minutes later, Uncle Carey and Dinnie, -both warmly bundled up, were after flying Satan. They never caught him -until they reached the hill on the outskirts of town, where was the -kennel of the kind-hearted people who were giving painless death to -Satan’s four-footed kind, and where they saw him stop and turn from the -road. There was divine providence in Satan’s flight for one little dog -that Christmas morning; for Uncle Carey saw the old drunkard staggering -down the road without his little companion, and a moment later, both he -and Dinnie saw Satan nosing a little yellow cur between the palings. -Uncle Carey knew the little cur, and while Dinnie was shrieking for -Satan, he was saying under his breath: - -“Well, I swear!—I swear!—I swear!” And while the big man who came to -the door was putting Satan into Dinnie’s arms, he said sharply: - -“Who brought that yellow dog here?” The man pointed to the old -drunkard’s figure turning a corner at the foot of the hill. - -“I thought so; I thought so. He sold him to you for—for a drink of -whiskey.” - -The man whistled. - -“Bring him out. I’ll pay his license.” - -So back went Satan and the little cur to Grandmother Dean’s—and Dinnie -cried when Uncle Carey told her why he was taking the little cur along. -With her own hands she put Satan’s old collar on the little brute, took -him to the kitchen, and fed him first of all. Then she went into the -breakfast-room. - -“Uncle Billy,” she said severely, “didn’t I tell you not to let Saty -out?” - -“Yes, Miss Dinnie,” said the old butler. - -“Didn’t I tell you I was goin’ to whoop you if you let Saty out?” - -“Yes, Miss Dinnie.” - -Miss Dinnie pulled forth from her Christmas treasures a toy riding-whip -and the old darky’s eyes began to roll in mock terror. - -“I’m sorry, Uncle Billy, but I des got to whoop you a little.” - -“Let Uncle Billy off, Dinnie,” said Uncle Carey, “this is Christmas.” - -“All wite,” said Dinnie, and she turned to Satan. - -In his shining new collar and innocent as a cherub, Satan sat on the -hearth begging for his breakfast. - - - - - A NEST-EGG - - BY - - JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY - - This is the simple character sketch in which there is - romance treated with a fine reserve. It employs the local - color so characteristic of Mr. Riley’s poems of Indiana. - - - - - A NEST-EGG[8] - - - But a few miles from the city here, and on the sloping - banks of the stream noted more for its plenitude of - “chubs” and “shiners” than the gamier two- and - four-pound bass for which, in season, so many credulous - anglers flock and lie in wait, stands a country residence, - so convenient to the stream, and so inviting in its pleasant - exterior and comfortable surroundings—barn, dairy, - and spring-house—that the weary, sunburnt, and disheartened - fisherman, out from the dusty town for a - day of recreation, is often wont to seek its hospitality. - The house in style of architecture is something of a departure - from the typical farmhouse, being designed - and fashioned with no regard to symmetry or proportion, - but rather, as is suggested, built to conform to the - matter-of-fact and most sensible ideas of its owner, who, - if it pleased him, would have small windows where large - ones ought to be, and vice versa, whether they balanced - properly to the eye or not. And chimneys—he would - have as many as he wanted, and no two alike, in either - height or size. And if he wanted the front of the house - turned from all possible view, as though abashed at any - chance of public scrutiny, why, that was his affair and - not the public’s; and, with like perverseness, if he chose - to thrust his kitchen under the public’s very nose, what - should the generally fagged-out, half-famished representative - of that dignified public do but reel in his dead - minnow, shoulder his fishing-rod, clamber over the back - fence of the old farmhouse and inquire within, or jog - back to the city, inwardly anathematizing that very particular - locality or the whole rural district in general. - That is just the way that farmhouse looked to the writer - of this sketch one week ago—so individual it seemed—so - liberal, and yet so independent. It wasn’t even - weather-boarded, but, instead, was covered smoothly with - some cement, as though the plasterers had come while - the folks were visiting, and so, unable to get at the - interior, had just plastered the outside. - - I am more than glad that I was hungry enough, and - weary enough, and wise enough to take the house at - its first suggestion; for, putting away my fishing-tackle - for the morning, at least, I went up the sloping bank, - crossed the dusty road, and confidently clambered over - the fence. - - Not even a growling dog to intimate that I was trespassing. - All was open—gracious-looking—pastoral. The - sward beneath my feet was velvet-like in elasticity, and - the scarce visible path I followed through it led promptly - to the open kitchen door. From within I heard a woman - singing some old ballad in an undertone, while at the - threshold a trim, white-spurred rooster stood poised on - one foot, curving his glossy neck and cocking his wattled - head as though to catch the meaning of the words. - I paused. It was a scene I felt restrained from breaking - in upon, nor would I, but for the sound of a strong - male voice coming around the corner of the house: - - “Sir. Howdy!” - - Turning, I saw a rough-looking but kindly featured - man of sixty-five, the evident owner of the place. - - I returned his salutation with some confusion and much - deference. “I must really beg your pardon for this - intrusion,” I began, “but I have been tiring myself - out fishing, and your home here looked so pleasant—and - I felt so thirsty—and——” - - “Want a drink, I reckon,” said the old man, turning - abruptly toward the kitchen door, then pausing as - suddenly, with a backward motion of his thumb—“jest - foller the path here down to the little brick—that’s the - spring—and you’ll find ’at you’ve come to the right place - fer drinkin’-worter! Hold on a minute tel I git you a - tumbler—there’re nothin’ down there but a tin.” - - “Then don’t trouble yourself any further,” I said, - heartily, “for I’d rather drink from a tin cup than a - goblet of pure gold.” - - “And so’d I,” said the old man, reflectively, turning - mechanically, and following me down the path. - “‘Druther drink out of a tin—er jest a fruit-can with - the top knocked off—er—er—er a gourd,” he added - in a zestful, reminiscent tone of voice, that so heightened - my impatient thirst that I reached the spring-house - fairly in a run. - - “Well-sir!” exclaimed my host, in evident delight, - as I stood dipping my nose in the second cupful of the - cool, revivifying liquid, and peering in a congratulatory - kind of way at the blurred and rubicund reflection of my - features in the bottom of the cup, “well-sir, blame-don! - ef it don’t do a feller good to see you enjoyin’ of it that-a-way! - But don’t you drink too much o’ the worter!—’cause - there’re some sweet milk over there in one o’ them - crocks, maybe; and ef you’ll jest, kindo’ keerful-like, - lift off the led of that third one, say, over there to yer - left, and dip you out a tinful er two o’ that, w’y, it’ll - do you good to drink it, and it’ll do me good to see you - at it——But hold up!—hold up!” he called, abruptly, - as, nowise loath, I bent above the vessel designated. - “Hold yer hosses fer a second! Here’s Marthy; let her - git it fer ye.” - - If I was at first surprised and confused, meeting the - master of the house, I was wholly startled and chagrined - in my present position before its mistress. But as I - arose, and stammered, in my confusion, some incoherent - apology, I was again reassured and put at greater ease - by the comprehensive and forgiving smile the woman - gave me, as I yielded her my place, and, with lifted hat, - awaited her further kindness. - - “I came just in time, sir,” she said, half laughingly, - as with strong, bare arms she reached across the gurgling - trough and replaced the lid that I had partially removed.—“I - came just in time, I see, to prevent father - from having you dip into the ’morning’s-milk,’ which, of - course, has scarcely a veil of cream over the face of it - as yet. But men, as you are doubtless willing to admit,” - she went on jocularly, “don’t know about these things. - You must pardon father, as much for his well-meaning - ignorance of such matters, as for this cup of cream, - which I am sure you will better relish.” - - She arose, still smiling, with her eyes turned frankly - on my own. And I must be excused when I confess - that as I bowed my thanks, taking the proffered cup - and lifting it to my lips, I stared with an uncommon - interest and pleasure at the donor’s face. - - She was a woman of certainly not less than forty years - of age. But the figure, and the rounded grace and fulness - of it, together with the features and the eyes, completed - as fine a specimen of physical and mental health - as ever it has been my fortune to meet; there was something - so full of purpose and resolve—something so wholesome, - too, about the character—something so womanly—I - might almost say manly, and would, but for the petty - prejudice maybe occasioned by the trivial fact of a - locket having dropped from her bosom as she knelt; and - that trinket still dangles in my memory even as it then - dangled and dropped back to its concealment in her - breast as she arose. But her face, by no means handsome - in the common meaning, was marked with a breadth - and strength of outline and expression that approached - the heroic—a face that once seen is forever fixed in - memory—a personage once met one must know more of. - And so it was, that an hour later, as I strolled with the - old man about his farm, looking, to all intents, with the - profoundest interest at his Devonshires, Shorthorns, Jerseys, - and the like, I lured from him something of an - outline of his daughter’s history. - - “There’re no better girl ‘n Marthy!” he said, mechanically - answering some ingenious allusion to her worth. - “And yit,” he went on reflectively, stooping from his - seat in the barn door and with his open jack-knife picking - up a little chip with the point of the blade—“and - yit—you wouldn’t believe it—but Marthy was the oldest - o’ three daughters, and hed—I may say—hed more advantages - o’ marryin’—and yit, as I was jest goin’ to say, - she’s the very one ’at didn’t marry. Hed every advantage—Marthy - did. W’y, we even hed her educated—her - mother was a-livin’ then—and we was well enough - fixed to afford the educatin’ of her, mother allus contended—and - we was—besides, it was Marthy’s notion, - too, and you know how women is thataway when they git - their head set. So we sent Marthy down to Indianop’lus, - and got her books and putt her in school there, and paid - fer her keepin’ and ever’thing; and she jest—well, you - may say, lived there stiddy fer better’n four year. O’ - course she’d git back ever’ once-an-a-while, but her visits - was allus, some-way-another, onsatisfactory-like, ’cause, - you see, Marthy was allus my favorite, and I’d allus - laughed and told her ’at the other girls could git married - if they wanted, but _she_ was goin’ to be the ‘nest-egg’ - of our family, and ’slong as I lived I wanted her at home - with me. And she’d laugh and contend ’a’t she’d as lif - be an old maid as not, and never expected to marry, - ner didn’t want to. But she had me sceart onc’t, - though! Come out from the city one time, durin’ the - army, with a peart-lookin’ young feller in blue clothes - and gilt straps on his shoulders. Young lieutenant he - was—name o’ Morris. Was layin’ in camp there in the - city somers. I disremember which camp it was now adzackly—but - anyway, it ’peared like he had plenty o’ - time to go and come, fer from that time on he kep’ - on a-comin’—ever’ time Marthy ’ud come home, he’d - come, too; and I got to noticin’ ’a’t Marthy come home - a good ’eal more’n she used to afore Morris first brought - her. And blame ef the thing didn’t git to worryin’ me! - And onc’t I spoke to mother about it, and told her ef - I thought the feller wanted to marry Marthy I’d jest - stop his comin’ right then and there. But mother she - sorto’ smiled and said somepin’ ’bout men a-never seein’ - through nothin’; and when I ast her what she meant, - w’y, she ups and tells me ’a’t Morris didn’t keer nothin’ - fer Marthy, ner Marthy fer Morris, and then went on - to tell me that Morris was kindo’ aidgin’ up to’rds Annie—she - was next to Marthy, you know, in pint of years - and experience, but ever’body allus said ’a’t Annie was - the purtiest one o’ the whole three of ’em. And so when - mother told me ’a’t the signs pinted to’rds Annie, w’y, of - course, I hedn’t no particular objections to that, ’cause - Morris was of good fambly enough it turned out, and, - in fact, was as stirrin’ a young feller as ever I’d want - fer a son-in-law, and so I hed nothin’ more to say—ner - they wasn’t no occasion to say nothin’, ’cause right along - about then I begin to notice ’a’t Marthy quit comin’ - home so much, and Morris kep’ a-comin’ more. Tel - finally, one time he was out here all by hisself, ’long - about dusk, come out here where I was feedin’, and ast - me, all at onc’t, and in a straightfor’ard way, ef he - couldn’t marry Annie; and, some-way-another, blame ef - it didn’t make me as happy as him when I told him - yes! You see that thing proved, pine-blank, ’a’t he - wasn’t a-fishin’ round fer Marthy. Well-sir, as luck - would hev it, Marthy got home about a half-hour later, - and I’ll give you my word I was never so glad to see - the girl in my life! It was foolish in me, I reckon, but - when I see her drivin’ up the lane—it was purt’ nigh - dark then, but I could see her through the open winder - from where I was settin’ at the supper-table, and so I - jest quietly excused myself, p’lite-like, as a feller will, - you know, when they’s comp’ny round, and I slipped off - and met her jest as she was about to git out to open - the barn gate. ’Hold up, Marthy,’ says I; ’set right - where you air; I’ll open the gate fer you, and I’ll do - anything else fer you in the world ’a’t you want me - to!’ - - “‘W’y, what’s pleased _you_ so?’ she says, laughin’, - as she druv through slow-like and a-ticklin’ my nose with - the cracker of the buggy-whip.—’What’s pleased _you_?’ - - “‘Guess,’ says I, jerkin’ the gate to, and turnin’ to - lift her out. - - “‘The new peanner’s come?’ says she, eager-like. - - “‘Yer new peanner’s come,’ says I; ’but that’s not - it.’ - - “‘Strawberries fer supper?’ says she. - - “‘Strawberries fer supper,’ says I; ’but that ain’t - it.’ - - “Jest then Morris’s hoss whinnied in the barn, and - she glanced up quick and smilin’ and says, ’Somebody - come to see somebody?’ - - “‘You’re a-gittin’ warm,’ says I. - - “‘Somebody come to see _me_?’ she says, anxious-like. - - “‘No,’ says I, ’a’nd I’m glad of it—fer this one ’a’t’s - come wants to git married, and o’ course I wouldn’t - harber in my house no young feller ’a’t was a-layin’ round - fer a chance to steal away the “Nest-egg,’” says I, - laughin’. - - “Marthy had riz up in the buggy by this time, but - as I helt up my hands to her, she sorto’ drawed back - a minute, and says, all serious-like and kindo’ whisperin’: - - “‘Is it _Annie_?’ - - “I nodded. ’Yes,’ says I, ’a’nd what’s more, I’ve - give my consent, and mother’s give hern—the thing’s - all settled. Come, jump out and run in and be happy - with the rest of us!’ and I helt out my hands ag’in, but - she didn’t ’pear to take no heed. She was kindo’ pale, - too, I thought, and swallered a time er two like as ef she - couldn’t speak plain. - - “‘Who is the man?’ she ast. - - “‘Who—who’s the man?’ I says, a-gittin’ kindo’ out - o’ patience with the girl.—’W’y, you know who it is, - o’ course.—It’s Morris,’ says I. ’Come, jump down! - Don’t you see I’m waitin’ fer ye?’ - - “‘Then take me,’ she says; and blame-don! ef the girl - didn’t keel right over in my arms as limber as a rag! - Clean fainted away! Honest! Jest the excitement, I - reckon, o’ breakin’ it to her so suddent-like—’cause she - liked Annie, I’ve sometimes thought, better’n even she - did her own mother. Didn’t go half so hard with - her when her other sister married. Yes-sir!” said - the old man, by way of sweeping conclusion, as he rose - to his feet—“Marthy’s the on’y one of ’em ’a’t never - married—both the others is gone—Morris went all - through the army and got back safe and sound—’s livin’ - in Idyho, and doin’ fust-rate. Sends me a letter ever’ - now and then. Got three little chunks o’ grandchildren - out there, and I’ never laid eyes on one of ’em. You - see, I’m a-gittin’ to be quite a middle-aged man—in fact, - a very middle-aged man, you might say. Sence mother - died, which has be’n—lem-me-see—mother’s be’n dead - somers in the neighborhood o’ ten year.—Sence mother - died I’ve be’n a-gittin’ more and more o’ _Marthy’s_ notion—that - is,—you couldn’t ever hire _me_ to marry - nobody! and them has allus be’n and still is the ’Nest-egg’s’ - views! Listen! That’s her a-callin’ fer us now. - You must sorto’ overlook the freedom, but I told Marthy - you’d promised to take dinner with us to-day, and it - ’ud never do to disappint her now. Come on.” And, - ah! it would have made the soul of you either rapturously - glad or madly envious to see how meekly I consented. - - I am always thinking that I never tasted coffee till - that day; I am always thinking of the crisp and steaming - rolls, ored over with the molten gold that hinted - of the clover-fields, and the bees that had not yet permitted - the honey of the bloom and the white blood of - the stalk to be divorced; I am always thinking that the - young and tender pullet we happy three discussed was - a near and dear relative of the gay patrician rooster that - I first caught peering so inquisitively in at the kitchen - door; and I am always—always thinking of “The Nest-egg.” - - - - - WEE WILLIE WINKIE - - BY - - RUDYARD KIPLING - -As the sub-title, “An Officer and a Gentleman,” indicates, this is a -story of character. Mr. Kipling, like Robert Louis Stevenson, James -Whitcomb Riley, and Eugene Field, has carried into his maturity -an imperishable youth of spirit which makes him an interpreter of -children. Here he has shown what our Anglo-Saxon ideals—honor, -obedience, and reverence for woman—mean to a little child. - - - - -WEE WILLIE WINKIE[9] - - “An officer and a gentleman.” - - -His full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked up the other -name in a nursery-book, and that was the end of the christened titles. -His mother’s _ayah_ called him Willie-_Baba_, but as he never paid the -faintest attention to anything that the _ayah_ said, her wisdom did not -help matters. - -His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon as Wee Willie -Winkie was old enough to understand what Military Discipline meant, -Colonel Williams put him under it. There was no other way of managing -the child. When he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct pay; and -when he was bad, he was deprived of his good-conduct stripe. Generally -he was bad, for India offers many chances of going wrong to little -six-year-olds. - -Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee Willie Winkie was -a very particular child. Once he accepted an acquaintance, he was -graciously pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the -195th, on sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel’s, and Wee -Willie Winkie entered strong in the possession of a good-conduct badge -won for not chasing the hens round the compound. He regarded Brandis -with gravity for at least ten minutes, and then delivered himself of -his opinion. - -“I like you,” said he slowly, getting off his chair and coming over to -Brandis. “I like you. I shall call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do -you _mind_ being called Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you know.” - -Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie Winkie’s -peculiarities. He would look at a stranger for some time, and then, -without warning or explanation, would give him a name. And the -name stuck. No regimental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie -of this habit. He lost his good-conduct badge for christening the -Commissioner’s wife “Pobs”; but nothing that the Colonel could do made -the Station forego the nickname, and Mrs. Collen remained “Pobs” till -the end of her stay. So Brandis was christened “Coppy,” and rose, -therefore, in the estimation of the regiment. - -If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the fortunate man was -envied alike by the mess and the rank and file. And in their envy lay -no suspicion of self-interest. “The Colonel’s son” was idolized on his -own merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. His face -was permanently freckled, as his legs were permanently scratched, and -in spite of his mother’s almost tearful remonstrances he had insisted -upon having his long yellow locks cut short in the military fashion. “I -want my hair like Sergeant Tummil’s,” said Wee Willie Winkie, and, his -father abetting, the sacrifice was accomplished. - -Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affections on Lieutenant -Brandis—henceforward to be called “Coppy” for the sake of brevity—Wee -Willie Winkie was destined to behold strange things and far beyond his -comprehension. - -Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had let him wear -for five rapturous minutes his own big sword—just as tall as Wee -Willie Winkie. Coppy had promised him a terrier puppy, and Coppy had -permitted him to witness the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay, -more—Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would rise in -time to the ownership of a box of shiny knives, a silver soap-box, -and a silver-handled “sputter-brush,” as Wee Willie Winkie called it. -Decidedly, there was no one except his own father, who could give -or take away good-conduct badges at pleasure, half so wise, strong, -and valiant as Coppy with the Afghan and Egyptian medals on his -breast. Why, then, should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly weakness of -kissing—vehemently kissing—a “big girl,” Miss Allardyce to wit? In -the course of a morning ride Wee Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, -and, like the gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and cantered -back to his groom, lest the groom should also see. - -Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to his father, but he -felt instinctively that this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to -be consulted. - -“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up outside that subaltern’s -bungalow early one morning—“I want to see you, Coppy!” - -“Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, who was at early breakfast in the -midst of his dogs. “What mischief have you been getting into now?” - -Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad for three days, and -so stood on a pinnacle of virtue. - -“_I’ve_ been doing nothing bad,” said he, curling himself into a long -chair with a studious affectation of the Colonel’s languor after a hot -parade. He buried his freckled nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring -roundly over the rim, asked: “I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss big -girls?” - -“By Jove! You’re beginning early. Who do you want to kiss?” - -“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me if I don’t stop her. If it isn’t -pwoper, how was you kissing Major Allardyce’s big girl last morning, -by ve canal?” - -Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had with great craft -managed to keep their engagement secret for a fortnight. There were -urgent and imperative reasons why Major Allardyce should not know how -matters stood for at least another month, and this small marplot had -discovered a great deal too much. - -“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie calmly. “But ve _sais_ didn’t see. -I said, ’_Hut jao!_’” - -“Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip,” groaned poor Coppy, half -amused and half angry. “And how many people may you have told about it?” - -“Only me myself. You didn’t tell when I twied to wide ve buffalo ven my -pony was lame; and I fought you wouldn’t like.” - -“Winkie,” said Coppy enthusiastically, shaking the small hand, “you’re -the best of good fellows. Look here, you can’t understand all these -things. One of these days—hang it, how can I make you see it!—I’m -going to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she’ll be Mrs. Coppy, as you -say. If your young mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing big -girls, go and tell your father.” - -“What will happen?” said Wee Willie Winkie, who firmly believed that -his father was omnipotent. - -“I shall get into trouble,” said Coppy, playing his trump card with an -appealing look at the holder of the ace. - -“Ven I won’t,” said Wee Willie Winkie briefly. “But my faver says it’s -un-man-ly to be always kissing, and I didn’t fink _you’d_ do vat, -Coppy.” - -“I’m not always kissing, old chap. It’s only now and then, and when -you’re bigger you’ll do it too. Your father meant it’s not good for -little boys.” - -“Ah!” said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened. “It’s like ve -sputter-brush?” - -“Exactly,” said Coppy gravely. - -“But I don’t fink I’ll ever want to kiss big girls, nor no one, ’cept -my muvver. And I _must_ do vat, you know.” - -There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie Winkie. - -“Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?” - -“Awfully!” said Coppy. - -“Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha—or me?” - -“It’s in a different way,” said Coppy. “You see, one of these days -Miss Allerdyce will belong to me, but you’ll grow up and command the -Regiment and—all sorts of things. It’s quite different, you see.” - -“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. “If you’re fond of ve big -girl, I won’t tell any one. I must go now.” - -Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, adding—“You’re -the best of little fellows, Winkie. I tell you what. In thirty days -from now you can tell if you like—tell any one you like.” - -Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engagement was dependent on a -little child’s word. Coppy, who knew Wee Willie Winkie’s idea of truth, -was at ease, for he felt that he would not break promises. Wee Willie -Winkie betrayed a special and unusual interest in Miss Allardyce, and, -slowly revolving round that embarrassed young lady, was used to regard -her gravely with unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why Coppy -should have kissed her. She was not half so nice as his own mother. On -the other hand, she was Coppy’s property, and would in time belong to -him. Therefore it behooved him to treat her with as much respect as -Coppy’s big sword or shiny pistol. - -The idea that he shared a great secret in common with Coppy kept Wee -Willie Winkie unusually virtuous for three weeks. Then the Old Adam -broke out, and he made what he called a “camp-fire” at the bottom of -the garden. How could he have foreseen that the flying sparks would -have lighted the Colonel’s little hay-rick and consumed a week’s store -for the horses? Sudden and swift was the punishment—deprivation of the -good-conduct badge and, most sorrowful of all, two days’ confinement -to barracks—the house and veranda—coupled with the withdrawal of the -light of his father’s countenance. - -He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, drew himself up with -a quivering under-lip, saluted, and, once clear of the room, ran to -weep bitterly in his nursery—called by him “my quarters.” Coppy came -in the afternoon and attempted to console the culprit. - -“I’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie Winkie mournfully, “and I didn’t -ought to speak to you.” - -Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof of the -house—that was not forbidden—and beheld Miss Allardyce going for a -ride. - -“Where are you going?” cried Wee Willie Winkie. - -“Across the river,” she answered, and trotted forward. - -Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was bounded on the north -by a river—dry in the winter. From his earliest years, Wee Willie -Winkie had been forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that -even Coppy—the almost almighty Coppy—had never set foot beyond it. -Wee Willie Winkie had once been read to, out of a big blue book, the -history of the Princess and the Goblins—a most wonderful tale of a -land where the Goblins were always warring with the children of men -until they were defeated by one Curdie. Ever since that date it -seemed to him that the bare black and purple hills across the river -were inhabited by Goblins, and, in truth, every one had said that -there lived the Bad Men. Even in his own house the lower halves of the -windows were covered with green paper on account of the Bad Men who -might, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and -comfortable bedrooms. Certainly, beyond the river, which was the end of -all the Earth, lived the Bad Men. And here was Major Allardyce’s big -girl, Coppy’s property, preparing to venture into their borders! What -would Coppy say if anything happened to her? If the Goblins ran off -with her as they did with Curdie’s Princess? She must at all hazards be -turned back. - -The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected for a moment on the -very terrible wrath of his father; and then—broke his arrest! It was -a crime unspeakable. The low sun threw his shadow, very large and very -black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and -ordered his pony. It seemed to him in the hush of the dawn that all the -big world had been bidden to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie -guilty of mutiny. The drowsy _sais_ gave him his mount, and, since -the one great sin made all others insignificant, Wee Willie Winkie -said that he was going to ride over to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a -foot-pace, stepping on the soft mould of the flower-borders. - -The devastating track of the pony’s feet was the last misdeed that cut -him off from all sympathy of Humanity. He turned into the road, leaned -forward, and rode at fast as the pony could put foot to the ground in -the direction of the river. - -But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little against the long -canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the -crops, beyond the Police-posts, when all the guards were asleep, and -her mount was scattering the pebbles of the river-bed as Wee Willie -Winkie left the cantonment and British India behind him. Bowed forward -and still flogging, Wee Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and -could just see Miss Allardyce a black speck flickering across the stony -plain. The reason of her wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone -of too-hastily-assumed authority, had told her over night that she must -not ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own spirit and -teach Coppy a lesson. - -Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie Winkie saw the -Waler blunder and come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, -but her ankle had been severely twisted, and she could not stand. -Having fully shown her spirit, she wept, and was surprised by the -apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki, on a nearly spent pony. - -“Are you badly, badly hurted?” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, as soon as he -was within range. “You didn’t ought to be here.” - -“I don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce ruefully, ignoring the reproof. -“Good gracious, child, what are _you_ doing here?” - -“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,” panted Wee Willie Winkie, -throwing himself off his pony. “And nobody—not even Coppy—must go -acwoss ve wiver, and I came after you ever so hard, but you wouldn’t -stop, and now you’ve hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv me, -and—I’ve bwoken my awwest! I’ve bwoken my awwest!” - -The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. In spite of the -pain in her ankle, the girl was moved. - -“Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, little man? What for?” - -“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!” wailed Wee Willie Winkie -disconsolately. “I saw him kissing you, and he said he was fonder of -you van Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must get up and -come back. You didn’t ought to be here. Vis is a bad place, and I’ve -bwoken my awwest.” - -“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, with a groan. “I’ve hurt -my foot. What shall I do?” - -She showed a readiness to weep anew, which steadied Wee Willie Winkie, -who had been brought up to believe that tears were the depth of -unmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie, -even a man may be permitted to break down. - -“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when you’ve rested a little, ride back -and tell them to send out something to carry me back in. It hurts -fearfully.” - -The child sat still for a little time, and Miss Allardyce closed her -eyes; the pain was nearly making her faint. She was roused by Wee -Willie Winkie tying up the reins on his pony’s neck and setting it free -with a vicious cut of his whip that made it whicker. The little animal -headed towards the cantonments. - -“Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?” - -“Hush!” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Vere’s a man coming—one of ve Bad -Men. I must stay wiv you. My faver says a man must _always_ look after -a girl. Jack will go home, and ven vey’ll come and look for us. Vat’s -why I let him go.” - -Not one man, but two or three, had appeared from behind the rocks -of the hills, and the heart of Wee Willie Winkie sank within him, -for just in this manner were the Goblins wont to steal out and vex -Curdie’s soul. Thus had they played in Curdie’s garden (he had seen the -picture), and thus had they frightened the Princess’s nurse. He heard -them talking to each other, and recognized with joy the bastard Pushto -that he had picked up from one of his father’s grooms lately dismissed. -People who spoke that tongue could not be the Bad Men. They were only -natives, after all. - -They came up to the boulders on which Miss Allardyce’s horse had -blundered. - -Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the Dominant -Race, aged six and three-quarters, and said briefly and emphatically, -“_Jao!_” The pony had crossed the river-bed. - -The man laughed, and laughter from natives was the one thing Wee Willie -Winkie could not tolerate. He asked them what they wanted and why they -did not depart. Other men with most evil faces and crooked-stocked guns -crept out of the shadows of the hills, till, soon, Wee Willie Winkie -was face to face with an audience some twenty strong. Miss Allardyce -screamed. - -“Who are you?” said one of the men. - -“I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order is that you go at once. -You black men are frightening the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into -cantonments and take the news that the Miss Sahib has hurt herself, and -that the Colonel’s son is here with her.” - -“Put our feet into the trap?” was the laughing reply. “Hear this boy’s -speech!” - -“Say that I sent you—I, the Colonel’s son. They will give you money.” - -“What is the use of this talk? Take up the child and the girl, and we -can at least ask for the ransom. Ours are the villages on the heights,” -said a voice in the background. - -These _were_ the Bad Men—worse than Goblins—and it needed all Wee -Willie Winkie’s training to prevent him from bursting into tears. -But he felt that to cry before a native, excepting only his mother’s -_ayah_, would be an infamy greater than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as -future Colonel of the 195th, had that grim regiment at his back. - -“Are you going to carry us away?” said Wee Willie Winkie, very blanched -and uncomfortable. - -“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur,” said the tallest of the men, “and eat -you afterwards.” - -“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Men do not eat men.” - -A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on firmly—“And if you -do carry us away, I tell you that all my regiment will come up in a day -and kill you all without leaving one. Who will take my message to the -Colonel Sahib?” - -Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie Winkie had a colloquial -acquaintance with three—was easy to the boy who could not yet manage -his “r’s” and “th’s” aright. - -Another man joined the conference, crying, “O foolish men! What this -babe says is true. He is the heart’s heart of those white troops. For -the sake of peace let them go both, for if he be taken, the regiment -will break loose and gut the valley. _Our_ villages are in the valley, -and we shall not escape. That regiment are devils. They broke Khoda -Yar’s breastbone with kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and if we -touch this child they will fire and rape and plunder for a month till -nothing remains. Better to send a man back to take the message and get -a reward. I say that this child is their God, and that they will spare -none of us, nor our women, if we harm him.” - -It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the Colonel, who made the -diversion, and an angry and heated discussion followed. Wee Willie -Winkie, standing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his -“wegiment,” his own “wegiment,” would not desert him if they knew of -his extremity. - - * * * * * - -The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, though there had been -consternation in the Colonel’s household for an hour before. The little -beast came in through the parade-ground in front of the main barracks, -where the men were settling down to play Spoilfive till the afternoon. -Devlin, the Color-Sergeant of E Company, glanced at the empty saddle -and tumbled through the barrack-rooms, kicking up each Room Corporal as -he passed. “Up, ye beggars! There’s something happened to the Colonel’s -son,” he shouted. - -“He couldn’t fall off! S’help me, ’e _couldn’t_ fall off,” blubbered -a drummer-boy. “Go an’ hunt acrost the river. He’s over there if he’s -anywhere, an’ maybe those Pathans have got ’im. For the love o’ Gawd -don’t look for ’im in the nullahs! Let’s go over the river.” - -“There’s sense in Mott yet,” said Devlin. “E Company, double out to the -river—sharp!” - -So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled for the dear life, -and in the rear toiled the perspiring Sergeant, adjuring it to double -yet faster. The cantonment was alive with the men of the 195th hunting -for Wee Willie Winkie, and the Colonel finally overtook E Company, far -too exhausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of the river-bed. - -Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s Bad Men were discussing -the wisdom of carrying off the child and the girl, a lookout fired two -shots. - -“What have I said?” shouted Din Mahommed. “There is the warning! The -_pulton_ are out already and are coming across the plain! Get away! Let -us not be seen with the boy!” - -The men waited for an instant, and then, as another shot was fired, -withdrew into the hills, silently as they had appeared. - -“The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Willie Winkie confidently to Miss -Allardyce, “and it’s all wight. Don’t cwy!” - -He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes later, when his father -came up, he was weeping bitterly with his head in Miss Allardyce’s lap. - -And the men of the 195th carried him home with shouts and rejoicings; -and Coppy, who had ridden a horse into a lather, met him, and, to his -intense disgust, kissed him openly in the presence of the men. - -But there was balm for his dignity. His father assured him that -not only would the breaking of arrest be condoned, but that the -good-conduct badge would be restored as soon as his mother could sew it -on his blouse-sleeve. Miss Allardyce had told the Colonel a story that -made him proud of his son. - -“She belonged to you, Coppy,” said Wee Willie Winkie, indicating Miss -Allardyce with a grimy forefinger. “I _knew_ she didn’t ought to go -acwoss ve wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if I sent Jack -home.” - -“You’re a hero, Winkie,” said Coppy—“a _pukka_ hero!” - -“I don’t know what vat means,” said Wee Willie Winkie, “but you mustn’t -call me Winkie any no more. I’m Percival Will’am Will’ams.” - -And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into his manhood. - - - - - THE GOLD BUG - - BY - - EDGAR ALLAN POE - -Poe was the first American short-story writer. Others had written -stories that were short, but he was the first to recognize the -short-story as having a form and an aim all its own. Moreover, he -was willing to admit the public to his laboratory and to explain his -process, for he discounted inspiration and emphasized craftsmanship. -In “The Philosophy of Composition” he declares that every plot “must -be elaborated to its dénouement before anything is attempted with -the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we -can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or causation, -by making the incidents and especially the tone, at all points, -tend to the development of the intention.” He also tells us that he -prefers beginning with an effect. Having chosen, in the first place, -an effect that is both novel and vivid, he decides “whether it can -be best wrought by incident or tone,” and afterward looks about “for -such combinations of events, or tone, as shall best aid ... in the -construction of the effect.” - -In view of such explanations, it is interesting to study “The Gold -Bug” and to see how well the plot has been worked out and the tone -established. It is doubtful whether in this story the plot meant to -the writer what it means to the reader. The latter likes the adventure -with its ingeniously fitted parts, each so necessary to the whole. -But after the gold has been found—and that is the point of greatest -interest—the story goes on and on to explain the cryptogram. This, -no doubt, was to Poe the most interesting thing about the story, the -tracing of the steps by which the scrap of parchment was deciphered -and reasoned upon and made to yield up its secret. As to the time -and place, the strange conduct and character of Legrand, the fears -and superstitions of Jupiter, and the puzzled solicitude of the -narrator—all these aid materially in establishing and maintaining the -tone. - - - - -THE GOLD BUG[10] - - “What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad! - He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.” - - —_All in the Wrong._ - - -Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. -He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; -but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the -mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, -the city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan’s -Island, near Charleston, South Carolina. - -This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than -the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at no point -exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the mainland by a -scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness of -reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen. The vegetation, -as might be supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of -any magnitude are to be seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort -Moultrie stands, and where are some miserable frame buildings, tenanted -during summer by the fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be -found, indeed, the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the -exception of this western point, and a line of hard white beach on the -seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle, so -much prized by the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often -attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost -impenetrable coppice, burdening the air with its fragrance. - -In the utmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern or -more remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a small -hut, which he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made his -acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship—for there was much in -the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him well educated, -with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject -to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had -with him many books, but rarely employed them. His chief amusements -were gunning and fishing, or sauntering along the beach and through -the myrtles, in quest of shells or entomological specimens;—his -collection of the latter might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In -these excursions he was usually accompanied by an old negro, called -Jupiter, who had been manumitted before the reverses of the family, but -who could be induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon -what he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of his -young “Massa Will.” It is not improbable that the relatives of Legrand, -conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled in intellect, had contrived to -instil this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and -guardianship of the wanderer. - -The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are seldom very -severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed when a -fire is considered necessary. About the middle of October, 18—, there -occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset -I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut of my friend, -whom I had not visited for several weeks—my residence being at that -time in Charleston, a distance of nine miles from the island, while -the facilities of passage and re-passage were very far behind those -of the present day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, -and, getting no reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted, -unlocked the door and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth. -It was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an -overcoat, took an armchair by the crackling logs, and awaited patiently -the arrival of my hosts. - -Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome. -Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some -marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits—how else shall -I term them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown bivalve, forming -a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted down and secured, with -Jupiter’s assistance, a _scarabæus_ which he believed to be totally -new, but in respect to which he wished to have my opinion on the morrow. - -“And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze, and -wishing the whole tribe of _scarabæi_ at the devil. - -“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand, “but it’s so -long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would pay me -a visit this very night of all others? As I was coming home I met -Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I lent him the -bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it until the morning. Stay -here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the -loveliest thing in creation!” - -“What?—sunrise?” - -“Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color—about -the size of a large hickory-nut—with two jet black spots near one -extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the other. The -_antennæ_ are——“ - -“Dey aint _no_ tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a-tellin’ on you,” here -interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole-bug, solid, ebery bit of him, -inside and all, sep him wing—neber feel half so hebby a bug in my -life.” - -“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more earnestly, -it seemed to me, than the case demanded, “is that any reason for your -letting the birds burn? The color”—here he turned to me—“is really -almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You never saw a more brilliant -metallic lustre than the scales emit—but of this you cannot judge till -to-morrow. In the mean time I can give you some idea of the shape.” -Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which were a pen -and ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none. - -“Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;” and he drew from -his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty foolscap, -and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I -retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the design -was complete, he handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a -low growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching at the door. Jupiter -opened it, and a large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, -leaped upon my shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown -him much attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over, -I looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a -little puzzled at what my friend had depicted. - -“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this _is_ -a strange _scarabæus_, I must confess; new to me: never saw anything -like it before—unless it was a skull, or a death’s-head, which it -more nearly resembles than anything else that has come under _my_ -observation.” - -“A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand—“Oh—yes—well, it has something of -that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots look -like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth—and then -the shape of the whole is oval.” - -“Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I must -wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea of its -personal appearance.” - -“Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I draw -tolerably—_should_ do it at least—have had good masters, and flatter -myself that I am not quite a blockhead.” - -“But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, “this is a very -passable _skull_,—indeed, I may say that it is a very _excellent_ -skull, according to the vulgar notions about such specimens of -physiology—and your _scarabæus_ must be the queerest _scarabæus_ in -the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling -bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you will call the bug -_scarabæus caput hominis_, or something of that kind—there are many -similar titles in the Natural Histories. But where are the _antennæ_ -you spoke of?” - -“The _antennæ_!” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably -warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the _antennæ_. I made -them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that -is sufficient.” - -“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I don’t see them;” and I -handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing to ruffle -his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; his -ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the drawing of the beetle, there -were positively _no antennæ_ visible, and the whole _did_ bear a very -close resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death’s-head. - -He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple it, -apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at the design -seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant his face grew -violently red—in another as excessively pale. For some minutes he -continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he sat. At length he -arose, took a candle from the table, and proceeded to seat himself upon -a sea-chest in the farthest corner of the room. Here again he made an -anxious examination of the paper; turning it in all directions. He said -nothing, however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought -it prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by any -comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet, placed the -paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a writing-desk, which he -locked. He now grew more composed in his demeanor; but his original air -of enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed not so much sulky as -abstracted. As the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed -in revery, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had been -my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I had frequently done -before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I deemed it proper to take -leave. He did not press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my -hand with even more than his usual cordiality. - -It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen -nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his -man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited, -and I feared that some serious disaster had befallen my friend. - -“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how is your master?” - -“Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought be.” - -“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain of?” - -“Dar! dat’s it!—him neber plain of notin—but him berry sick for all -dat.” - -“_Very_ sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once? Is he confined -to bed?” - -“No, dat he aint!—he aint find nowhar—dat’s just whar de shoe -pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby bout poor Massa Will.” - -“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about. -You say your master is sick. Hasn’t he told you what ails him?” - -“Why, massa, taint worf while for to git mad bout de matter—Massa Will -say noffin at all aint de matter wid him—but den what make him go -about looking dis here way, wid he head down and he soldiers up, and as -white as a gose? And den he keep a syphon all de time——” - -“Keeps a what, Jupiter?” - -“Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de queerest figgurs I ebber -did see. Ise gittin to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty -tight eye pon him noovers. Todder day he gib me slip fore de sun up and -was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big stick ready cut for to -gib him d——d good beating when he did come—but Ise sich a fool dat I -hadn’t de heart arter all—he look so berry poorly.” - -“Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you had better not be too -severe with the poor fellow—don’t flog him, Jupiter—he can’t very -well stand it—but can you form no idea of what has occasioned this -illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has anything unpleasant -happened since I saw you?” - -“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant _since_ den—’twas _fore_ -den I’m feared—’twas de berry day you was dare.” - -“How? what do you mean?” - -“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.” - -“The what?” - -“De bug—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere bout de -head by dat goole-bug.” - -“And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?” - -“Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sich a d——d -bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will cotch -him fuss, but had for to let him go gin mighty quick, I tell you—den -was de time he must ha got de bite. I didn’t like de look ob de bug -mouff, myself, no how, so I wouldn’t take hold ob him wid my finger, -but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de -paper and stuff piece ob it in he mouff—dat was de way.” - -“And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the beetle, -and that the bite made him sick?” - -“I don’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What make him dream bout de -goole so much, if taint cause he bit by de goole-bug? Ise heerd bout -dem goole-bugs fore dis.” - -“But how do you know he dreams about gold?” - -“How I know? why cause he talk about it in he sleep—dat’s how I nose.” - -“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate circumstance -am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you to-day?” - -“What de matter, massa?” - -“Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?” - -“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” and here Jupiter handed me a note -which ran thus: - - “MY DEAR——, Why have I not seen you for so long a time? I hope you - have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little _brusquerie_ - of mine; but no, that is improbable. - - “Since I saw you I have had great cause for anxiety. I have something - to tell you, yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether I should - tell it at all. - - “I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup - annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions. - Would you believe it?—he had prepared a huge stick, the other day, - with which to chastise me for giving him the slip, and spending the - day, _solus_, among the hills on the mainland. I verily believe that - my ill looks alone saved me a flogging. - - “I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met. - - “If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with Jupiter. - _Do_ come. I wish to see you _to-night_, upon business of importance. - I assure you that it is of the _highest_ importance. - - “Ever yours, - - “WILLIAM LEGRAND.” - -There was something in the tone of this note which gave me great -uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially from that of Legrand. -What could he be dreaming of? What new crotchet possessed his excitable -brain? What “business of the highest importance” could _he_ possibly -have to transact? Jupiter’s account of him boded no good. I dreaded -lest the continued pressure of misfortune had, at length, fairly -unsettled the reason of my friend. Without a moment’s hesitation, -therefore, I prepared to accompany the negro. - -Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and three spades, all -apparently new, lying in the bottom of the boat in which we were to -embark. - -“What is the meaning of all this, Jup?” I inquired. - -“Him syfe, massa, and spade.” - -“Very true; but what are they doing here?” - -“Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon my buying for him in -de town, and de debbil’s own lot of money I had to gib for ’em.” - -“But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your ’Massa Will’ -going to do with scythes and spades?” - -“Dat’s more dan _I_ know, and debbil take me if I don’t blieve ’tis -more dan he know, too. But it’s all cum ob de bug.” - -Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose whole -intellect seemed to be absorbed by “de bug,” I now stepped into the -boat and made sail. With a fair and strong breeze we soon ran into -the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and a walk of some -two miles brought us to the hut. It was about three in the afternoon -when we arrived. Legrand had been awaiting us in eager expectation. He -grasped my hand with a nervous _empressement_, which alarmed me and -strengthened the suspicions already entertained. His countenance was -pale even to ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared with unnatural -lustre. After some inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not -knowing what better to say, if he had yet obtained the _scarabæus_ from -Lieutenant G——. - -“Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it from him the next -morning. Nothing should tempt me to part with that _scarabæus_. Do you -know that Jupiter is quite right about it?” - -“In what way?” I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart. - -“In supposing it to be a bug of _real gold_.” He said this with an air -of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked. - -“This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, with a triumphant -smile, “to reinstate me in my family possessions. Is it any wonder, -then, that I prize it? Since Fortune has thought fit to bestow it upon -me, I have only to use it properly and I shall arrive at the gold of -which it is the index. Jupiter, bring me that _scarabæus_!” - -“What! de bug, massa? I’d rudder not go fer trubble dat bug—you mus -git him for your own self.” Hereupon Legrand arose, with a grave and -stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass case in which -it was enclosed. It was a beautiful _scarabæus_, and, at that time, -unknown to naturalists—of course a great prize in a scientific point -of view. There were two round, black spots near one extremity of the -back, and a long one near the other. The scales were exceedingly -hard and glossy, with all the appearance of burnished gold. The -weight of the insect was very remarkable, and, taking all things into -consideration, I could hardly blame Jupiter for his opinion respecting -it; but what to make of Legrand’s agreement with that opinion, I could -not, for the life of me, tell. - -“I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had -completed my examination of the beetle, “I sent for you, that I might -have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of Fate and of -the bug——” - -“My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, “you are certainly -unwell, and had better use some little precautions. You shall go to -bed, and I will remain with you a few days, until you get over this. -You are feverish and——” - -“Feel my pulse,” said he. - -I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest indication of -fever. - -“But you may be ill, and yet have no fever. Allow me this once to -prescribe for you. In the first place, go to bed. In the next——” - -“You are mistaken,” he interposed, “I am as well as I can expect to be -under the excitement which I suffer. If you really wish me well, you -will relieve this excitement.” - -“And how is this to be done?” - -“Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon an expedition into the -hills, upon the mainland, and, in this expedition, we shall need the -aid of some person in whom we can confide. You are the only one we -can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the excitement which you now -perceive in me will be equally allayed.” - -“I am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I replied; “but do you mean to -say that this infernal beetle has any connection with your expedition -into the hills?” - -“It has.” - -“Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such absurd proceeding.” - -“I am sorry—very sorry—for we shall have to try it by ourselves.” - -“Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!—but stay—how long do -you propose to be absent?” - -“Probably all night. We shall start immediately, and be back, at all -events, by sunrise.” - -“And will you promise me, upon your honor, that when this freak -of yours is over, and the bug business (good God!) settled to -your satisfaction, you will then return home and follow my advice -implicitly, as that of your physician?” - -“Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have no time to lose.” - -With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We started about four -o’clock—Legrand, Jupiter, the dog, and myself. Jupiter had with -him the scythe and spades—the whole of which he insisted upon -carrying, more through fear, it seemed to me, of trusting either of -the implements within reach of his master, than from any excess of -industry or complaisance. His demeanor was dogged in the extreme, and -“dat d——d bug” were the sole words which escaped his lips during the -journey. For my own part, I had charge of a couple of dark lanterns, -while Legrand contented himself with the _scarabæus_, which he carried -attached to the end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling it to and fro, -with the air of a conjurer, as he went. When I observed this last, -plain evidence of my friend’s aberration of mind, I could scarcely -refrain from tears. I thought it best, however, to humor his fancy, -at least for the present, or until I could adopt some more energetic -measures with a chance of success. In the mean time I endeavored, but -all in vain, to sound him in regard to the object of the expedition. -Having succeeded in inducing me to accompany him, he seemed unwilling -to hold conversation upon any topic of minor importance, and to all my -questions vouchsafed no other reply than “we shall see!” - -We crossed the creek at the head of the island by means of a skiff, -and, ascending the high grounds on the shore of the mainland, proceeded -in a northwesterly direction, through a tract of country excessively -wild and desolate, where no trace of a human footstep was to be seen. -Legrand led the way with decision; pausing only for an instant, here -and there, to consult what appeared to be certain landmarks of his own -contrivance upon a former occasion. - -In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, and the sun was -just setting when we entered a region infinitely more dreary than -any yet seen. It was a species of tableland, near the summit of an -almost inaccessible hill, densely wooded from base to pinnacle, and -interspersed with huge crags that appeared to lie loosely upon the -soil, and in many cases were prevented from precipitating themselves -into the valleys below merely by the support of the trees against which -they reclined. Deep ravines, in various directions, gave an air of -still sterner solemnity to the scene. - -The natural platform to which we had clambered was thickly overgrown -with brambles, through which we soon discovered that it would have -been impossible to force our way but for the scythe; and Jupiter, by -direction of his master, proceeded to clear for us a path to the foot -of an enormously tall tulip-tree, which stood, with some eight or ten -oaks, upon the level, and far surpassed them all, and all other trees -which I had then ever seen, in the beauty of its foliage and form, in -the wide spread of its branches, and in the general majesty of its -appearance. When we reached this tree, Legrand turned to Jupiter, -and asked him if he thought he could climb it. The old man seemed a -little staggered by the question, and for some moments made no reply. -At length he approached the huge trunk, walked slowly around it, and -examined it with minute attention. When he had completed his scrutiny, -he merely said: - -“Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in he life.” - -“Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will soon be too dark to -see what we are about.” - -“How far mus go up, massa?” inquired Jupiter. - -“Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell you which way to -go—and here—stop! take this beetle with you.” - -“De bug, Massa Will!—de goole-bug!” cried the negro, drawing back in -dismay—“what for mus tote de bug way up de tree?—d——n if I do!” - -“If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you, to take hold -of a harmless little dead beetle, why, you can carry it up by this -string—but, if you do not take it up with you in some way, I shall be -under the necessity of breaking your head with this shovel.” - -“What de matter now, massa?” said Jup, evidently shamed into -compliance; “always want fur to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was only -funnin anyhow. _Me_ feered de bug! what I keer for de bug?” Here he -took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string, and, maintaining -the insect as far from his person as circumstances would permit, -prepared to ascend the tree. - -In youth, the tulip-tree, or _Liriodendron Tulipifera_, the most -magnificent of American foresters, has a trunk peculiarly smooth, and -often rises to a great height without lateral branches; but, in its -riper age, the bark becomes gnarled and uneven, while many short limbs -make their appearance on the stem. Thus the difficulty of ascension, -in the present case, lay more in semblance than in reality. Embracing -the huge cylinder, as closely as possible, with his arms and knees, -seizing with his hands some projections, and resting his naked toes -upon others, Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from falling, -at length wriggled himself into the first great fork, and seemed to -consider the whole business as virtually accomplished. The _risk_ of -the achievement was, in fact, now over, although the climber was some -sixty or seventy feet from the ground. - -“Which way mus go now, Massa Will?” he asked. - -“Keep up the largest branch,—the one on this side,” said Legrand. The -negro obeyed him promptly, and apparently with but little trouble, -ascending higher and higher, until no glimpse of his squat figure could -be obtained through the dense foliage which enveloped it. Presently his -voice was heard in a sort of halloo. - -“How much fudder is got for go?” - -“How high up are you?” asked Legrand. - -“Ebber so fur,” replied the negro; “can see de sky fru de top ob de -tree.” - -“Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. Look down the trunk and -count the limbs below you on this side. How many limbs have you passed?” - -“One, two, tree, four, fibe—I done pass fibe big limb, massa, pon dis -side.” - -“Then go one limb higher.” - -In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing that the seventh -limb was attained. - -“Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently much excited, “I want you to work -your way out upon that limb as far as you can. If you see anything -strange, let me know.” - -By this time what little doubt I might have entertained of my poor -friend’s insanity was put finally at rest. I had no alternative but to -conclude him stricken with lunacy, and I became seriously anxious about -getting him home. While I was pondering upon what was best to be done, -Jupiter’s voice was again heard. - -“Mos feerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far—’tis dead limb putty -much all de way.” - -“Did you say it was a _dead_ limb, Jupiter?” cried Legrand in a -quavering voice. - -“Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail—done up for sartain—done -departed dis here life.” - -“What in the name of heaven shall I do?” asked Legrand, seemingly in -the greatest distress. - -“Do!” said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose a word, “why come -home and go to bed. Come now!—that’s a fine fellow. It’s getting late, -and, besides, you remember your promise.” - -“Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding me in the least, “do you hear me?” - -“Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain.” - -“Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see if you think it -_very_ rotten.” - -“Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro in a few moments, -“but not so berry rotten as mought be. Mought ventur out leetle way pon -de limb by myself, dat’s true.” - -“By yourself!—what do you mean?” - -“Why, I mean de bug. ’Tis _berry_ hebby bug. Spose I drop him down -fuss, and den de limb won’t break wid just de weight ob one nigger.” - -“You infernal scoundrel!” cried Legrand, apparently much relieved, -“what do you mean by telling me such nonsense as that? As sure as you -let that beetle fall, I’ll break your neck. Look here, Jupiter! do you -hear me?” - -“Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat style.” - -“Well! now listen!—if you will venture out on the limb as far as you -think safe, and not let go the beetle, I’ll make you a present of a -silver dollar as soon as you get down.” - -“I’m gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” replied the negro very -promptly—“mos out to the eend now.” - -“_Out to the end!_” here fairly screamed Legrand, “do you say you are -out to the end of that limb?” - -“Soon be to de eend, massa,—o-o-o-o-oh! Lord-gol-a-marcy! what _is_ -dis here pon de tree?” - -“Well!” cried Legrand, highly delighted, “what is it?” - -“Why taint noffin but a skull—somebody bin lef him head up de tree, -and de crows done gobble ebery bit ob de meat off.” - -“A skull, you say!—very well!—how is it fastened to the limb?—what -holds it on?” - -“Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why, dis berry curous sarcumstance, pon -my word—dare’s a great big nail in de skull, what fastens ob it on to -de tree.” - -“Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you—do you hear?” - -“Yes, massa.” - -“Pay attention, then!—find the left eye of the skull.” - -“Hum! hoo! dat’s good! why, dar aint no eye lef at all.” - -“Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand from your left?” - -“Yes, I nose dat—nose all bout dat—’tis my lef hand what I chops de -wood wid.” - -“To be sure! you are left-handed; and your left eye is on the same side -as your left hand. Now, I suppose, you can find the left eye of the -skull, or the place where the left eye has been. Have you found it?” - -Here was a long pause. At length the negro asked, - -“Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef hand of de skull, -too?—cause de skull aint got not a bit ob a hand at all—nebber mind! -I got de lef eye now—here de lef eye! what must do wid it?” - -“Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string will reach—but -be careful and not let go your hold of the string.” - -“All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to put de bug fru de -hole—look for him dar below!” - -During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter’s person could be seen; but -the beetle, which he had suffered to descend, was now visible at the -end of the string, and glistened, like a globe of burnished gold, in -the last rays of the setting sun, some of which still faintly illumined -the eminence upon which we stood. The _scarabæus_ hung quite clear of -any branches, and, if allowed to fall, would have fallen at our feet. -Legrand immediately took the scythe, and cleared with it a circular -space, three or four yards in diameter, just beneath the insect, and, -having accomplished this, ordered Jupiter to let go the string and come -down from the tree. - -Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground, at the precise -spot where the beetle fell, my friend now produced from his pocket a -tape-measure. Fastening one end of this at that point of the trunk of -the tree which was nearest the peg, he unrolled it till it reached -the peg, and thence farther unrolled it, in the direction already -established by the two points of the tree and the peg, for the distance -of fifty feet—Jupiter clearing away the brambles with the scythe. At -the spot thus attained a second peg was driven, and about this, as a -centre, a rude circle, about four feet in diameter, described. Taking -now a spade himself, and giving one to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand -begged us to set about digging as quickly as possible. - -To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such amusement at -any time, and, at that particular moment, would most willingly have -declined it; for the night was coming on, and I felt much fatigued -with the exercise already taken; but I saw no mode of escape, and -was fearful of disturbing my poor friend’s equanimity by a refusal. -Could I have depended, indeed, upon Jupiter’s aid, I would have had -no hesitation in attempting to get the lunatic home by force; but I -was too well assured of the old negro’s disposition to hope that he -would assist me, under any circumstances, in a personal contest with -his master. I made no doubt that the latter had been infected with -some of the innumerable Southern superstitions about money buried, -and that his fantasy had received confirmation by the finding of the -_scarabæus_, or, perhaps, by Jupiter’s obstinacy in maintaining it to -be “a bug of real gold.” A mind disposed to lunacy would readily be -led away by such suggestions, especially if chiming in with favorite -preconceived ideas; and then I called to mind the poor fellow’s speech -about the beetle’s being “the index of his fortune.” Upon the whole, I -was sadly vexed and puzzled, but at length I concluded to make a virtue -of necessity—to dig with a good will, and thus the sooner to convince -the visionary, by ocular demonstration, of the fallacy of the opinions -he entertained. - -The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work with a zeal worthy -a more rational cause; and, as the glare fell upon our persons and -implements, I could not help thinking how picturesque a group we -composed, and how strange and suspicious our labors must have appeared -to any interloper who, by chance, might have stumbled upon our -whereabouts. - -We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was said; and our chief -embarrassment lay in the yelpings of the dog, who took exceeding -interest in our proceedings. He, at length, became so obstreperous -that we grew fearful of his giving the alarm to some stragglers in the -vicinity; or, rather, this was the apprehension of Legrand; for myself, -I should have rejoiced at any interruption which might have enabled me -to get the wanderer home. The noise was, at length, very effectually -silenced by Jupiter, who, getting out of the hole with a dogged air of -deliberation, tied the brute’s mouth up with one of his suspenders, and -then returned, with a grave chuckle, to his task. - -When the time mentioned had expired, we had reached a depth of five -feet, and yet no signs of any treasure became manifest. A general -pause ensued, and I began to hope that the farce was at an end. -Legrand, however, although evidently much disconcerted, wiped his -brow thoughtfully and recommenced. We had excavated the entire circle -of four feet diameter, and now we slightly enlarged the limit, and -went to the farther depth of two feet. Still nothing appeared. The -gold-seeker, whom I sincerely pitied, at length clambered from the -pit, with the bitterest disappointment imprinted upon every feature, -and proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, to put on his coat, which he -had thrown off at the beginning of his labor. In the mean time I made -no remark. Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to gather up -his tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled, we turned in -profound silence towards home. - -We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direction, when, with a -loud oath, Legrand strode up to Jupiter, and seized him by the collar. -The astonished negro opened his eyes and mouth to the fullest extent, -let fall the spades, and fell upon his knees. - -“You scoundrel,” said Legrand, hissing out the syllables from between -his clenched teeth—“you infernal black villain!—speak, I tell -you!—answer me this instant, without prevarication!—which—which is -your left eye?” - -“Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef eye for sartain?” -roared the terrified Jupiter, placing his hand upon his _right_ organ -of vision, and holding it there with a desperate pertinacity, as if in -immediate dread of his master’s attempt at a gouge. - -“I thought so!—I knew it! hurrah!” vociferated Legrand, letting the -negro go, and executing a series of curvets and caracoles, much to the -astonishment of his valet, who, arising from his knees, looked mutely -from his master to myself, and then from myself to his master. - -“Come! we must go back,” said the latter, “the game’s not up yet;” and -he again led the way to the tulip-tree. - -“Jupiter,” said he, when we reached its foot, “come here! was the -skull nailed to the limb with the face outward, or with the face to the -limb?” - -“De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get at de eyes good, -widout any trouble.” - -“Well, then, was it this eye or that through which you dropped the -beetle?”—here Legrand touched each of Jupiter’s eyes. - -“‘Twas dis eye, massa—de lef eye—jis as you tell me,” and here it was -his right eye that the negro indicated. - -“That will do—we must try it again.” - -Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw, or fancied that I saw, -certain indications of method, removed the peg which marked the spot -where the beetle fell, to a spot about three inches to the westward of -its former position. Taking, now, the tape-measure from the nearest -point of the trunk to the peg, as before, and continuing the extension -in a straight line to the distance of fifty feet, a spot was indicated, -removed, by several yards, from the point at which we had been digging. - -Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger than in the former -instance, was now described, and we again set to work with the spades. -I was dreadfully weary, but, scarcely understanding what had occasioned -the change in my thoughts, I felt no longer any great aversion from -the labor imposed. I had become most unaccountably interested—nay, -even excited. Perhaps there was something, amid all the extravagant -demeanor of Legrand—some air of forethought, or of deliberation—which -impressed me. I dug eagerly, and now and then caught myself actually -looking, with something that very much resembled expectation, for the -fancied treasure, the vision of which had demented my unfortunate -companion. At a period when such vagaries of thought most fully -possessed me, and when we had been at work perhaps an hour and a half, -we were again interrupted by the violent howlings of the dog. His -uneasiness, in the first instance, had been evidently but the result -of playfulness or caprice, but he now assumed a bitter and serious -tone. Upon Jupiter’s again attempting to muzzle him, he made furious -resistance, and, leaping into the hole, tore up the mould frantically -with his claws. In a few seconds he had uncovered a mass of human -bones, forming two complete skeletons, intermingled with several -buttons of metal, and what appeared to be the dust of decayed woollen. -One or two strokes of a spade upturned the blade of a large Spanish -knife, and, as we dug farther, three or four loose pieces of gold and -silver coin came to light. - -At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely be restrained, but -the countenance of his master wore an air of extreme disappointment. He -urged us, however, to continue our exertions, and the words were hardly -uttered when I stumbled and fell forward, having caught the toe of my -boot in a large ring of iron that lay half buried in the loose earth. - -We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass ten minutes of more -intense excitement. During this interval we had fairly unearthed -an oblong chest of wood, which, from its perfect preservation and -wonderful hardness, had plainly been subjected to some mineralizing -process—perhaps that of the bichloride of mercury. This box was three -feet and a half long, three feet broad, and two and a half feet deep. -It was firmly secured by bands of wrought iron, riveted, and forming a -kind of trellis-work over the whole. On each side of the chest, near -the top, were three rings of iron—six in all—by means of which a firm -hold could be obtained by six persons. Our utmost united endeavors -served only to disturb the coffer very slightly in its bed. We at once -saw the impossibility of removing so great a weight. Luckily, the sole -fastenings of the lid consisted of two sliding bolts. These we drew -back—trembling and panting with anxiety. In an instant, a treasure of -incalculable value lay gleaming before us. As the rays of the lanterns -fell within the pit, there flashed upwards, from a confused heap of -gold and of jewels, a glow and a glare that absolutely dazzled our eyes. - -I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with which I gazed. -Amazement was, of course, predominant. Legrand appeared exhausted -with excitement, and spoke very few words. Jupiter’s countenance -wore, for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible, in -the nature of things, for any negro’s visage to assume. He seemed -stupefied—thunderstricken. Presently he fell upon his knees in the -pit, and, burying his naked arms up to the elbows in gold, let them -there remain, as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At length, with a -deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy: - -“And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! de putty goole-bug! de poor little -goole-bug, what I boosed in dat sabage kind ob style! Aint you shamed -ob yourself, nigger?—answer me dat!” - -It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse both master and -valet to the expediency of removing the treasure. It was growing late, -and it behooved us to make exertion, that we might get everything -housed before daylight. It was difficult to say what should be done, -and much time was spent in deliberation—so confused were the ideas -of all. We finally lightened the box by removing two-thirds of its -contents, when we were enabled, with some trouble, to raise it from -the hole. The articles taken out were deposited among the brambles, and -the dog left to guard them, with strict orders from Jupiter neither, -upon any pretence, to stir from the spot, nor to open his mouth until -our return. We then hurriedly made for home with the chest; reaching -the hut in safety, but after excessive toil, at one o’clock in the -morning. Worn out as we were, it was not in human nature to do more -just now. We rested until two, and had supper; starting for the hills -immediately afterwards, armed with three stout sacks, which by good -luck were upon the premises. A little before four we arrived at the -pit, divided the remainder of the booty, as equally as might be, among -us, and, leaving the holes unfilled, again set out for the hut, at -which, for the second time, we deposited our golden burdens, just as -the first streaks of the dawn gleamed from over the tree-tops in the -East. - -We were now thoroughly broken down; but the intense excitement of the -time denied us repose. After an unquiet slumber of some three or four -hours’ duration, we arose, as if by pre-concert, to make examination of -our treasure. - -The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent the whole day, and -the greater part of the next night, in a scrutiny of its contents. -There had been nothing like order or arrangement. Everything had -been heaped in promiscuously. Having assorted all with care, we -found ourselves possessed of even vaster wealth than we had at first -supposed. In coin there was rather more than four hundred and fifty -thousand dollars: estimating the value of the pieces, as accurately -as we could, by the tables of the period. There was not a particle -of silver. All was gold of antique date and of great variety: -French, Spanish, and German money, with a few English guineas, and -some counters, of which we had never seen specimens before. There -were several very large and heavy coins, so worn that we could make -nothing of their inscriptions. There was no American money. The value -of the jewels we found more difficulty in estimating. There were -diamonds—some of them exceedingly large and fine—a hundred and ten -in all, and not one of them small; eighteen rubies of remarkable -brilliancy; three hundred and ten emeralds, all very beautiful; and -twenty-one sapphires, with an opal. These stones had all been broken -from their settings and thrown loose in the chest. The settings -themselves, which we picked out from among the other gold, appeared -to have been beaten up with hammers, as if to prevent identification. -Besides all this, there was a vast quantity of solid gold ornaments: -nearly two hundred massive finger and ear rings; rich chains—thirty -of these, if I remember; eighty-three very large and heavy crucifixes; -five gold censers of great value; a prodigious golden punch-bowl, -ornamented with richly chased vine-leaves and Bacchanalian figures; -with two sword handles exquisitely embossed, and many other smaller -articles which I cannot recollect. The weight of these valuables -exceeded three hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois; and in this -estimate I have not included one hundred and ninety-seven superb gold -watches; three of the number being worth each five hundred dollars, if -one. Many of them were very old, and as time-keepers valueless, the -works having suffered more or less from corrosion; but all were richly -jewelled and in cases of great worth. We estimated the entire contents -of the chest, that night, at a million and a half of dollars; and, -upon the subsequent disposal of the trinkets and jewels (a few being -retained for our own use), it was found that we had greatly undervalued -the treasure. - -When, at length, we had concluded our examination, and the intense -excitement of the time had in some measure subsided, Legrand, -who saw that I was dying with impatience for a solution of this -most extraordinary riddle, entered into a full detail of all the -circumstances connected with it. - -“You remember,” said he, “the night when I handed you the rough sketch -I had made of the _scarabæus_. You recollect also, that I became quite -vexed at you for insisting that my drawing resembled a death’s-head. -When you first made this assertion I thought you were jesting; but -afterwards I called to mind the peculiar spots on the back of the -insect, and admitted to myself that your remark had some little -foundation in fact. Still, the sneer at my graphic powers irritated -me—for I am considered a good artist—and, therefore, when you handed -me the scrap of parchment, I was about to crumple it up and throw it -angrily into the fire.” - -“The scrap of paper, you mean,” said I. - -“No: it had much of the appearance of paper, and at first I supposed -it to be such, but when I came to draw upon it, I discovered it, -at once, to be a piece of very thin parchment. It was quite dirty, -you remember. Well, as I was in the very act of crumpling it up, my -glance fell upon the sketch at which you had been looking, and you -may imagine my astonishment when I perceived, in fact, the figure of -a death’s-head just where, it seemed to me, I had made the drawing of -the beetle. For a moment I was too much amazed to think with accuracy. -I knew that my design was very different in detail from this—although -there was a certain similarity in general outline. Presently I took -a candle and, seating myself at the other end of the room, proceeded -to scrutinize the parchment more closely. Upon turning it over, I -saw my own sketch upon the reverse, just as I had made it. My first -idea, now, was mere surprise at the really remarkable similarity -of outline—at the singular coincidence involved in the fact that, -unknown to me, there should have been a skull upon the other side -of the parchment, immediately beneath my figure of the _scarabæus_, -and that this skull, not only in outline, but in size, should so -closely resemble my drawing. I say the singularity of this coincidence -absolutely stupefied me for a time. This is the usual effect of such -coincidences. The mind struggles to establish a connection—a sequence -of cause and effect—and, being unable to do so, suffers a species of -temporary paralysis. But, when I recovered from this stupor, there -dawned upon me gradually a conviction which startled me even far more -than the coincidence. I began distinctly, positively, to remember that -there had been _no_ drawing on the parchment when I made my sketch of -the _scarabæus_. I became perfectly certain of this; for I recollected -turning up first one side and then the other, in search of the cleanest -spot. Had the skull been then there, of course I could not have failed -to notice it. Here was indeed a mystery which I felt it impossible -to explain; but, even at that early moment, there seemed to glimmer, -faintly, within the most remote and secret chambers of my intellect, -a glowworm-like conception of that truth which last night’s adventure -brought to so magnificent a demonstration. I arose at once, and, -putting the parchment securely away, dismissed all farther reflection -until I should be alone. - -“When you had gone, and when Jupiter was fast asleep, I betook myself -to a more methodical investigation of the affair. In the first place -I considered the manner in which the parchment had come into my -possession. The spot where we discovered the _scarabæus_ was on the -coast of the mainland, about a mile eastward of the island, and but a -short distance above high-water mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it -gave me a sharp bite, which caused me to let it drop. Jupiter, with his -accustomed caution, before seizing the insect, which had flown towards -him, looked about him for a leaf, or something of that nature, by which -to take hold of it. It was at this moment that his eyes, and mine also, -fell upon the scrap of parchment, which I then supposed to be paper. -It was lying half buried in the sand, a corner sticking up. Near the -spot where we found it, I observed the remnants of the hull of what -appeared to have been a ship’s long boat. The wreck seemed to have been -there for a very great while; for the resemblance to boat timbers could -scarcely be traced. - -“Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped the beetle in it, and -gave it to me. Soon afterwards we turned to go home, and on the way met -Lieutenant G——. I showed him the insect, and he begged me to let him -take it to the fort. On my consenting, he thrust it forthwith into his -waistcoat pocket, without the parchment in which it had been wrapped, -and which I had continued to hold in my hand during his inspection. -Perhaps he dreaded my changing my mind, and thought it best to make -sure of the prize at once—you know how enthusiastic he is on all -subjects connected with Natural History. At the same time, without -being conscious of it, I must have deposited the parchment in my own -pocket. - -“You remember that when I went to the table, for the purpose of -making a sketch of the beetle, I found no paper where it was usually -kept. I looked in the drawer, and found none there. I searched my -pockets, hoping to find an old letter, and then my hand fell upon the -parchment. I thus detail the precise mode in which it came into my -possession; for the circumstances impressed me with peculiar force. - -“No doubt you will think me fanciful—but I had already established a -kind of _connection_. I had put together two links of a great chain. -There was a boat lying on a seacoast, and not far from the boat was -a parchment—_not a paper_—with a skull depicted on it. You will, -of course, ask ’where is the connection?’ I reply that the skull, or -death’s-head, is the well-known emblem of the pirate. The flag of the -death’s-head is hoisted in all engagements. - -“I have said that the scrap was parchment, and not paper. Parchment -is durable—almost imperishable. Matters of little moment are rarely -consigned to parchment; since, for the mere ordinary purposes of -drawing or writing, it is not nearly so well adapted as paper. This -reflection suggested some meaning—some relevancy—in the death’s-head. -I did not fail to observe, also, the _form_ of the parchment. Although -one of its corners had been, by some accident, destroyed, it could -be seen that the original form was oblong. It was just such a slip, -indeed, as might have been chosen for a memorandum—for a record of -something to be long remembered and carefully preserved.” - -“But,” I interposed, “you say that the skull was _not_ upon the -parchment when you made the drawing of the beetle. How then do you -trace any connection between the boat and the skull—since this latter, -according to your own admission, must have been designed (God only -knows how or by whom) at some period subsequent to your sketching the -_scarabæus_?” - -“Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery; although the secret, at this -point, I had comparatively little difficulty in solving. My steps were -sure, and could afford but a single result. I reasoned, for example, -thus: When I drew the _scarabæus_, there was no skull apparent on the -parchment. When I had completed the drawing I gave it to you, and -observed you narrowly until you returned it. _You_, therefore, did not -design the skull, and no one else was present to do it. Then it was not -done by human agency. And nevertheless it was done. - -“At this stage of my reflections I endeavored to remember, and _did_ -remember, with entire distinctness, every incident which occurred -about the period in question. The weather was chilly (O rare and happy -accident!), and a fire was blazing on the hearth. I was heated with -exercise and sat near the table. You, however, had drawn a chair close -to the chimney. Just as I placed the parchment in your hand, and as you -were in the act of inspecting it, Wolf, the Newfoundland, entered, and -leaped upon your shoulders. With your left hand you caressed him and -kept him off, while your right, holding the parchment, was permitted -to fall listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity to the -fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had caught it, and was about to -caution you, but, before I could speak, you had withdrawn it, and were -engaged in its examination. When I considered all these particulars, I -doubted not for a moment that _heat_ had been the agent in bringing to -light, on the parchment, the skull which I saw designed on it. You are -well aware that chemical preparations exist, and have existed time out -of mind, by means of which it is possible to write on either paper or -vellum, so that the characters shall become visible only when subjected -to the action of fire. Zaffre, digested in _aqua regia_, and diluted -with four times its weight of water, is sometimes employed; a green -tint results. The regulus of cobalt, dissolved in spirit of nitre, -gives a red. These colors disappear at longer or shorter intervals -after the material written upon cools, but again become apparent upon -the re-application of heat. - -“I now scrutinized the death’s-head with care. Its outer edges—the -edges of the drawing nearest the edge of the vellum—were far more -_distinct_ than the others. It was clear that the action of the -caloric had been imperfect or unequal. I immediately kindled a fire, -and subjected every portion of the parchment to a glowing heat. At -first, the only effect was the strengthening of the faint lines in the -skull; but, on persevering in the experiment, there became visible at -the corner of the slip, diagonally opposite to the spot in which the -death’s-head was delineated, the figure of what I at first supposed -to be a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied me that it was -intended for a kid.” - -“Ha! ha!” said I, “to be sure I have no right to laugh at you—a -million and a half of money is too serious a matter for mirth—but you -are not about to establish a third link in your chain: you will not -find any especial connection between your pirates and a goat; pirates, -you know, have nothing to do with goats; they appertain to the farming -interest.” - -“But I have just said that the figure was _not_ that of a goat.” - -“Well, a kid, then—pretty much the same thing.” - -“Pretty much, but not altogether,” said Legrand. “You may have heard of -one _Captain_ Kidd. I at once looked on the figure of the animal as a -kind of punning or hieroglyphical signature. I say signature; because -its position on the vellum suggested this idea. The death’s-head at the -corner diagonally opposite had, in the same manner, the air of a stamp, -or seal. But I was sorely put out by the absence of all else—of the -body to my imagined instrument—of the text for my context.” - -“I presume you expected to find a letter between the stamp and the -signature.” - -“Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt irresistibly impressed -with a presentiment of some vast good fortune impending. I can -scarcely say why. Perhaps, after all, it was rather a desire than an -actual belief;—but do you know that Jupiter’s silly words, about the -bug being of solid gold, had a remarkable effect on my fancy? And -then the series of accidents and coincidences—these were so _very_ -extraordinary. Do you observe how mere an accident it was that these -events should have occurred on the _sole_ day of all the year in which -it has been, or may be, sufficiently cool for fire, and that without -the fire, or without the intervention of the dog at the precise -moment in which he appeared, I should never have become aware of the -death’s-head, and so never the possessor of the treasure?” - -“But proceed—I am all impatience.” - -“Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories current—the -thousand vague rumors afloat about money buried, somewhere on the -Atlantic coast, by Kidd and his associates. These rumors must have had -some foundation in fact. And that the rumors have existed so long and -so continuously, could have resulted, it appeared to me, only from the -circumstance of the buried treasure still _remaining_ entombed. Had -Kidd concealed his plunder for a time, and afterwards reclaimed it, the -rumors would scarcely have reached us in their present unvarying form. -You will observe that the stories told are all about money-seekers, -not about money-finders. Had the pirate recovered his money, there the -affair would have dropped. It seemed to me that some accident—say the -loss of a memorandum indicating its locality—had deprived him of the -means of recovering it, and that this accident had become known to -his followers, who otherwise might never have heard that treasure had -been concealed at all, and, who, busying themselves in vain, because -unguided, attempts to regain it, had given first birth, and then -universal currency, to the reports which are now so common. Have you -ever heard of any important treasure being unearthed along the coast?” - -“Never.” - -“But that Kidd’s accumulations were immense is well known. I took -it for granted, therefore, that the earth still held them; and you -will scarcely be surprised when I tell you that I felt a hope, nearly -amounting to certainty, that the parchment so strangely found involved -a lost record of the place of deposit.” - -“But how did you proceed?” - -“I held the vellum again to the fire, after increasing the heat, but -nothing appeared. I now thought it possible that the coating of dirt -might have something to do with the failure; so I carefully rinsed -the parchment by pouring warm water over it, and, having done this, I -placed it in a tin pan, with the skull downwards, and put the pan upon -a furnace of lighted charcoal. In a few minutes, the pan having become -thoroughly heated, I removed the slip, and, to my inexpressible joy, -found it spotted, in several places, with what appeared to be figures -arranged in lines. Again I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to -remain another minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you -see it now.” - -Here Legrand, having reheated the parchment, submitted it to my -inspection. The following characters were rudely traced, in a red tint, -between the death’s-head and the goat:— - -53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡);806*;48†8¶60))85;;]8*;: -‡*8†83(88)5*†;46(;88*96*?;8)*‡(;485);5*†2:*‡(;4956 -*2(5*—4)8¶8*;4069285);)6†8)4‡‡;1(‡9;48081;8:8‡1;48 -†85;4)485†528806*81(‡9;48;(88;4(‡?34;48)4‡;161;:188 ;‡?; - -“But,” said I, returning him the slip, “I am as much in the dark as -ever. “Were all the jewels of Golconda awaiting me on my solution of -this enigma, I am quite sure that I should be unable to earn them.” - -“And yet,” said Legrand, “the solution is by no means so difficult as -you might be led to imagine from the first hasty inspection of the -characters. These characters, as any one might readily guess, form a -cipher—that is to say, they convey a meaning; but then, from what is -known of Kidd, I could not suppose him capable of constructing any of -the more abstruse cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, that this -was of a simple species—such, however, as would appear, to the crude -intellect of the sailor, absolutely insoluble without the key.” - -“And you really solved it?” - -“Readily; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten thousand times -greater. Circumstances, and a certain bias of mind, have led me to take -interest in such riddles, and it may well be doubted whether human -ingenuity can construct an enigma of the kind which human ingenuity may -not, by proper application, resolve. In fact, having once established -connected and legible characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere -difficulty of developing their import. - -“In the present case—indeed in all cases of secret writing—the first -question regards the _language_ of the cipher; for the principles of -solution, so far, especially, as the more simple ciphers are concerned, -depend on, and are varied by, the genius of the particular idiom. -In general, there is no alternative but experiment (directed by -probabilities) of every tongue known to him who attempts the solution, -until the true one be attained. But, with the cipher now before us, -all difficulty is removed by the signature. The pun upon the word -’Kidd’ is appreciable in no other language than the English. But for -this consideration I should have begun my attempts with the Spanish -and French, as the tongues in which a secret of this kind would most -naturally have been written by a pirate of the Spanish main. As it was, -I assumed the cryptograph to be English. - -“You observe there are no divisions between the words. Had there been -divisions, the task would have been comparatively easy. In such case -I should have commenced with a collation and analysis of the shorter -words, and, had a word of a single letter occurred, as is most likely -(_a_ or _I_, for example), I should have considered the solution as -assured. But, there being no division, my first step was to ascertain -the predominant letters, as well as the least frequent. Counting all, I -constructed a table, thus: - - “Of the character 8 there are 33 - ; “ 26 - 4 “ 19 - ‡) “ 16 - * “ 13 - 5 “ 12 - 6 “ 11 - †1 “ 8 - 0 “ 6 - 92 “ 5 - :3 “ 4 - ? “ 3 - ¶ “ 2 - ]— “ 1 - -“Now, in English, the letter which most frequently occurs is _e_. -Afterwards the succession runs thus: _a o i d h n r s t u y c f g l -m w b k p q x z_. _E_ predominates, however, so remarkably that an -individual sentence of any length is rarely seen, in which it is not -the prevailing character. - -“Here, then, we have, in the very beginning, the groundwork for -something more than a mere guess. The general use which may be made of -the table is obvious—but, in this particular cipher, we shall only -very partially require its aid. As our predominant character is 8, -we will commence by assuming it as the _e_ of the natural alphabet. -To verify the supposition, let us observe if the 8 be seen often in -couples—for _e_ is doubled with great frequency in English—in such -words, for example, as ’meet,’ ’fleet,’ ’speed,’ ’seen,’ ’been,’ -’a’gree,’ &c. In the present instance we see it doubled no less than -five times, although the cryptograph is brief. - -“Let us assume 8, then, as _e_. Now, of all _words_ in the language, -‘the’ is most usual; let us see, therefore, whether there are not -repetitions of any three characters, in the same order of collocation, -the last of them being 8. If we discover repetitions of such letters, -so arranged, they will most probably represent the word ’the.’ -On inspection, we find no less than seven such arrangements, the -characters being ;48. We may, therefore, assume that the semicolon -represents _t_, that 4 represents _h_, and that 8 represents _e_—the -last being now well confirmed. Thus a great step has been taken. - -“But, having established a single word, we are enabled to establish -a vastly important point; that is to say, several commencements and -terminations of other words. Let us refer, for example, to the last -instance but one, in which the combination ;48 occurs—not far from -the end of the cipher. We know that the semicolon immediately ensuing -is the commencement of a word, and, of the six characters succeeding -this ’the,’ we are cognizant of no less than five. Let us set these -characters down, thus, by the letters we know them to represent, -leaving a space for the unknown— - - t eeth. - -“Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the ’_th_,’ as forming no -portion of the word commencing with the first _t_; since, by experiment -of the entire alphabet for a letter adapted to the vacancy, we perceive -that no word can be formed of which this _th_ can be a part. We are -thus narrowed into - - t ee, - -and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as before, we arrive -at the word ’tree’ as the sole possible reading. We thus gain -another letter, _r_, represented by (, with the words ’the tree’ in -juxtaposition. - -“Looking beyond these words, for a short distance, we again see -the combination ;48, and employ it by way of _termination_ to what -immediately precedes. We have thus this arrangement: - - the tree ;4(‡?34 the, - -or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it reads thus: - - the tree thr‡?3h the. - -“Now, if, in place of the unknown characters, we leave blank spaces, or -substitute dots, we read thus: - - the tree thr . . . h the, - -when the word ’_through_’ makes itself evident at once. But this -discovery gives us three new letters, _o_, _u_, and _g_, represented by -‡ ? and 3. - -“Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations of known -characters, we find, not very far from the beginning, this arrangement, - - 83(88, or egree, - -which, plainly, is the conclusion of the word ’degree,’ and gives us -another letter, _d_, represented by †. - -“Four letters beyond the word ’degree,’ we perceive the combination - - ;46(;88* - -“Translating the known characters, and representing the unknown by -dots, as before, we read thus: - - th . rtee . , - -an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word ’thirteen,’ and again -furnishing us with two new characters, _i_ and _n_, represented by 6 -and *. - -“Referring, now, to the beginning of the cryptograph, we find the -combination, - - 53‡‡†. - -“Translating, as before, we obtain - - good, - -which assures us that the first letter is _A_, and that the first two -words are ’A good.’ - -“To avoid confusion, it is now time that we arrange our key, as far as -discovered, in a tabular form. It will stand thus: - - 5 represents a - † “ d - 8 “ e - 3 “ g - 4 “ h - 6 “ i - * “ n - ‡ “ o - ( “ r - ; “ t - -“We have, therefore, no less than ten of the most important letters -represented, and it will be unnecessary to proceed with the details -of the solution. I have said enough to convince you that ciphers of -this nature are readily soluble, and to give you some insight into the -rationale of their development. But be assured that the specimen before -us appertains to the very simplest species of cryptograph. It now only -remains to give you the full translation of the characters upon the -parchment, as unriddled. Here it is: - -_“‘A good glass in the Bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat twenty-one -degrees and thirteen minutes north-east and by north main branch -seventh limb east side shoot from the left eye of the death’s-head a -bee-line from the tree through the shot fifty feet out.’”_ - -“But,” said I, “the enigma seems still in as bad a condition as ever. -How is it possible to extort a meaning from all this jargon about -’devil’s seats,’ ’death’s-heads,’ and ’Bishop’s hotels’?” - -“I confess,” replied Legrand, “that the matter still wears a serious -aspect, when regarded with a casual glance. My first endeavor was -to divide the sentence into the natural division intended by the -cryptographist.” - -“You mean, to punctuate it?” - -“Something of that kind.” - -“But how was it possible to effect this?” - -“I reflected that it had been a _point_ with the writer to run his -words together without division, so as to increase the difficulty of -solution. Now, a not over-acute man, in pursuing such an object, would -be nearly certain to overdo the matter. When, in the course of his -composition, he arrived at a break in his subject which would naturally -require a pause, or a point, he would be exceedingly apt to run his -characters, at this place, more than usually close together. If you -will observe the MS., in the present instance, you will easily detect -five such cases of unusual crowding. Acting on this hint, I made the -division thus: - -_“‘A good glass in the Bishop’s hostel in the Devil’s seat—twenty-one -degrees and thirteen minutes—north-east and by north—main branch -seventh limb east side—shoot from the left eye of the death’s-head—a -bee-line from the tree through the shot fifty feet out.’”_ - -“Even this division,” said I, “leaves me still in the dark.” - -“It left me also in the dark,” replied Legrand, “for a few days; during -which I made diligent inquiry, in the neighborhood of Sullivan’s -Island, for any building which went by the name of the ’Bishop’s -Hotel’; for, of course, I dropped the obsolete word ’hostel.’ Gaining -no information on the subject, I was on the point of extending my -sphere of search, and proceeding in a more systematic manner, when one -morning it entered into my head, quite suddenly, that this ’Bishop’s -Hostel’ might have some reference to an old family, of the name of -Bessop, which, time out of mind, had held possession of an ancient -manor-house, about four miles to the northward of the island. I -accordingly went over to the plantation, and reinstituted my inquiries -among the older negroes of the place. At length one of the most aged -of the women said that she had heard of such a place as _Bessop’s -Castle_, and thought that she could guide me to it, but that it was not -a castle, nor a tavern, but a high rock. - -“I offered to pay her well for her trouble, and, after some demur, -she consented to accompany me to the spot. We found it without much -difficulty, when, dismissing her, I proceeded to examine the place. The -’castle’ consisted of an irregular assemblage of cliffs and rocks—one -of the latter being quite remarkable for its height as well as for its -insulated and artificial appearance. I clambered to its apex, and then -felt much at a loss as to what should be next done. - -“While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell on a narrow ledge in -the eastern face of the rock, perhaps a yard below the summit upon -which I stood. This ledge projected about eighteen inches, and was not -more than a foot wide, while a niche in the cliff just above it gave -it a rude resemblance to one of the hollow-backed chairs used by our -ancestors. I made no doubt that here was the ’devil’s seat’ alluded to -in the MS., and now I seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle. - -“The ’good glass,’ I knew, could have reference to nothing but a -telescope; for the word ’glass’ is rarely employed in any other sense -by seamen. Now here, I at once saw, was a telescope to be used, and a -definite point of view, _admitting no variation_, from which to use it. -Nor did I hesitate to believe that the phrases, ’twenty-one degrees -and thirteen minutes,’ and ‘north-east and by north,’ were intended as -directions for the levelling of the glass. Greatly excited by these -discoveries, I hurried home, procured a telescope, and returned to the -rock. - -“I let myself down the ledge, and found that it was impossible to -retain a seat on it unless in one particular position. This fact -confirmed my preconceived idea. I proceeded to use the glass. Of -course, the ’twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes’ could allude to -nothing but elevation above the visible horizon, since the horizontal -direction was clearly indicated by the words, ‘north-east and by -north.’ This latter direction I at once established by means of a -pocket-compass; then, pointing the glass as nearly at an angle of -twenty-one degrees of elevation as I could do it by guess, I moved it -cautiously up or down, until my attention was arrested by a circular -rift or opening in the foliage of a large tree that overtopped its -fellows in the distance. In the centre of this rift I perceived a white -spot, but could not, at first, distinguish what it was. Adjusting the -focus of the telescope, I again looked, and now made it out to be a -human skull. - -“On this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider the enigma solved; -for the phrase ’main branch, seventh limb, east side,’ could refer only -to the position of the skull on the tree, while ’shoot from the left -eye of the death’s-head’ admitted, also, of but one interpretation, in -regard to a search for buried treasure. I perceived that the design was -to drop a bullet from the left eye of the skull, and that a bee-line, -or, in other words, a straight line, drawn from the nearest point of -the trunk through ’the shotì (or the spot where the bullet fell), and -thence extended to a distance of fifty feet, would indicate a definite -point—and beneath this point I thought it at least _possible_ that a -deposit of value lay concealed.” - -“All this,” I said, “is exceedingly clear, and, although ingenious, -still simple and explicit. When you left the Bishop’s Hotel, what -then?” - -“Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the tree, I turned -homewards. The instant that I left ’the devil’s seat,’ however, the -circular rift vanished; nor could I get a glimpse of it afterwards, -turn as I would. What seems to me the chief ingenuity in this whole -business, is the fact (for repeated experiment has convinced me it _is_ -a fact) that the circular opening in question is visible from no other -attainable point of view than that afforded by the narrow ledge on the -face of the rock. - -“In this expedition to the ’Bishop’s Hotel’ I had been attended -by Jupiter, who had no doubt observed, for some weeks past, the -abstraction of my demeanor, and took especial care not to leave me -alone. But on the next day, getting up very early, I contrived to give -him the slip, and went into the hills in search of the tree. After much -toil I found it. When I came home at night my valet proposed to give me -a flogging. With the rest of the adventure I believe you are as well -acquainted as myself.” - -“I suppose,” said I, “you missed the spot, in the first attempt at -digging, through Jupiter’s stupidity in letting the bug fall through -the right instead of through the left eye of the skull.” - -“Precisely. This mistake made a difference of about two inches and a -half in the ’shot’—that is to say, in the position of the peg nearest -the tree; and had the treasure been _beneath_ the ’shot,’ the error -would have been of little moment; but ’the shot,’ together with the -nearest point of the tree, were merely two points for the establishment -of a line of direction; of course the error, however trivial in the -beginning, increased as we proceeded with the line, and, by the time -we had gone fifty feet, threw us quite off the scent. But for my -deep-seated convictions that treasure was here somewhere actually -buried, we might have had all our labor in vain.” - -“I presume the fancy of _the skull_—of letting fall a bullet through -the skull’s eye—was suggested to Kidd by the piratical flag. No doubt -he felt a kind of poetical consistency in recovering his money through -this ominous insignium.” - -“Perhaps so; still, I cannot help thinking that common-sense had -quite as much to do with the matter as poetical consistency. To be -visible from the Devil’s seat, it was necessary that the object, if -small, should be _white_; and there is nothing like your human skull -for retaining and even increasing its whiteness under exposure to all -vicissitudes of weather.” - -“But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in swinging the beetle—how -excessively odd! I was sure you were mad. And why did you insist on -letting fall the bug, instead of a bullet, from the skull?” - -“Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by your evident suspicions -touching my sanity, and so resolved to punish you quietly, in my -own way, by a little bit of sober mystification. For this reason I -swung the beetle, and for this reason I let it fall from the tree. An -observation of yours about its great weight suggested the latter idea.” - -“Yes, I perceive; and now there is only one point which puzzles me. -What are we to make of the skeletons found in the hole?” - -“That is a question I am no more able to answer than yourself. There -seems, however, only one plausible way of accounting for them—and -yet it is dreadful to believe in such atrocity as my suggestion would -imply. It is clear that Kidd—if Kidd indeed secreted this treasure, -which I doubt not—it is clear that he must have had assistance in the -labor. But, the worst of this labor concluded, he may have thought it -expedient to remove all participants in his secret. Perhaps a couple of -blows with a mattock were sufficient, while his coadjutors were busy in -the pit; perhaps it required a dozen—who shall tell?” - - - - - THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF - - BY - - O. HENRY - -This is a plot-story of the kind in which the American public delights. -The reader enjoys the humor due to situation, hyperbole, satire, and -astounding verbal liberties to which the writer is given; but he enjoys -even more the sharp surprise that awaits him in the plot. He has -prepared himself for a certain conclusion and finds himself entirely in -the wrong. Nevertheless, he admits that the ending is not illogical nor -out of harmony with the general tone. Bill and Sam subscribe themselves -“Two Desperate Men,” but they are so characterized as to prepare us for -their surrender of the boy on the father’s own terms. - -It is interesting to know that O. Henry himself put slight value -upon local color. “People say that I know New York well!” he says. -“But change Twenty-third Street to Main Street, rub out the Flatiron -Building and put in the Town Hall. Then the story will fit just as -truly elsewhere. At least, I hope that is the case with what I write. -So long as your story is true to life, the mere change of local color -will set it in the East, West, South, or North. The characters in ’The -Arabian Nights’ parade up and down Broadway at midday, or Main Street -in Dallas, Texas.” - - - - -THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF[11] - - -It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. “We were down -South, in Alabama—Bill Driscoll and myself—when this kidnapping idea -struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, “during a moment of -temporary mental apparition”; but we didn’t find that out till later. - -There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called -Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants of as undeleterious and -self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole. - -Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and -we needed, just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent -town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the -front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in -semirural communities; therefore, and for other reasons, a kidnapping -project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that -send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. -We knew that Summit couldn’t get after us with anything stronger than -constables and, maybe, some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or -two in the _Weekly Farmers’ Budget_. So, it looked good. - -We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named -Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage -fancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. -The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the color -of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want -to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for -a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you. - -About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense -cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There -we stored provisions. - -One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset’s house. -The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite -fence. - -“Hey, little boy!” says Bill, “would you like to have a bag of candy -and a nice ride?” - -The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick. - -“That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars,” says Bill, -climbing over the wheel. - -That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at -last, we got him down in the bottom of the buggy and drove away. We -took him up to the cave, and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. -After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, -where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain. - -Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his -features. There was a fire burning behind the big rock at the entrance -of the cave, and the boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two -buzzard tail-feathers stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me -when I come up, and says: - -“Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the -terror of the plains?” - -“He’s all right now,” says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining -some bruises on his shins. “We’re playing Indian. We’re making Buffalo -Bill’s show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town -hall. I’m Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief’s captive, and I’m to be -scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard.” - -Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun -of camping out in a cave had made him forget that he was a captive -himself. He immediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced -that, when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to be broiled at -the stake at the rising of the sun. - -Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and -gravy, and began to talk. He made a during-dinner speech something like -this: - -“I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I had a pet ’possum -once, and I was nine last birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate -up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot’s aunt’s speckled hen’s eggs. Are there any -real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy. Does the trees -moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. What makes your nose so -red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I whipped -Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don’t like girls. You dassent catch toads -unless with a string. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? -Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got six -toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish can’t. How many does it -take to make twelve?” - -Every few minutes he would remember that he was a pesky redskin, and -pick up his stick rifle and tip-toe to the mouth of the cave to rubber -for the scouts of the hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a -war-whoop that made Old Hank the Trapper, shiver. That boy had Bill -terrorized from the start. - -“Red Chief,” says I to the kid, “would you like to go home?” - -“Aw, what for?” says he. “I don’t have any fun at home. I hate to go -to school. I like to camp out. You won’t take me back home again, -Snake-eye, will you?” - -“Not right away,” says I. “We’ll stay here in the cave a while.” - -“All right!” says he. “That’ll be fine. I never had such fun in all my -life.” - -We went to bed about eleven o ’clock. We spread down some wide blankets -and quilts and put Red Chief between us. We weren’t afraid he’d run -away. He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for -his rifle and screeching: “Hist! pard,” in mine and Bill’s ears, as -the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle of a leaf revealed to his -young imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw band. At last, I -fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped and -chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red hair. - -Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful screams from -Bill. They weren’t yells, or howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yawps, -such as you’d expect from a manly set of vocal organs—they were simply -indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emit when -they see ghosts or caterpillars. It’s an awful thing to hear a strong, -desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak. - -I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on Bill’s -chest, with one hand twined in Bill’s hair. In the other he had the -sharp case-knife we used for slicing bacon; and he was industriously -and realistically trying to take Bill’s scalp, according to the -sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before. - -I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie down again. But, -from that moment, Bill’s spirit was broken. He laid down on his side -of the bed, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that -boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward sun-up I -remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned at the stake at -the rising of the sun. I wasn’t nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit -my pipe and leaned against a rock. - -“What you getting up so soon for, Sam?” asked Bill. - -“Me?” says I. “Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought -sitting up would rest it.” - -“You’re a liar!” says Bill. “You’re afraid. You was to be burned at -sunrise, and you was afraid he’d do it. And he would, too, if he could -find a match. Ain’t it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out -money to get a little imp like that back home?” - -“Sure,” said I. “A rowdy kid like that is just the kind that parents -dote on. Now, you and the Chief get up and cook breakfast, while I go -up on the top of this mountain and reconnoitre.” - -I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran my eye over the -contiguous vicinity. Over toward Summit I expected to see the sturdy -yeomanry of the village armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the -countryside for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I saw was a peaceful -landscape dotted with one man ploughing with a dun mule. Nobody was -dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing tidings -of no news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan attitude of -somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the external outward -surface of Alabama that lay exposed to my view. “Perhaps,” says I to -myself, “it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have borne away -the tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!” says I, and -I went down the mountain to breakfast. - -When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against the side of it, -breathing hard, and the boy threatening to smash him with a rock half -as big as a cocoanut. - -“He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back,” explained Bill, “and -then mashed it with his foot; and I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun -about you, Sam?” - -I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched up the argument. -“I’ll fix you,” says the kid to Bill. “No man ever yet struck the Red -Chief but what he got paid for it. You better beware!” - -After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with strings wrapped -around it out of his pocket and goes outside the cave unwinding it. - -“What’s he up to now?” says Bill, anxiously. “You don’t think he’ll run -away, do you, Sam?” - -“No fear of it,” says I. “He don’t seem to be much of a home body. But -we’ve got to fix up some plan about the ransom. There don’t seem to -be much excitement around Summit on account of his disappearance; but -maybe they haven’t realized yet that he’s gone. His folks may think -he’s spending the night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbors. Anyhow, -he’ll be missed to-day. To-night we must get a message to his father -demanding the two thousand dollars for his return.” - -Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, such as David might have -emitted when he knocked out the champion Goliath. It was a sling that -Red Chief had pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it around -his head. - -I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a sigh from Bill, like -a horse gives out when you take his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the -size of an egg had caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened -himself all over and fell in the fire across the frying pan of hot -water for washing the dishes. I dragged him out and poured cold water -on his head for half an hour. - -By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and says: “Sam, do you -know who my favorite Biblical character is?” - -“Take it easy,” says I. “You’ll come to your senses presently.” - -“King Herod,” says he. “You won’t go away and leave me here alone, will -you, Sam?” - -I went out and caught that boy and shook him until his freckles rattled. - -“If you don’t behave,” says I, “I’ll take you straight home. Now, are -you going to be good, or not?” - -“I was only funning,” says he sullenly. “I didn’t mean to hurt Old -Hank. But what did he hit me for? I’ll behave, Snake-eye, if you won’t -send me home, and if you’ll let me play the Black Scout to-day.” - -“I don’t know the game,” says I. “That’s for you and Mr. Bill to -decide. He’s your playmate for the day. I’m going away for a while, on -business. Now, you come in and make friends with him and say you are -sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at once.” - -I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took Bill aside and told -him I was going to Poplar Cove, a little village three miles from the -cave, and find out what I could about how the kidnapping had been -regarded in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a peremptory letter -to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom and dictating how it -should be paid. - -“You know, Sam,” says Bill, “I’ve stood by you without batting an eye -in earthquakes, fire, and flood—in poker games, dynamite outrages, -police raids, train robberies, and cyclones. I never lost my nerve -yet till we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a kid. He’s got me -going. You won’t leave me long with him, will you, Sam?” - -“I’ll be back some time this afternoon,” says I. “You must keep the boy -amused and quiet till I return. And now we’ll write the letter to old -Dorset.” - -Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the letter while Red -Chief, with a blanket wrapped around him, strutted up and down, -guarding the mouth of the cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make the -ransom fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. “I ain’t -attempting,” says he, “to decry the celebrated moral aspect of parental -affection, but we’re dealing with humans, and it ain’t human for -anybody to give up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk -of freckled wildcat. I’m willing to take a chance at fifteen hundred -dollars. You can charge the difference up to me.” - -So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a letter that ran -this way: - - “_Ebenezer Dorset, Esq._: - - “We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. It is useless - for you or the most skillful detectives to attempt to find him. - Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him restored to you - are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in large bills for his - return; the money to be left at midnight to-night at the same spot and - in the same box as your reply—as hereinafter described. If you agree - to these terms, send your answer in writing by a solitary messenger - to-night at half-past eight o’clock. After crossing Owl Creek, on the - road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees about a hundred yards - apart, close to the fence of the wheat field on the right-hand side. - At the bottom of the fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be - found a small pasteboard box. - - “The messenger will place the answer in this box and return - immediately to Summit. - - “If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand as - stated, you will never see your boy again. - - “If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe - and well within three hours. These terms are final, and if you do not - accede to them no further communication will be attempted. - - “TWO DESPERATE MEN.” - -I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my pocket. As I was -about to start, the kid comes up to me and says: - -“Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black Scout while you was -gone.” - -“Play it, of course,” says I. “Mr. Bill will play with you. What kind -of a game is it?” - -“I’m the Black Scout,” says Red Chief, “and I have to ride to the -stockade to warn the settlers that the Indians are coming. I’m tired of -playing Indian myself. I want to be the Black Scout.” - -“All right.” says I. “It sounds harmless to me. I guess Mr. Bill will -help you foil the pesky savages.” - -“What am I to do?” asks Bill, looking at the kid suspiciously. - -“You are the hoss,” says Black Scout. “Get down on your hands and -knees. How can I ride to the stockade without a hoss?” - -“You’d better keep him interested,” said I, “till we get the scheme -going. Loosen up.” - -Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in his eye like a -rabbit’s when you catch it in a trap. - -“How far is it to the stockade, kid?” he asks, in a husky manner of -voice. - -“Ninety miles,” says the Black Scout. “And you have to hump yourself to -get there on time. Whoa, now!” - -The Black Scout jumps on Bill’s back and digs his heels in his side. - -“For Heaven’s sake,” says Bill, “hurry back, Sam, as soon as you can. -I wish we hadn’t made the ransom more than a thousand. Say, you quit -kicking me or I’ll get up and warm you good.” - -I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the post-office and store, -talking with the chawbacons that came in to trade. One whiskerando says -that he hears Summit is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset’s -boy having been lost or stolen. That was all I wanted to know. I bought -some smoking tobacco, referred casually to the price of black-eyed -peas, posted my letter surreptitiously, and came away. The postmaster -said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on to -Summit. - -When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were not to be found. I -explored the vicinity of the cave, and risked a yodel or two, but there -was no response. - -So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank to await developments. - -In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and Bill wabbled out -into the little glade in front of the cave. Behind him was the kid, -stepping softly like a scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill -stopped, took off his hat, and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. -The kid stopped about eight feet behind him. - -“Sam,” says Bill, “I suppose you’ll think I’m a renegade, but I -couldn’t help it. I’m a grown person with masculine proclivities and -habits of self-defence, but there is a time when all systems of egotism -and predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have sent him home. All is -off. There was martyrs in old times,” goes on Bill, “that suffered -death rather than give up the particular graft they enjoyed. None of -’em ever was subjugated to such supernatural tortures as I have been. -I tried to be faithful to our articles of depredation; but there came a -limit.” - -“What’s the trouble, Bill?” I asks him. - -“I was rode,” says Bill, “the ninety miles to the stockade, not barring -an inch. Then, when the settlers was rescued, I was given oats. Sand -ain’t a palatable substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to -explain to him why there was nothin’ in holes, how a road can run both -ways, and what makes the grass green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only -stand so much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags him -down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs black-and-blue from the -knees down; and I’ve got to have two or three bites on my thumb and -hand cauterized. - -“But he’s gone”—continues Bill—“gone home. I showed him the road to -Summit and kicked him about eight feet nearer there at one kick. I’m -sorry we lose the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to -the madhouse.” - -Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of ineffable peace and -growing content on his rose-pink features. - -“Bill,” says I, “there isn’t any heart disease in your family, is -there?” - -“No,” says Bill, “nothing chronic except malaria and accidents. Why?” - -“Then you might turn around,” says I, “and have a look behind you.” - -Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion and sits down -plump on the ground and begins to pluck aimlessly at grass and little -sticks. For an hour I was afraid for his mind. And then I told him -that my scheme was to put the whole job through immediately and that -we would get the ransom and be off with it by midnight if old Dorset -fell in with our proposition. So Bill braced up enough to give the kid -a weak sort of a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese -war with him as soon as he felt a little better. - -I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger of being -caught by counterplots that ought to commend itself to professional -kidnappers. The tree under which the answer was to be left—and the -money later on—was close to the road fence with big, bare fields on -all sides. If a gang of constables should be watching for any one to -come for the note, they could see him a long way off crossing the -fields or in the road. But no, sirree! At half-past eight I was up in -that tree as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger to -arrive. - -Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle, -locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the fence-post, slips a -folded piece of paper into it, and pedals away again back toward Summit. - -I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was square. I slid down -the tree, got the note, slipped along the fence till I struck the -woods, and was back at the cave in another half an hour. I opened the -note, got near the lantern, and read it to Bill. It was written with a -pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of it was this: - - “_Two Desperate Men._ - - “_Gentlemen_: I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to the - ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a little high - in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition, which I - am inclined to believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay - me two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take him off - your hands. You had better come at night, for the neighbors believe - he is lost, and I couldn’t be responsible for what they would do to - anybody they saw bringing him back. - - Very respectfully, - - “EBENEZER DORSET.” - -“Great pirates of Penzance!” says I; “of all the impudent——” - -But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing look in -his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking brute. - -“Sam,” says he, “what’s two hundred and fifty dollars, after all? We’ve -got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to a bed in -Bedlam. Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a -spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You ain’t going to let -the chance go, are you?” - -“Tell you the truth, Bill,” says I, “this little he ewe lamb has -somewhat got on my nerves too. We’ll take him home, pay the ransom, and -make our get-away.” - -We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that his -father had bought a silver-mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins for -him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day. - -It was just twelve o’clock when we knocked at Ebenezer’s front door. -Just at the moment when I should have been abstracting the fifteen -hundred dollars from the box under the tree, according to the original -proposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars into -Dorset’s hand. - -When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he started -up a howl like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as a leech to -Bill’s leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster. - -“How long can you hold him?” asks Bill. - -“I’m not as strong as I used to be,” says old Dorset, “but I think I -can promise you ten minutes.” - -“Enough,” says Bill. “In ten minutes I shall cross the Central, -Southern, and Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly for -the Canadian border.” - -And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as -I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch -up with him. - - - - -THE FRESHMAN FULL-BACK - -BY - -RALPH D. PAINE - -The chief interest in “The Freshman Full-Back” is that of character. -The action has real dramatic quality and is staged with the local color -of a college contest. But the great value of the action is ethical, -for it shows that one may “wrest victory from defeat” and that it is a -shameful thing to be a “coward and a quitter.” - - - - -THE FRESHMAN FULL-BACK[12] - - -The boyish night city editor glanced along the copy-readers’ table and -petulantly exclaimed: - -“Isn’t that spread head ready yet, Mr. Seeley? It goes on the front -page and we are holding open for it. Whew, but you are slow. You ought -to be holding down a job on a quarterly review.” - -A portly man of middle age dropped his pencil and turned heavily in his -chair to face the source of this public humiliation. An angry flush -overspread his face and he chewed at a grayish mustache as if fighting -down rebellion. His comrades at the long table had looked up from their -work and were eyeing the oldest copy-reader with sympathetic uneasiness -while they hoped that he would be able to hold himself in hand. The -night city editor felt the tension of this brief tableau and awaited -the threatened outbreak with a nervous smile. But Seeley jerked his -green eyeshade so low that his face was partly in eclipse, and wheeled -round to resume his task with a catch of the breath and a tone of -surrender in his reply. - -“The head will be ready in five minutes, sir. The last pages of the -story are just coming in.” - -A much younger man, at the farther end of the table, whispered to his -neighbor: - -“That’s cheap and nasty, to call down old man Seeley as if he were -a cub reporter. He may have lost his grip, but he deserves decent -treatment for what he has been. Managing editor of this very sheet, -London correspondent before that, and the crack man of the staff when -most of the rest of us were in short breeches. And now Henry Harding -Seeley isn’t any too sure of keeping his job on the copy-desk.” - -“That’s what the New York newspaper game can do to you if you stick at -it too long,” murmured the other. “Back to the farm for mine.” - -It was long after midnight when these two put on their coats and bade -the city editor’s desk a perfunctory “Good-night.” - -They left Henry Harding Seeley still slumped in his chair, writing with -dogged industry. - -“He’s dead tired, you can see that,” commented one of the pair as they -headed for Broadway, “but, as usual, he is grinding out stuff for the -Sunday sheet after hours. He must need the extra coin mighty bad. I -came back for my overcoat at four the other morning, after the poker -game, and he was still pegging away just like that.” - -Other belated editors and reporters of the _Chronicle_ staff drifted -toward the elevator, until the gray-haired copy-reader was left alone -in the city room as if marooned. Writing as steadily as if he were a -machine warranted to turn out so many words an hour, Seeley urged his -pencil until the last page was finished. Then he read and corrected the -“story,” slipped it through a slit in a door marked “Sunday Editor,” -and trudged out, while the tower clock was striking three. - -Instead of seeking the chop-house, wherein the vivacious and tireless -youth of the staff were wont to linger over supper, he turned into a -side street and betook himself to a small café as yet unfrequented by -the night-owls of journalism. Seeley was a beaten man, and he preferred -to nurse his wounds in a morbid isolation. His gait and aspect were -those of one who was stolidly struggling on the defensive, as if -hostile circumstances had driven him into a corner where he was making -his last stand. - -Through the years of his indomitable youth as a reporter of rare -ability and resourcefulness, he had never spared himself. Burning the -candle at both ends, with a vitality which had seemed inexhaustible, -he had won step after step of promotion until, at forty, he was made -managing editor of that huge and hard-driven organization, the _New -York Chronicle_. For five years of racking responsibility Henry Harding -Seeley had been able to maintain the pace demanded of his position. - -Then came an error of judgment—a midnight decision demanded of a -fagged mind—and his O. K. was scrawled upon the first sheet of a -story of embezzlement in Wall Street. By an incredible blunder the -name of the fugitive cashier was coupled with that of the wrong bank. -Publication of the _Chronicle_ story started a terrific run on this -innocent institution, which won its libel suit against the newspaper in -the amount of one hundred thousand dollars. - -The managing editor, two reporters, and the copy-reader who had handled -the fatal manuscript, were swept out of the building by one cyclonic -order from the owner thereof. Henry Seeley accepted his indirect -responsibility for the disaster in grim, manly fashion, and straightway -sought another berth befitting his journalistic station. But his one -costly slip was more than a nine-days’ scandal along Park Row, and -other canny proprietors were afraid that he might hit them in the very -vital regions of their pockets. Worse than this, his confidence in -himself had suffered mortal damage. The wear and tear of his earlier -years had left him with little reserve power, and he went to pieces in -the face of adverse fortune. - -“Worked out at forty-five,” was the verdict of his friends, and they -began to pity him. - -The will to succeed had been broken, but Seeley might have rallied had -not his wife died during the ebb-tide of his affairs. She had walked -hand in hand with him since his early twenties, her faith in him had -been his mainstay, and his happiness in her complete and beautiful. -Bereft of her when he stood most in need of her, he seemed to have no -more fight in him, and, drifting from one newspaper office to another, -he finally eddied into his old “shop” as a drudging copy-reader and an -object of sympathy to a younger generation. - -There was one son, strong, bright, eager, and by dint of driving -his eternally wearied brain overtime, the father had been able to -send him to Yale, his own alma mater. More or less pious deception -had led young Ernest Seeley to believe that his father had regained -much of his old-time prestige with the _Chronicle_ and that he had -a hand in guiding its editorial destinies. The lad was a Freshman, -tremendously absorbed in the activities of the autumn term, and his -father was content that he should be so hedged about by the interests -of the campus world as to have small time or thought for the grizzled, -taciturn toiler in New York. - -This was the kind of man that trudged heavily into the little German -café of an early morning after his long night’s slavery at the -copy-desk. His mind, embittered and sensitive to slights like a raw -nerve, was brooding over the open taunt of the night city editor, who -had been an office boy under him in the years gone by. From force of -habit he seated himself at a table in the rear of the room, shunning -the chance of having to face an acquaintance. Unfolding a copy of the -city edition, which had been laid on his desk damp from the press-room, -Seeley scanned the front page with scowling uneasiness, as if fearing -to find some blunder of his own handiwork. Then he turned to the -sporting page and began to read the football news. - -His son Ernest had been playing as a substitute with the university -eleven, an achievement which stirred the father’s pride without moving -his enthusiasm. And the boy, chilled by his father’s indifference, had -said little about it during his infrequent visits to New York. But -now the elder Seeley sat erect, and his stolid countenance was almost -animated as he read, under a New Haven date line: - - “The Yale confidence of winning the game with Princeton to-morrow has - been shattered, and gloom enshrouds the camp of the Elis to-night. - Collins, the great full-back, who has been the key-stone of Yale’s - offensive game, was taken to the infirmary late this afternoon. He - complained of feeling ill after the signal practice yesterday; fever - developed overnight, and the consulting physicians decided that he - must be operated on for appendicitis without delay. His place in the - Princeton game will be filled by Ernest Seeley, the Freshman, who - has been playing a phenomenal game in the back-field, but who is so - lacking in experience that the coaches are all at sea to-night. The - loss of Collins has swung the betting around to even money instead of - 5 to 3 on Yale.” - -The elder Seeley wiped his glasses as if not sure that he had read -aright. - -Ernest had seemed to him no more than a sturdy infant and here he was, -on the eve of a championship football battle, picked to fight for the -“old blue.” The father’s career at Yale had been a most honorable one. -He, too, had played on the eleven and had helped to win two desperate -contests against Princeton. But all this belonged to a part of his life -which was dead and done for. He had not achieved in after years what -Yale expected of him, and his record there was with his buried memories. - -Supper was forgotten while Henry Seeley wondered whether he really -wanted to go to New Haven to see his boy play. Many of his old friends -and classmates would be there and he did not wish to meet them. - -And it stung him to the quick as he reflected: - -“I should be very happy to see him win, but—but to see him whipped! I -couldn’t brace and comfort him. And supposing it breaks his heart to be -whipped as it has broken mine? No, I won’t let myself think that. I’m a -poor Yale man and a worse father, but I couldn’t stand going up there -to-day.” - -Even more humiliating was the thought that he would shrink from asking -leave of the city editor. Saturday was not his “day off,” and he so -greatly hated to ask favors at the office, that the possibility of -being rebuffed was more than he was willing to face. - -Into his unhappy meditations broke a boisterous hail: - -“Diogenes Seeley, as I live. Why, you old rascal, I thought you were -dead or something. Glad I didn’t get foolish and go to bed. Here, -waiter, get busy.” - -Seeley was startled, and he looked much more distressed than rejoiced -as he lumbered from his table to grasp the outstretched hand of a -classmate. The opera-hat of this Mr. Richard Giddings was cocked at a -rakish angle, his blue eye twinkled good cheer and youthful hilarity, -and his aspect was utterly care-free. - -“How are you, Dick?” said Seeley, with an unusual smile which -singularly brightened his face. “You don’t look a day older than when I -last saw you. Still cutting coupons for a living?” - -“Oh, money is the least of my worries,” gayly rattled Mr. Giddings. -“Been doing the heavy society act to-night, and on my way home found -I needed some sauerkraut and beer to tone up my jaded system. By Jove, -Harry, you’re as gray as a badger. This newspaper game must be bad for -the nerves. Lots of fellows have asked me about you. Never see you at -the University Club, nobody sees you anywhere. Remarkable how a man can -lose himself right here in New York. Still running the _Chronicle_, I -suppose.” - -“I’m still in the old shop, Dick,” replied Seeley, glad to be rid of -this awkward question. “But I work nearly all night and sleep most of -the day, and am like a cog in a big machine that never stops grinding.” - -“Shouldn’t do it. Wears a man out,” and Mr. Giddings sagely nodded his -head. “Course you are going up to the game to-day. Come along with -me. Special car with a big bunch of your old pals inside. They’ll be -tickled to death to find I’ve dug you out of your hole. Hello! Is that -this morning’s paper? Let me look at the sporting page. Great team at -New Haven, they tell me. What’s the latest odds? I put up a thousand at -five to three last week and am looking for some more easy money.” - -The alert eye of the volatile Richard Giddings swept down the New Haven -dispatch like lightning. - -With a grievous outcry he smote the table and shouted: - -“Collins out of the game? Great Scott, Harry, that’s awful news. And a -green Freshman going to fill his shoes at the last minute. I feel like -weeping, honest I do. Who the deuce is this Seeley? Any kin of yours? I -suppose not or you would have bellowed it at me before this.” - -“He is my only boy, Dick,” and the father held up his head with a -shadow of his old manner. “I didn’t know he had the ghost of a show to -make the team until I saw this dispatch.” - -“Then, of course, you are coming up with me,” roared Mr. Giddings. “I -hope he’s a chip of the old block. If he has your sand they can’t stop -him. Jumping Jupiter, they couldn’t have stopped you with an axe when -you were playing guard in our time, Harry. I feel better already to -know that it is your kid going in at full-back to-day.” - -“No, I’m not going up, Dick,” said Seeley slowly. “For one thing, it is -too short notice for me to break away from the office, and I—I haven’t -the nerve to watch the boy go into the game. I’m not feeling very fit.” - -“Stuff and nonsense, you need a brain cure,” vociferated Richard -Giddings. “You, an old Yale guard, with a pup on the team, and he a -Freshman at that! Throw out your chest, man; tell the office to go to -the devil—where all newspapers belong—and meet me at the station at -ten o’clock sharp. You talk and look like the oldest living grad with -one foot in the grave.” - -Seeley flushed and bit his lip. His dulled realization of what Yale -had been to him was quickened by this tormenting comrade of the brave -days of old, but he could not be shaken from his attitude of morbid -self-effacement. - -“No, Dick, it’s no use,” he returned with a tremulous smile. “You can’t -budge me. But give my love to the crowd and tell them to cheer for that -youngster of mine until they’re blue in the face.” - -Mr. Richard Giddings eyed him quizzically, and surmised that something -or other was gravely wrong with his grizzled classmate. But Seeley -offered no more explanations and the vivacious intruder fell to his -task of demolishing sauerkraut with great gusto, after which he nimbly -vanished into a cruising hansom with a sense of having been rebuffed. - -Seeley watched him depart at great speed and then plodded toward his -up-town lodgings. His sleep was distressed with unhappy dreams, and -during a wakeful interval he heard a knock at his sitting-room door. - -An office boy from the _Chronicle_ editorial rooms gave him a note and -waited for an answer. - -Seeley recognized the handwriting of the managing editor and was -worried, for he was always expecting the worst to happen. He sighed -with relieved surprise as he read: - - “MY DEAR MR. SEELEY: - - “Please go to New Haven as soon as possible and do a couple of columns - of descriptive introduction of the Yale-Princeton game. The sporting - department will cover the technical story, but a big steamboat - collision has just happened in North River, two or three hundred - drowned and so on, and I need every man in the shop. As an old Yale - player I am sure I can depend on you for a good story, and I know you - used to do this kind of stuff in fine style.” - -Seeley fished his watch from under a pillow. It was after ten o’clock -and the game would begin at two. While he hurried into his clothes he -was conscious of a distinct thrill of excited interest akin to his -old-time joy in the day’s work. Could he “do this kind of stuff in fine -style”? Why, before his brain had begun to be always tired, when he was -the star reporter of the _Chronicle_, his football introductions had -been classics in Park Row. If there was a spark of the old fire left -in him he would try to strike it out, and for the moment he forgot the -burden of inertia which had so long crushed him. - -“But I don’t want to run into Dick Giddings and his crowd,” he muttered -as he sought his hat and overcoat. “And I’ll be up in the press-box -away from the mob of old grads. Perhaps my luck has turned.” - -When Henry Seeley reached the Yale field the eleven had gone to the -dressing-rooms in the training house, and he hovered on the edge of -the flooding crowds, fairly yearning for a glimpse of the Freshman -full-back and a farewell grasp of his hand. The habitual dread lest -the son find cause to be ashamed of his father had been shoved into -the background by a stronger, more natural emotion. But he well knew -that he ought not to invade the training quarters in these last crucial -moments. Ernest must not be distraught by a feather’s weight of any -other interest than the task in hand. The coaches would be delivering -their final words of instruction and the old Yale guard could picture -to himself the tense absorption of the scene. Like one coming out of a -dream, the past was returning to him in vivid, heart-stirring glimpses. -Reluctantly he sought his place in the press-box high above the vast -amphitheatre. - -The preliminary spectacle was movingly familiar: the rippling banks of -color which rose on all sides to frame the long carpet of chalked turf; -the clamorous outbursts of cheering when an eddy of Yale or Princeton -undergraduates swirled and tossed at command of the dancing dervish of -a leader at the edge of the field below; the bright, buoyant aspect of -the multitude as viewed en masse. Seeley leaned against the railing of -his lofty perch and gazed at this pageant until a sporting editor, long -in harness, nudged his elbow and said: - -“Hello! I haven’t seen you at a game in a dozen years. Doing the story -or just working the press-badge graft? That namesake of yours will be -meat for the Tigers, I’m afraid. Glad he doesn’t belong to you, aren’t -you?” - -Seeley stared at him like a man in a trance and replied evasively: - -“He may be good enough. It all depends on his sand and nerve. Yes, I am -doing the story for a change. Have you the final line-up?” - -“Princeton is playing all her regular men,” said the sporting editor, -giving Seeley his note-book. “The only Yale change is at full-back—and -that’s a catastrophe.” - -Seeley copied the lists for reference and his pencil was not steady -when he came to “Full-back, Ernest T. Seeley.” But he pulled his -thoughts away from the eleven and began to jot down notes of the -passing incidents which might serve to weave into the fabric of his -description. The unwonted stimulus aroused his talent as if it were -not dead but dormant. The scene appealed to him with almost as much -freshness and color as if he were observing it for the first time. - -A roar of cheering rose from a far corner of the field and ran swiftly -along the Yale side of the amphitheatre, which blossomed in tossing -blue. The Yale eleven scampered into view like colts at pasture, the -substitutes veering toward the benches behind the side-line. Without -more ado the team scattered in formation for signal practice, paying -no heed to the tumult which raged around and above them. Agile, -clean-limbed, splendid in their disciplined young manhood, the dark -blue of their stockings and the white “Y” gleaming on their sweaters -fairly trumpeted their significance to Henry Seeley. And poised behind -the rush-line, wearing his hard-won university blue, was the lithe -figure of the Freshman full-back, Ernest Seeley. - -The youngster, whose fate it was to be called a “forlorn hope,” looked -fragile beside his comrades of the eleven. Although tall and wiry, he -was like a greyhound in a company of mastiffs. His father, looking -down at him from so great a height that he could not read his face, -muttered to himself while he dug his nails into his palms: - -“He is too light for this day’s work. But he carries himself like a -thoroughbred.” - -The boy and his fellows seemed singularly remote from the shouting -thousands massed so near them. They had become the sole arbiters of -their fate, and their impressive isolation struck Henry Seeley anew as -the most dramatic feature of this magnificent picture. He must sit idly -by and watch his only son battle through the most momentous hour of his -young life, as if he were gazing down from another planet. - -The staccato cheers of Princeton rocketed along the other side of the -field, and the eleven from Old Nassau ran briskly over the turf and -wheeled into line for a last rehearsal of their machine-like tactics. -Henry Seeley was finding it hard to breathe, just as it had happened -in other days when he was waiting for the “kick-off” and facing a -straining Princeton line. The minutes were like hours while the -officials consulted with the captains in the centre of the field. Then -the two elevens ranged themselves across the brown turf, there was -breathless silence, and a Princeton toe lifted the ball far down toward -the Yale goal. It was the young full-back who waited to receive the -opening kick, while his comrades thundered toward him to form a flying -screen of interference. But the twisting ball bounded from his too -eager arms, and another Yale back fell on it in time to save it from -the clutches of a meteoric Princeton end. - -“Nervous. Hasn’t steadied down yet,” exclaimed a reporter behind Henry -Seeley. “But he can’t afford to give Princeton any more chances like -that. Her ends are faster than chain lightning.” - -The father groaned and wiped the sweat from his eyes. If the team were -afraid of this untried full-back, such a beginning would not give -them confidence. Then the two lines locked and heaved in the first -scrimmage, and a stocky Yale half-back was pulled down in his tracks. -Again the headlong Princeton defence held firm and the Yale captain -gasped, “Second down and three yards to gain.” The Yale interferers -sped to circle one end of the line, but they were spilled this way and -that and the runner went down a yard short of the needed distance. - -The Yale full-back dropped back to punt. Far and true the ball soared -into the Princeton field, and the lithe Freshman had somewhat redeemed -himself. But now, for their own part, the sons of Old Nassau found -themselves unable to make decisive gains against the Yale defence. -Greek met Greek in these early clashes, and both teams were forced to -punt again and again. Trick-plays were spoiled by alert end-rushers for -the blue or the orange and black, fiercely launched assaults at centre -were torn asunder, and the longer the contest raged up and down the -field the more clearly it was perceived that these ancient rivals were -rarely well matched in point of strength and strategy. - -The Yale coaches were dismayed at this turn of events. They had hoped -to see the ball carried toward the Princeton goal by means of shrewdly -devised teamwork, instead of which the burden of the game was shifted -to one man, the weakest link in the chain, the Freshman at full-back. -He was punting with splendid distance, getting the ball away when it -seemed as if he must be overwhelmed by the hurtling Tigers. Once or -twice, however, a hesitant nervousness almost wrought quick disaster, -and the Yale partisans watched him with tormenting apprehension. - -The first half of the game was fought into the last few minutes of -play and neither eleven had been able to score. Then luck and skill -combined to force the struggle far down into Yale territory. Only ten -yards more of trampled turf to gain and Princeton would cross the last -white line. The indomitable spirit which had placed upon the escutcheon -of Yale football the figure of a bulldog rampant, rallied to meet this -crisis, and the hard-pressed line held staunch and won possession of -the ball on downs. Back to the very shadow of his own goal-posts the -Yale full-back ran to punt the ball out of the danger zone. It shot -fairly into his grasp from a faultless pass, but his fingers juggled -the slippery leather as if it were bewitched. For a frantic, awful -instant he fumbled with the ball and wildly dived after it as it -caromed off to one side, bounded crazily, and rolled beyond his reach. - -The Princeton quarter-back had darted through the line like a bullet. -Without slackening speed or veering from his course, he scooped up -the ball as he fled toward the Yale goal-line. It was done and over -within a twinkling, and while the Yale team stampeded helplessly in his -wake the devastating hero was circling behind the goal-posts where he -flopped to earth, the precious ball apparently embedded in his stomach. -It was a Princeton touchdown fairly won, but made possible by the -tragic blunder of one Yale man. While ten thousand Princeton throats -were barking their jubilation, as many more loyal friends of Yale sat -sad-eyed and sullen and glowered their unspeakable displeasure at the -slim figure of the full-back as he limped into line to face the try for -goal. - -The goal was not scored, however, and the fateful tally stood five -to nothing when the first half ended, with the blue banners drooping -disconsolate. - -Henry Seeley pulled his slouch hat over his eyes and sat with hunched -shoulders staring at the Yale team as it left the field for the -intermission. He had forgotten about his story of the game. The old -spectre of failure obsessed him. It was already haunting the pathway -of his boy. Was he also to be beaten by one colossal blunder? Henry -Seeley felt that Ernest’s whole career hung upon his behavior in the -second half. How would the lad “take his medicine”? Would it break his -heart or rouse him to fight more valiantly? As if the father had been -thinking aloud, the sporting editor at his side observed: - -“He may win the game yet. I like the looks of that boy. But he did -make a hideous mess of it, didn’t he? I hope he hasn’t got a streak of -yellow in him.” - -Henry Seeley turned on his neighbor with a savage scowl and could not -hold, back the quivering retort: - -“He belongs to me, I want you to understand, and we’ll say nothing -about yellow streaks until he has a chance to make good next half.” - -“Whew-w-w, why did you hold it out on me, old man?” gasped the sporting -editor. “No wonder you kicked me black and blue without knowing it. I -hope he is a chip of the old block. I saw you play here in your last -game.” - -Seeley grunted something and resumed staring at the field. He was -thinking of the present moment in the training quarters, of the muddy, -weary players sprawled around the head coach, of his wise, bitter, -stinging rebukes and admonitions. Perhaps he would take Ernest out of -the game. But Seeley was confident that the coaches would give the -boy a chance to redeem himself if they believed his heart was in the -right place. Presently the two teams trotted on the field, not as -nimbly as at their first appearance, but with dogged resolution in -their demeanor. Henry Seeley saw his son glance up at the “cheering -sections,” as if wondering whether their welcome was meant to include -him. One cheer, at least, was intended to greet him, for Henry Seeley -stood on his chair, waved his hat, and thundered: - -“‘Rah, ’rah, ’rah, for Yale, my boy. Eat ’em alive as your daddy used -to do.” - -The men from Princeton had no intention of being devoured in this -summary fashion. They resumed their tireless, whirlwind attack like -giants refreshed, and so harried their Yale foemen that they were -forced to their utmost to ward off another touchdown. This incessant -battering dulled the edges of their offensive tactics, and they seemed -unable to set in motion a consistent series of advances. But the joy of -Princeton was tempered by the knowledge that this, her dearest enemy, -was not beaten until the last play had been signalled. - -And somehow the Yale machine of muscle, brains, and power began to find -itself when the afternoon shadows were slanting athwart the arena. -With the ball on Princeton’s forty-yard line the chosen sons of Eli -began a heroic advance down the field. It was as if some missing cog -had been supplied. “Straight old-fashioned football” it was, eleven -minds and bodies working as one and animated by a desperate resolve, -which carried the Yale team along for down after down into the heart of -Princeton’s ground. - -Perhaps because he was fresher than the other backs, perhaps because -the captain knew his man, the ball was given to the Yale full-back for -one swift and battering assault after another. His slim figure pelted -at the rush-line, was overwhelmed in an avalanche of striped arms and -legs, but somehow twisted, wriggled, dragged itself ahead as if there -was no stopping him. The multitude comprehended that this despised and -disgraced Freshman was working out his own salvation along with that -of his comrades. Once, when the scrimmage was untangled, he was dragged -from beneath a heap of players, unable to regain his feet. He lay on -the grass a huddled heap, blood smearing his forehead. A surgeon and -the trainer doused and bandaged him, and presently he staggered to his -feet and hobbled to his station, rubbing his hands across his eyes as -if dazed. - -When, at length, the stubbornly retreating Princeton line had been -driven deep down into their end of the field, they, too, showed that -they could hold fast in the last extremity. The Yale attack crumpled -against them as if it had struck a stone wall. Young Seeley seemed to -be so crippled and exhausted that he had been given a respite from the -interlocked, hammering onslaught, but at the third down the panting -quarter-back croaked out his signal. His comrades managed to rip a -semblance of an opening for him, he plunged through, popped clear of -the line, fell to his knees, recovered his footing by a miracle of -agility, and lunged onward, to be brought down within five yards of the -coveted goal-posts. - -He had won the right to make the last momentous charge. Swaying in his -tracks, the full-back awaited the summons. Then he dived in behind the -interference for a circuit of the right end. Two Princeton men broke -through as if they had been shot out of mortars, but the Yale full-back -had turned and was ploughing straight ahead. Pulled down, dragging the -tackler who clung to his waist, he floundered to earth with most of the -Princeton team piled above him. But the ball lay beyond the fateful -chalk-line, the Yale touchdown was won, and the game was tied. - -The captain clapped Seeley on the shoulder, nodded at the ball, and the -full-back limped on to the field to kick the goal or lose a victory. -There were no more signs of nervousness in his bearing. With grave -deliberation he stood waiting for the ball to be placed in front of -the goal-posts. The sun had dropped behind the lofty grand-stands. The -field lay in a kind of wintry twilight. Thirty thousand men and women -gazed in tensest silence at the mud-stained, battered youth who had -become the crowning issue of this poignant moment. Up in the press-box -a thick-set, grayish man dug his fists in his eyes and could not bear -to look at the lonely, reliant figure down yonder on the quiet field. -The father found courage to take his hands from his face only when a -mighty roar of joy boomed along the Yale side of the amphitheatre, and -he saw the ball drop in a long arc behind the goal-posts. The kick had -won the game for Yale. - -Once clear of the crowds, Henry Seeley hurried toward the training -quarters. His head was up, his shoulders squared, and he walked with -the free stride of an athlete. Mr. Richard Giddings danced madly across -to him: - -“Afraid to see him play were you, you silly old fool? He is a chip of -the old block. He didn’t know when he was licked. Wow, wow, wow, blood -will tell! Come along with us, Harry.” - -“I must shake hands with the youngster, Dick. Glad I changed my mind -and came to see him do it.” - -“All right, see you at Mory’s to-night. Tell the boy we’re all proud of -him.” - -Seeley resumed his course, saying over and over again, as if he loved -the sound of the words, “chip of the old block,” “blood will tell.” - -This verdict was like the ringing call of bugles. It made him feel -young, hopeful, resolute, that life were worth having for the sake of -its strife. One thing at least was certain. His son could “take his -punishment” and wrest victory from disaster, and he deserved something -better than a coward and a quitter for a father. - -The full-back was sitting on a bench when the elder Seeley entered the -crowded, steaming room of the training house. The surgeon had removed -the muddy, blood-stained bandage from around his tousled head and was -cleansing an ugly, ragged gash. The boy scowled and winced but made no -complaint, although his bruised face was very pale. - -“Must have made you feel pretty foggy,” said the surgeon. “I shall have -to put in a few stitches. It was a deuce of a thump.” - -“I couldn’t see very well and my legs went queer for a few minutes, but -I’m all right now, thanks,” replied the full-back, and then, glancing -up, he espied his father standing near the door. The young hero of the -game beckoned him with a grimy fist. Henry Seeley went over to him, -took the fist in his two hands, and then patted the boy’s cheek with -awkward and unaccustomed tenderness. - -“Sit still, Ernest. I won’t interfere with the doctor’s job. I just -wanted to let you know that I saw your bully work. It made me think -of—it made me think of——” - -Henry Seeley’s voice broke curiously and his lip quivered. He had not -meant to show any emotion. - -His son replied with a smile of affectionate admiration: - -“It made you think of your own teams, didn’t it? And I was thinking -of you in that last half. It helped my nerve a whole lot to remember -that my dad never knew when he was licked. Why, even the coaches told -me that between the halves. It put more ginger into me than anything -else. We’ve got to keep up the family record between us.” - -The father looked beyond the boy as if he were thinking of a bigger, -sterner game than football. There was the light of a resurrected -determination in his eyes, and a vibrant earnestness in his voice as he -said: - -“I’m not worrying about your keeping the family record bright, Ernest. -And, however things may go with me, you will be able to hang fast to -the doctrine which helped you to-day, that your father, too, doesn’t -know when he is whipped.” - - - - - GALLEGHER - - A NEWSPAPER STORY - - BY - - RICHARD HARDING DAVIS - - - - -This is an illustration of a popular type of the short-story. The -movement from beginning to end is swift and urgent; something important -is happening all the time. Description is reduced to the minimum, and -where it is used does not impede the action. The local color of a -great newspaper office in a large city contributes to the impression -of orderly activity and haste. Gallegher, moreover, is the kind of -character that enlists sympathy by his youth, his daring, and his -resourcefulness. - - - - -GALLEGHER[13] - - -We had had so many office-boys before Gallegher came among us that they -had begun to lose the characteristics of individuals, and became merged -in a composite photograph of small boys, to whom we applied the generic -title of “Here, you”; or “You, boy.” - -We had had sleepy boys, and lazy boys, and bright, “smart” boys, who -became so familiar on so short an acquaintance that we were forced to -part with them to save our own self-respect. - -They generally graduated into district-messenger boys, and occasionally -returned to us in blue coats with nickel-plated buttons, and patronized -us. - -But Gallegher was something different from anything we had experienced -before. Gallegher was short and broad in build, with a solid, muscular -broadness, and not a fat and dumpy shortness. He wore perpetually on -his face a happy and knowing smile, as if you and the world in general -were not impressing him as seriously as you thought you were, and his -eyes, which were very black and very bright, snapped intelligently at -you like those of a little black-and-tan terrier. - -All Gallegher knew had been learnt on the streets; not a very good -school in itself, but one that turns out very knowing scholars. And -Gallagher had attended both morning and evening sessions. He could not -tell you who the Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he name the thirteen -original States, but he knew all the officers of the twenty-second -police district by name, and he could distinguish the clang of a -fire-engine’s gong from that of a patrol-wagon or an ambulance fully -two blocks distant. It was Gallegher who rang the alarm when the -Woolwich Mills caught fire, while the officer on the beat was asleep, -and it was Gallegher who led the “Black Diamonds” against the “Wharf -Rats,” when they used to stone each other to their hearts’ content on -the coal-wharves of Richmond. - -I am afraid, now that I see these facts written down, that Gallegher -was not a reputable character; but he was so very young and so very old -for his years that we all liked him very much nevertheless. He lived -in the extreme northern part of Philadelphia, where the cotton- and -woollen-mills run down to the river, and how he ever got home after -leaving the _Press_ building at two in the morning, was one of the -mysteries of the office. Sometimes he caught a night car, and sometimes -he walked all the way, arriving at the little house, where his mother -and himself lived alone, at four in the morning. Occasionally he was -given a ride on an early milk-cart, or on one of the newspaper delivery -wagons, with its high piles of papers still damp and sticky from the -press. He knew several drivers of “night hawks”—those cabs that prowl -the streets at night looking for belated passengers—and when it was a -very cold morning he would not go home at all, but would crawl into one -of these cabs and sleep, curled upon the cushions, until daylight. - -Besides being quick and cheerful, Gallegher possessed a power of -amusing the _Press’s_ young men to a degree seldom attained by the -ordinary mortal. His clog-dancing on the city editor’s desk, when -that gentleman was upstairs fighting for two more columns of space, -was always a source of innocent joy to us, and his imitations of the -comedians of the variety halls delighted even the dramatic critic, from -whom the comedians themselves failed to force a smile. - -But Gallegher’s chief characteristic was his love for that element of -news generically classed as “crime.” - -Not that he ever did anything criminal himself. On the contrary, his -was rather the work of the criminal specialist, and his morbid interest -in the doings of all queer characters, his knowledge of their methods, -their present whereabouts, and their past deeds of transgression often -rendered him a valuable ally to our police reporter, whose daily -feuilletons were the only portion of the paper Gallegher deigned to -read. - -In Gallegher the detective element was abnormally developed. He had -shown this on several occasions, and to excellent purpose. - -Once the paper had sent him into a Home for Destitute Orphans which was -believed to be grievously mismanaged, and Gallegher, while playing the -part of a destitute orphan, kept his eyes open to what was going on -around him so faithfully that the story he told of the treatment meted -out to the real orphans was sufficient to rescue the unhappy little -wretches from the individual who had them in charge, and to have the -individual himself sent to jail. - -Gallegher’s knowledge of the aliases, terms of imprisonment, and -various misdoings of the leading criminals in Philadelphia was almost -as thorough as that of the chief of police himself, and he could tell -to an hour when “Dutchy Mack” was to be let out of prison, and could -identify at a glance “Dick Oxford, confidence man,” as “Gentleman Dan, -petty thief.” - -There were, at this time, only two pieces of news in any of the -papers. The least important of the two was the big fight between the -Champion of the United States and the Would-be Champion, arranged to -take place near Philadelphia; the second was the Burrbank murder, which -was filling space in newspapers all over the world, from New York to -Bombay. - -Richard F. Burrbank was one of the most prominent of New York’s -railroad lawyers; he was also, as a matter of course, an owner of much -railroad stock, and a very wealthy man. He had been spoken of as a -political possibility for many high offices, and, as the counsel for a -great railroad, was known even further than the great railroad itself -had stretched its system. - -At six o’clock one morning he was found by his butler lying at the foot -of the hall stairs with two pistol wounds above his heart. He was quite -dead. His safe, to which only he and his secretary had the keys, was -found open, and $200,000 in bonds, stocks, and money, which had been -placed there only the night before, was found missing. The secretary -was missing also. His name was Stephen S. Hade, and his name and his -description had been telegraphed and cabled to all parts of the world. -There was enough circumstantial evidence to show, beyond any question -or possibility of mistake, that he was the murderer. - -It made an enormous amount of talk, and unhappy individuals were -being arrested all over the country, and sent on to New York for -identification. Three had been arrested at Liverpool, and one man just -as he landed at Sydney, Australia. But so far the murderer had escaped. - -We were all talking about it one night, as everybody else was all over -the country, in the local room, and the city editor said it was worth -a fortune to any one who chanced to run across Hade and succeeded in -handing him over to the police. Some of us thought Hade had taken -passage from some one of the smaller sea-ports, and others were of the -opinion that he had buried himself in some cheap lodging-house in New -York, or in one of the smaller towns in New Jersey. - -“I shouldn’t be surprised to meet him out walking, right here in -Philadelphia,” said one of the staff. “He’ll be disguised, of course, -but you could always tell him by the absence of the trigger finger on -his right hand. It’s missing, you know; shot off when he was a boy.” - -“You want to look for a man dressed like a tough,” said the city -editor; “for as this fellow is to all appearances a gentleman, he will -try to look as little like a gentleman as possible.” - -“No, he won’t,” said Gallegher, with that calm impertinence that made -him dear to us. “He’ll dress just like a gentleman. Toughs don’t wear -gloves, and you see he’s got to wear ’em. The first thing he thought -of after doing for Burrbank was of that gone finger, and how he was to -hide it. He stuffed the finger of that glove with cotton so’s to make -it look like a whole finger, and the first time he takes off that glove -they’ve got him—see, and he knows it. So what youse want to do is to -look for a man with gloves on. I’ve been a-doing it for two weeks now, -and I can tell you it’s hard work, for everybody wears gloves this -kind of weather. But if you look long enough you’ll find him. And when -you think it’s him, go up to him and hold out your hand in a friendly -way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his hand; and if you feel that -his forefinger ain’t real flesh, but just wadded cotton, then grip to -it with your right and grab his throat with your left, and holler for -help.” - -There was an appreciative pause. - -“I see, gentlemen,” said the city editor, drily, “that Gallegher’s -reasoning has impressed you; and I also see that before the week is -out all of my young men will be under bonds for assaulting innocent -pedestrians whose only offence is that they wear gloves in mid-winter.” - - * * * * * - -It was about a week after this that Detective Hefflefinger, of -Inspector Byrnes’s staff, came over to Philadelphia after a burglar, -of whose whereabouts he had been misinformed by telegraph. He brought -the warrant, requisition, and other necessary papers with him, but the -burglar had flown. One of our reporters had worked on a New York paper, -and knew Hefflefinger, and the detective came to the office to see if -he could help him in his so far unsuccessful search. - -He gave Gallegher his card, and after Gallegher had read it, and had -discovered who the visitor was, he became so demoralized that he was -absolutely useless. - -“One of Byrnes’s men” was a much more awe-inspiring individual to -Gallegher than a member of the Cabinet. He accordingly seized his hat -and overcoat, and leaving his duties to be looked after by others, -hastened out after the object of his admiration, who found his -suggestions and knowledge of the city so valuable, and his company so -entertaining, that they became very intimate, and spent the rest of the -day together. - -In the meanwhile the managing editor had instructed his subordinates -to inform Gallegher, when he condescended to return, that his services -were no longer needed. Gallegher had played truant once too often. -Unconscious of this, he remained with his new friend until late the -same evening, and started the next afternoon toward the _Press_ office. - - * * * * * - -As I have said, Gallegher lived in the most distant part of the city, -not many minutes’ walk from the Kensington railroad station, where -trains ran into the suburbs and on to New York. - -It was in front of this station that a smoothly-shaven, well-dressed -man brushed past Gallegher and hurried up the steps to the ticket -office. - -He held a walking-stick in his right hand, and Gallegher, who now -patiently scrutinized the hands of every one who wore gloves, saw that -while three fingers of the man’s hand were closed around the cane, the -fourth stood out in almost a straight line with his palm. - -Gallegher stopped with a gasp and with a trembling all over his little -body, and his brain asked with a throb if it could be possible. But -possibilities and probabilities were to be discovered later. Now was -the time for action. - -He was after the man in a moment, hanging at his heels and his eyes -moist with excitement. - -He heard the man ask for a ticket to Torresdale, a little station just -outside of Philadelphia, and when he was out of hearing, but not out of -sight, purchased one for the same place. - -The stranger went into the smoking-car, and seated himself at one end -toward the door. Gallegher took his place at the opposite end. - -He was trembling all over, and suffered from a slight feeling of -nausea. He guessed it came from fright, not of any bodily harm that -might come to him, but at the probability of failure in his adventure -and of its most momentous possibilities. - -The stranger pulled his coat collar up around his ears, hiding the -lower portion of his face, but not concealing the resemblance in his -troubled eyes and close-shut lips to the likenesses of the murderer -Hade. - -They reached Torresdale in half an hour, and the stranger, alighting -quickly, struck off at a rapid pace down the country road leading to -the station. - -Gallegher gave him a hundred yards’ start, and then followed slowly -after. The road ran between fields and past a few frame-houses set far -from the road in kitchen gardens. - -Once or twice the man looked back over his shoulder, but he saw only a -dreary length of road with a small boy splashing through the slush in -the midst of it and stopping every now and again to throw snowballs at -belated sparrows. - -After a ten minutes’ walk the stranger turned into a side road which -led to only one place, the Eagle Inn, an old roadside hostelry known -now as the headquarters for pothunters from the Philadelphia game -market and the battle-ground of many a cock-fight. - -Gallegher knew the place well. He and his young companions had often -stopped there when out chestnutting on holidays in the autumn. - -The son of the man who kept it had often accompanied them on their -excursions, and though the boys of the city streets considered him a -dumb lout, they respected him somewhat owing to his inside knowledge of -dog- and cock-fights. - -The stranger entered the inn at a side door, and Gallegher, reaching -it a few minutes later, let him go for the time being, and set about -finding his occasional playmate, young Keppler. - -Keppler’s offspring was found in the wood-shed. - -“‘Tain’t hard to guess what brings you out here,” said the -tavern-keeper’s son, with a grin; “it’s the fight.” - -“What fight?” asked Gallegher, unguardedly. - -“What fight? Why, _the_ fight,” returned his companion, with the slow -contempt of superior knowledge. - -“It’s to come off here to-night. You knew that as well as me; anyway -your sportin’ editor knows it. He got the tip last night, but that -won’t help you any. You needn’t think there’s any chance of your -getting a peep at it. Why, tickets is two hundred and fifty apiece!” - -“Whew!” whistled Gallegher, “where’s it to be?” - -“In the barn,” whispered Keppler. “I helped ’em fix the ropes this -morning, I did.” - -“Gosh, but you’re in luck,” exclaimed Gallegher, with flattering envy. -“Couldn’t I jest get a peep at it?” - -“Maybe,” said the gratified Keppler. “There’s a winder with a wooden -shutter at the back of the barn. You can get in by it, if you have some -one to boost you up to the sill.” - -“Sa-a-y,” drawled Gallegher, as if something had but just that moment -reminded him. “Who’s that gent who come down the road just a bit ahead -of me—him with the cape-coat! Has he got anything to do with the -fight?” - -“Him?” repeated Keppler in tones of sincere disgust. “No-oh, he ain’t -no sport. He’s queer, Dad thinks. He come here one day last week about -ten in the morning, said his doctor told him to go out ’en the country -for his health. He’s stuck up and citified, and wears gloves, and takes -his meals private in his room, and all that sort of truck. They was -saying in the saloon last night that they thought he was hiding from -something, and Dad, just to try him, asks him last night if he was -coming to see the fight. He looked sort of scared, and said he didn’t -want to see no fight. And then Dad says, ’I guess you mean you don’t -want no fighters to see you.’ Dad didn’t mean no harm by it, just -passed it as a joke; but Mr. Carleton, as he calls himself, got white -as a ghost an’ says, ’I’ll go to the fight willing enough,’ and begins -to laugh and joke. And this morning he went right into the bar-room, -where all the sports were setting, and said he was going in to town to -see some friends; and as he starts off he laughs an’ says, ’This don’t -look as if I was afraid of seeing people, does it?’ but Dad says it was -just bluff that made him do it, and Dad thinks that if he hadn’t said -what he did, this Mr. Carleton wouldn’t have left his room at all.” - -Gallegher had got all he wanted, and much more than he had hoped -for—so much more that his walk back to the station was in the nature -of a triumphal march. - -He had twenty minutes to wait for the next train, and it seemed an -hour. While waiting he sent a telegram to Hefflefinger at his hotel. -It read: “Your man is near the Torresdale station, on Pennsylvania -Railroad; take cab, and meet me at station. Wait until I come. -GALLEGHER.” - -With the exception of one at midnight, no other train stopped at -Torresdale that evening, hence the direction to take a cab. - -The train to the city seemed to Gallegher to drag itself by inches. It -stopped and backed at purposeless intervals, waited for an express to -precede it, and dallied at stations, and when, at last, it reached the -terminus, Gallegher was out before it had stopped and was in the cab -and off on his way to the home of the sporting editor. - -The sporting editor was at dinner and came out in the hall to see him, -with his napkin in his hand. Gallegher explained breathlessly that he -had located the murderer for whom the police of two continents were -looking, and that he believed, in order to quiet the suspicions of the -people with whom he was hiding, that he would be present at the fight -that night. - -The sporting editor led Gallegher into his library and shut the door. -“Now,” he said, “go over all that again.” - -Gallegher went over it again in detail, and added how he had sent for -Hefflefinger to make the arrest in order that it might be kept from the -knowledge of the local police and from the Philadelphia reporters. - -“What I want Hefflefinger to do is to arrest Hade with the warrant he -has for the burglar,” explained Gallegher; “and to take him on to New -York on the owl train that passes Torresdale at one. It don’t get to -Jersey City until four o’clock, one hour after the morning papers go to -press. Of course, we must fix Hefflefinger so’s he’ll keep quiet and -not tell who his prisoner really is.” - -The sporting editor reached his hand out to pat Gallegher on the head, -but changed his mind and shook hands with him instead. - -“My boy,” he said, “you are an infant phenomenon. If I can pull the -rest of this thing off to-night, it will mean the $5,000 reward and -fame galore for you and the paper. Now, I’m going to write a note to -the managing editor, and you can take it around to him and tell him -what you’ve done and what I am going to do, and he’ll take you back on -the paper and raise your salary. Perhaps you didn’t know you’ve been -discharged?” - -“Do you think you ain’t a-going to take me with you?” demanded -Gallegher. - -“Why, certainly not. Why should I? It all lies with the detective and -myself now. You’ve done your share, and done it well. If the man’s -caught, the reward’s yours. But you’d only be in the way now. You’d -better go to the office and make your peace with the chief.” - -“If the paper can get along without me, I can get along without the -old paper,” said Gallegher, hotly. “And if I ain’t a-going with you, -you ain’t neither, for I know where Hefflefinger is to be, and you -don’t, and I won’t tell you.” - -“Oh, very well, very well,” replied the sporting editor, weakly -capitulating. “I’ll send the note by a messenger; only mind, if you -lose your place, don’t blame me.” - -Gallegher wondered how this man could value a week’s salary against the -excitement of seeing a noted criminal run down, and of getting the news -to the paper, and to that one paper alone. - -From that moment the sporting editor sank in Gallegher’s estimation. - -Mr. Dwyer sat down at his desk and scribbled off the following note: - - “I have received reliable information that Hade, the Burrbank - murderer, will be present at the fight to-night. We have arranged it - so that he will be arrested quietly and in such a manner that the fact - may be kept from all other papers. I need not point out to you that - this will be the most important piece of news in the country to-morrow. - - “Yours, etc., - - “MICHAEL E. DWYER.” - -The sporting editor stepped into the waiting cab, while Gallegher -whispered the directions to the driver. He was told to go first to a -district-messenger office, and from there up to the Ridge Avenue Road, -out Broad Street, and on to the old Eagle Inn, near Torresdale. - - * * * * * - -It was a miserable night. The rain and snow were falling together, and -freezing as they fell. The sporting editor got out to send his message -to the _Press_ office, and then lighting a cigar, and turning up the -collar of his great-coat, curled up in the corner of the cab. - -“Wake me when we get there, Gallegher,” he said. He knew he had a long -ride, and much rapid work before him, and he was preparing for the -strain. - -To Gallegher the idea of going to sleep seemed almost criminal. From -the dark corner of the cab his eyes shone with excitement, and with the -awful joy of anticipation. He glanced every now and then to where the -sporting editor’s cigar shone in the darkness, and watched it as it -gradually burnt more dimly and went out. The lights in the shop windows -threw a broad glare across the ice on the pavements, and the lights -from the lamp-posts tossed the distorted shadow of the cab, and the -horse, and the motionless driver, sometimes before and sometimes behind -them. - -After half an hour Gallegher slipped down to the bottom of the cab and -dragged out a lap-robe, in which he wrapped himself. It was growing -colder, and the damp, keen wind swept in through the cracks until the -window-frames and woodwork were cold to the touch. - -An hour passed, and the cab was still moving more slowly over the -rough surface of partly paved streets, and by single rows of new -houses standing at different angles to each other in fields covered -with ash-heaps and brick-kilns. Here and there the gaudy lights of a -drug-store, and the forerunner of suburban civilization, shone from -the end of a new block of houses, and the rubber cape of an occasional -policeman showed in the light of the lamp-post that he hugged for -comfort. - -Then even the houses disappeared, and the cab dragged its way between -truck farms, with desolate-looking, glass-covered beds, and pools of -water, half-caked with ice, and bare trees, and interminable fences. - -Once or twice the cab stopped altogether, and Gallegher could hear the -driver swearing to himself, or at the horse, or the roads. At last they -drew up before the station at Torresdale. It was quite deserted, and -only a single light cut a swath in the darkness and showed a portion -of the platform, the ties, and the rails glistening in the rain. They -walked twice past the light before a figure stepped out of the shadow -and greeted them cautiously. - -“I am Mr. Dwyer, of the _Press_,” said the sporting editor, briskly. -“You’ve heard of me, perhaps. Well, there shouldn’t be any difficulty -in our making a deal, should there? This boy here has found Hade, -and we have reason to believe he will be among the spectators at the -fight to-night. We want you to arrest him quietly, and as secretly as -possible. You can do it with your papers and your badge easily enough. -We want you to pretend that you believe he is this burglar you came -over after. If you will do this, and take him away without any one so -much as suspecting who he really is, and on the train that passes here -at 1.20 for New York, we will give you $500 out of the $5,000 reward. -If, however, one other paper, either in New York or Philadelphia, or -anywhere else, knows of the arrest, you won’t get a cent. Now, what do -you say?” - -The detective had a great deal to say. He wasn’t at all sure the man -Gallegher suspected was Hade; he feared he might get himself into -trouble by making a false arrest, and if it should be the man, he was -afraid the local police would interfere. - -“We’ve no time to argue or debate this matter,” said Dwyer, warmly. -“We agree to point Hade out to you in the crowd. After the fight is -over you arrest him as we have directed, and you get the money and the -credit of the arrest. If you don’t like this, I will arrest the man -myself, and have him driven to town, with a pistol for a warrant.” - -Hefflefinger considered in silence and then agreed unconditionally. “As -you say, Mr. Dwyer,” he returned. “I’ve heard of you for a thoroughbred -sport. I know you’ll do what you say you’ll do; and as for me I’ll do -what you say and just as you say, and it’s a very pretty piece of work -as it stands.” - -They all stepped back into the cab, and then it was that they were met -by a fresh difficulty, how to get the detective into the barn where the -fight was to take place, for neither of the two men had $250 to pay for -his admittance. - -But this was overcome when Gallegher remembered the window of which -young Keppler had told him. - -In the event of Hade’s losing courage and not daring to show himself in -the crowd around the ring, it was agreed that Dwyer should come to the -barn and warn Hefflefinger; but if he should come, Dwyer was merely to -keep near him and to signify by a prearranged gesture which one of the -crowd he was. - -They drew up before a great black shadow of a house, dark, forbidding, -and apparently deserted. But at the sound of the wheels on the gravel -the door opened, letting out a stream of warm, cheerful light, and a -man’s voice said, “Put out those lights. Don’t youse know no better -than that?” This was Keppler, and he welcomed Mr. Dwyer with effusive -courtesy. - -The two men showed in the stream of light, and the door closed on them, -leaving the house as it was at first, black and silent, save for the -dripping of the rain and snow from the eaves. - -The detective and Gallegher put out the cab’s lamps and led the horse -toward a long, low shed in the rear of the yard, which they now noticed -was almost filled with teams of many different makes, from the -Hobson’s choice of a livery stable to the brougham of the man about -town. - -“No,” said Gallegher, as the cabman stopped to hitch the horse beside -the others, “we want it nearest that lower gate. When we newspaper men -leave this place we’ll leave it in a hurry, and the man who is nearest -town is likely to get there first. You won’t be a-following of no -hearse when you make your return trip.” - -Gallegher tied the horse to the very gate-post itself, leaving the gate -open and allowing a clear road and a flying start for the prospective -race to Newspaper Row. - -The driver disappeared under the shelter of the porch, and Gallegher -and the detective moved off cautiously to the rear of the barn. “This -must be the window,” said Hefflefinger, pointing to a broad wooden -shutter some feet from the ground. - -“Just you give me a boost once, and I’ll get that open in a jiffy,” -said Gallegher. - -The detective placed his hands on his knees, and Gallegher stood upon -his shoulders, and with the blade of his knife lifted the wooden button -that fastened the window on the inside, and pulled the shutter open. - -Then he put one leg inside over the sill, and leaning down helped to -draw his fellow-conspirator up to a level with the window. “I feel just -like I was burglarizing a house,” chuckled Gallegher, as he dropped -noiselessly to the floor below and refastened the shutter. The barn was -a large one, with a row of stalls on either side in which horses and -cows were dozing. There was a haymow over each row of stalls, and at -one end of the barn a number of fence-rails had been thrown across from -one mow to the other. These rails were covered with hay. - -In the middle of the floor was the ring. It was not really a ring, but -a square, with wooden posts at its four corners through which ran a -heavy rope. The space inclosed by the rope was covered with sawdust. - -Gallegher could not resist stepping into the ring, and after stamping -the sawdust once or twice, as if to assure himself that he was really -there, began dancing around it, and indulging in such a remarkable -series of fistic manœuvres with an imaginary adversary that the -unimaginative detective precipitately backed into a corner of the barn. - -“Now, then,” said Gallegher, having apparently vanquished his foe, “you -come with me.” His companion followed quickly as Gallegher climbed -to one of the haymows, and crawling carefully out on the fence-rail, -stretched himself at full length, face downward. In this position, by -moving the straw a little, he could look down, without being himself -seen, upon the heads of whomsoever stood below. “This is better’n a -private box, ain’t it?” said Gallegher. - -The boy from the newspaper office and the detective lay there in -silence, biting at straws and tossing anxiously on their comfortable -bed. - -It seemed fully two hours before they came. Gallegher had listened -without breathing, and with every muscle on a strain, at least a dozen -times, when some movement in the yard had led him to believe that they -were at the door. - -And he had numerous doubts and fears. Sometimes it was that the police -had learnt of the fight, and had raided Keppler’s in his absence, and -again it was that the fight had been postponed, or, worst of all, that -it would be put off until so late that Mr. Dwyer could not get back in -time for the last edition of the paper. Their coming, when at last -they came, was heralded by an advance-guard of two sporting men, who -stationed themselves at either side of the big door. - -“Hurry up, now, gents,” one of the men said with a shiver, “don’t keep -this door open no longer’n is needful.” - -It was not a very large crowd, but it was wonderfully well selected. It -ran, in the majority of its component parts, to heavy white coats with -pearl buttons. The white coats were shouldered by long blue coats with -astrakhan fur trimmings, the wearers of which preserved a cliqueness -not remarkable when one considers that they believed every one else -present to be either a crook or a prize-fighter. - -There were well-fed, well-groomed clubmen and brokers in the crowd, a -politician or two, a popular comedian with his manager, amateur boxers -from the athletic clubs, and quiet, close-mouthed sporting men from -every city in the country. Their names if printed in the papers would -have been as familiar as the types of the papers themselves. - -And among these men, whose only thought was of the brutal sport to -come, was Hade, with Dwyer standing at ease at his shoulder,—Hade, -white, and visibly in deep anxiety, hiding his pale face beneath a -cloth travelling-cap, and with his chin muffled in a woollen scarf. -He had dared to come because he feared his danger from the already -suspicious Keppler was less than if he stayed away. And so he was -there, hovering restlessly on the border of the crowd, feeling his -danger and sick with fear. - -When Hefflefinger first saw him he started up on his hands and elbows -and made a movement forward as if he would leap down then and there and -carry off his prisoner single-handed. - -“Lie down,” growled Gallegher; “an officer of any sort wouldn’t live -three minutes in that crowd.” - -The detective drew back slowly and buried himself again in the straw, -but never once through the long fight which followed did his eyes leave -the person of the murderer. The newspaper men took their places in the -foremost row close around the ring, and kept looking at their watches -and begging the master of ceremonies to “shake it up, do.” - -There was a great deal of betting, and all of the men handled the -great roll of bills they wagered with a flippant recklessness which -could only be accounted for in Gallegher’s mind by temporary mental -derangement. Some one pulled a box out into the ring and the master of -ceremonies mounted it, and pointed out in forcible language that as -they were almost all already under bonds to keep the peace, it behooved -all to curb their excitement and to maintain a severe silence, unless -they wanted to bring the police upon them and have themselves “sent -down” for a year or two. - -Then two very disreputable-looking persons tossed their respective -principals’ high hats into the ring, and the crowd, recognizing in -this relic of the days when brave knights threw down their gauntlets -in the lists as only a sign that the fight was about to begin, cheered -tumultuously. - -This was followed by a sudden surging forward, and a mutter of -admiration much more flattering than the cheers had been, when the -principals followed their hats, and slipping out of their great-coats, -stood forth in all the physical beauty of the perfect brute. - -Their pink skin was as soft and healthy-looking as a baby’s, and glowed -in the lights of the lanterns like tinted ivory, and underneath this -silken covering the great biceps and muscles moved in and out and -looked like the coils of a snake around the branch of a tree. - -Gentleman and blackguard shouldered each other for a nearer view; the -coachmen, whose metal buttons were unpleasantly suggestive of police, -put their hands, in the excitement of the moment, on the shoulders -of their masters; the perspiration stood out in great drops on the -foreheads of the backers, and the newspaper men bit somewhat nervously -at the ends of their pencils. - -And in the stalls the cows munched contentedly at their cuds and gazed -with gentle curiosity at their two fellow-brutes, who stood waiting -the signal to fall upon, and kill each other if need be, for the -delectation of their brothers. - -“Take your places,” commanded the master of ceremonies. - -In the moment in which the two men faced each other the crowd became so -still that, save for the beating of the rain upon the shingled roof and -the stamping of a horse in one of the stalls, the place was as silent -as a church. - -“Time!” shouted the master of ceremonies. - -The two men sprang into a posture of defence, which was lost as quickly -as it was taken, one great arm shot out like a piston-rod; there was -the sound of bare fists beating on naked flesh; there was an exultant -indrawn gasp of savage pleasure and relief from the crowd, and the -great fight had begun. - -How the fortunes of war rose and fell, and changed and rechanged that -night, is an old story to those who listen to such stories; and those -who do not will be glad to be spared the telling of it. It was, they -say, one of the bitterest fights between two men that this country has -ever known. - -But all that is of interest here is that after an hour of this -desperate brutal business the champion ceased to be the favorite; the -man whom he had taunted and bullied, and for whom the public had but -little sympathy, was proving himself a likely winner, and under his -cruel blows, as sharp and clean as those from a cutlass, his opponent -was rapidly giving way. - -The men about the ropes were past all control now; they drowned -Keppler’s petitions for silence with oaths and in inarticulate shouts -of anger, as if the blows had fallen upon them, and in mad rejoicings. -They swept from one end of the ring to the other, with every muscle -leaping in unison with those of the man they favored, and when a New -York correspondent muttered over his shoulder that this would be the -biggest sporting surprise since the Heenan-Sayers fight, Mr. Dwyer -nodded his head sympathetically in assent. - -In the excitement and tumult it is doubtful if any heard the three -quickly repeated blows that fell heavily from the outside upon the -big doors of the barn. If they did, it was already too late to mend -matters, for the door fell, torn from its hinges, and as it fell a -captain of police sprang into the light from out of the storm, with his -lieutenants and their men crowding close at his shoulder. - -In the panic and stampede that followed, several of the men stood as -helplessly immovable as though they had seen a ghost; others made a mad -rush into the arms of the officers and were beaten back against the -ropes of the ring; others dived headlong into the stalls, among the -horses and cattle, and still others shoved the rolls of money they held -into the hands of the police and begged like children to be allowed to -escape. - -The instant the door fell and the raid was declared Hefflefinger -slipped over the cross rails on which he had been lying, hung for an -instant by his hands, and then dropped into the centre of the fighting -mob on the floor. He was out of it in an instant with the agility of -a pickpocket, was across the room and at Hade’s throat like a dog. The -murderer, for the moment, was the calmer man of the two. - -“Here,” he panted, “hands off, now. There’s no need for all this -violence. There’s no great harm in looking at a fight, is there? -There’s a hundred-dollar bill in my right hand; take it and let me slip -out of this. No one is looking. Here.” - -But the detective only held him the closer. - -“I want you for burglary,” he whispered under his breath. “You’ve got -to come with me now, and quick. The less fuss you make, the better for -both of us. If you don’t know who I am, you can feel my badge under my -coat there. I’ve got the authority. It’s all regular, and when we’re -out of this d——d row I’ll show you the papers.” - -He took one hand from Hade’s throat and pulled a pair of handcuffs from -his pocket. - -“It’s a mistake. This is an outrage,” gasped the murderer, white and -trembling, but dreadfully alive and desperate for his liberty. “Let me -go, I tell you! Take your hands off of me! Do I look like a burglar, -you fool?” - -“I know who you look like,” whispered the detective, with his face -close to the face of his prisoner. “Now, will you go easy as a burglar, -or shall I tell these men who you are and what I _do_ want you for? -Shall I call out your real name or not? Shall I tell them? Quick, speak -up; shall I?” - -There was something so exultant—something so unnecessarily savage in -the officer’s face that the man he held saw that the detective knew him -for what he really was, and the hands that had held his throat slipped -down around his shoulders, or he would have fallen. The man’s eyes -opened and closed again, and he swayed weakly backward and forward, and -choked as if his throat were dry and burning. Even to such a hardened -connoisseur in crime as Gallegher, who stood closely by, drinking it -in, there was something so abject in the man’s terror that he regarded -him with what was almost a touch of pity. - -“For God’s sake,” Hade begged, “let me go. Come with me to my room and -I’ll give you half the money. I’ll divide with you fairly. We can both -get away. There’s a fortune for both of us there. We both can get away. -You’ll be rich for life. Do you understand—for life!” - -But the detective, to his credit, only shut his lips the tighter. - -“That’s enough,” he whispered, in return. “That’s more than I expected. -You’ve sentenced yourself already. Come!” - -Two officers in uniform barred their exit at the door, but Hefflefinger -smiled easily and showed his badge. - -“One of Byrnes’s men,” he said, in explanation; “came over expressly to -take this chap. He’s a burglar; ’Arlie’ Lane, _alias_ Carleton. I’ve -shown the papers to the captain. It’s all regular. I’m just going to -get his traps at the hotel and walk him over to the station. I guess -we’ll push right on to New York to-night.” - -The officers nodded and smiled their admiration for the representative -of what is, perhaps, the best detective force in the world, and let him -pass. - -Then Hefflefinger turned and spoke to Gallegher, who still stood as -watchful as a dog at his side. “I’m going to his room to get the bonds -and stuff,” he whispered; “then I’ll march him to the station and take -that train. I’ve done my share; don’t forget yours!” - -“Oh, you’ll get your money right enough,” said Gallegher. “And, sa-ay,” -he added, with the appreciative nod of an expert, “do you know, you did -it rather well.” - -Mr. Dwyer had been writing while the raid was settling down, as he had -been writing while waiting for the fight to begin. Now he walked over -to where the other correspondents stood in angry conclave. - -The newspaper men had informed the officers who hemmed them in that -they represented the principal papers of the country, and were -expostulating vigorously with the captain, who had planned the raid, -and who declared they were under arrest. - -“Don’t be an ass, Scott,” said Mr. Dwyer, who was too excited to be -polite or politic. “You know our being here isn’t a matter of choice. -We came here on business, as you did, and you’ve no right to hold us.” - -“If we don’t get our stuff on the wire at once,” protested a New York -man, “we’ll be too late for to-morrow’s paper, and——” - -Captain Scott said he did not care a profanely small amount for -to-morrow’s paper, and that all he knew was that to the station-house -the newspaper men would go. There they would have a hearing, and if the -magistrate chose to let them off, that was the magistrate’s business, -but that his duty was to take them into custody. - -“But then it will be too late, don’t you understand?” shouted Mr. -Dwyer. “You’ve got to let us go _now_, at once.” - -“I can’t do it, Mr. Dwyer,” said the captain, “and that’s all there is -to it. Why, haven’t I just sent the president of the Junior Republican -Club to the patrol-wagon, the man that put this coat on me, and do -you think I can let you fellows go after that? You were all put -under bonds to keep the peace not three days ago, and here you’re at -it—fighting like badgers. It’s worth my place to let one of you off.” - -What Mr. Dwyer said next was so uncomplimentary to the gallant Captain -Scott that that overwrought individual seized the sporting editor by -the shoulder, and shoved him into the hands of two of his men. - -This was more than the distinguished Mr. Dwyer could brook, and he -excitedly raised his hand in resistance. But before he had time to do -anything foolish his wrist was gripped by one strong, little hand, and -he was conscious that another was picking the pocket of his great-coat. - -He slapped his hands to his sides, and looking down, saw Gallegher -standing close behind him and holding him by the wrist. Mr. Dwyer -had forgotten the boy’s existence, and would have spoken sharply if -something in Gallegher’s innocent eyes had not stopped him. - -Gallegher’s hand was still in that pocket, in which Mr. Dwyer had -shoved his note-book filled with what he had written of Gallegher’s -work and Hade’s final capture, and with a running descriptive account -of the fight. With his eyes fixed on Mr. Dwyer, Gallegher drew it out, -and with a quick movement shoved it inside his waistcoat. Mr. Dwyer -gave a nod of comprehension. Then glancing at his two guardsmen, and -finding that they were still interested in the wordy battle of the -correspondents with their chief, and had seen nothing, he stooped and -whispered to Gallegher: “The forms are locked at twenty minutes to -three. If you don’t get there by that time it will be of no use, but if -you’re on time you’ll beat the town—and the country too.” - -Gallegher’s eyes flashed significantly, and nodding his head to show he -understood, started boldly on a run toward the door. But the officers -who guarded it brought him to an abrupt halt, and, much to Mr. Dwyer’s -astonishment, drew from him what was apparently a torrent of tears. - -“Let me go to me father. I want me father,” the boy shrieked, -hysterically. “They’ve ’rested father. Oh, daddy, daddy. They’re -a-goin’ to take you to prison.” - -“Who is your father, sonny?” asked one of the guardians of the gate. - -“Keppler’s me father,” sobbed Gallegher. “They’re a-goin’ to lock him -up, and I’ll never see him no more.” - -“Oh, yes, you will,” said the officer, good-naturedly; “he’s there in -that first patrol-wagon. You can run over and say good-night to him, -and then you’d better get to bed. This ain’t no place for kids of your -age.” - -“Thank you, sir,” sniffed Gallegher, tearfully, as the two officers -raised their clubs, and let him pass out into the darkness. - -The yard outside was in a tumult, horses were stamping, and plunging, -and backing the carriages into one another; lights were flashing from -every window of what had been apparently an uninhabited house, and the -voices of the prisoners were still raised in angry expostulation. - -Three police patrol-wagons were moving about the yard, filled with -unwilling passengers, who sat or stood, packed together like sheep, and -with no protection from the sleet and rain. - -Gallegher stole off into a dark corner, and watched the scene until his -eyesight became familiar with the position of the land. - -Then with his eyes fixed fearfully on the swinging light of a lantern -with which an officer was searching among the carriages, he groped -his way between horses’ hoofs and behind the wheels of carriages to -the cab which he had himself placed at the furthermost gate. It was -still there, and the horse, as he had left it, with its head turned -toward the city. Gallegher opened the big gate noiselessly, and worked -nervously at the hitching strap. The knot was covered with a thin -coating of ice, and it was several minutes before he could loosen it. -But his teeth finally pulled it apart, and with the reins in his hands -he sprang upon the wheel. And as he stood so, a shock of fear ran down -his back like an electric current, his breath left him, and he stood -immovable, gazing with wide eyes into the darkness. - -The officer with the lantern had suddenly loomed up from behind a -carriage not fifty feet distant, and was standing perfectly still, with -his lantern held over his head, peering so directly toward Gallegher -that the boy felt that he must see him. Gallegher stood with one foot -on the hub of the wheel and with the other on the box waiting to -spring. It seemed a minute before either of them moved, and then the -officer took a step forward, and demanded sternly, “Who is that? What -are you doing there?” - -There was no time for parley then. Gallegher felt that he had been -taken in the act, and that his only chance lay in open flight. He -leaped up on the box, pulling out the whip as he did so, and with a -quick sweep lashed the horse across the head and back. The animal -sprang forward with a snort, narrowly clearing the gate-post, and -plunged off into the darkness. - -“Stop!” cried the officer. - -So many of Gallegher’s acquaintances among the ’longshoremen and mill -hands had been challenged in so much the same manner that Gallegher -knew what would probably follow if the challenge was disregarded. So he -slipped from his seat to the footboard below, and ducked his head. - -The three reports of a pistol, which rang out briskly from behind him, -proved that his early training had given him a valuable fund of useful -miscellaneous knowledge. - -“Don’t you be scared,” he said, reassuringly, to the horse; “he’s -firing in the air.” - -The pistol-shots were answered by the impatient clangor of a -patrol-wagon’s gong, and glancing over his shoulder Gallegher saw its -red and green lanterns tossing from side to side and looking in the -darkness like the side-lights of a yacht plunging forward in a storm. - -“I hadn’t bargained to race you against no patrol-wagons,” said -Gallegher to his animal; “but if they want a race, we’ll give them a -tough tussle for it, won’t we?” - -Philadelphia, lying four miles to the south, sent up a faint yellow -glow to the sky. It seemed very far away, and Gallegher’s braggadocio -grew cold within him at the loneliness of his adventure and the thought -of the long ride before him. - -It was still bitterly cold. - -The rain and sleet beat through his clothes, and struck his skin with a -sharp chilling touch that set him trembling. - -Even the thought of the overweighted patrol-wagon probably sticking in -the mud some safe distance in the rear, failed to cheer him, and the -excitement that had so far made him callous to the cold died out and -left him weaker and nervous. - -But his horse was chilled with the long standing, and now leaped -eagerly forward, only too willing to warm the half-frozen blood in its -veins. - -“You’re a good beast,” said Gallegher, plaintively. “You’ve got more -nerve than me. Don’t you go back on me now. Mr. Dwyer says we’ve got -to beat the town.” Gallegher had no idea what time it was as he rode -through the night, but he knew he would be able to find out from a -big clock over a manufactory at a point nearly three-quarters of the -distance from Keppler’s to the goal. - -He was still in the open country and driving recklessly, for he knew -the best part of his ride must be made outside the city limits. - -He raced between desolate-looking corn-fields with bare stalks and -patches of muddy earth rising above the thin covering of snow, truck -farms and brick-yards fell behind him on either side. It was very -lonely work, and once or twice the dogs ran yelping to the gates and -barked after him. - -Part of his way lay parallel with the railroad tracks, and he drove -for some time beside long lines of freight and coal cars as they stood -resting for the night. The fantastic Queen Anne suburban stations were -dark and deserted, but in one or two of the block-towers he could -see the operators writing at their desks, and the sight in some way -comforted him. - -Once he thought of stopping to get out the blanket in which he had -wrapped himself on the first trip, but he feared to spare the time, and -drove on with his teeth chattering and his shoulders shaking with the -cold. - -He welcomed the first solitary row of darkened houses with a faint -cheer of recognition. The scattered lamp-posts lightened his spirits, -and even the badly paved streets rang under the beats of his -horse’s feet like music. Great mills and manufactories, with only a -night-watchman’s light in the lowest of their many stories, began -to take the place of the gloomy farmhouses and gaunt trees that had -startled him with their grotesque shapes. He had been driving nearly -an hour, he calculated, and in that time the rain had changed to a wet -snow, that fell heavily and clung to whatever it touched. He passed -block after block of trim workmen’s houses, as still and silent as the -sleepers within them, and at last he turned the horse’s head into Broad -Street, the city’s great thoroughfare, that stretches from its one end -to the other and cuts it evenly in two. - -He was driving noiselessly over the snow and slush in the street, with -his thoughts bent only on the clock-face he wished so much to see, when -a hoarse voice challenged him from the sidewalk. “Hey, you, stop there, -hold up!” said the voice. - -Gallegher turned his head, and though he saw that the voice came from -under a policeman’s helmet, his only answer was to hit his horse -sharply over the head with his whip and to urge it into a gallop. - -This, on his part, was followed by a sharp, shrill whistle from the -policeman. Another whistle answered it from a street-corner one block -ahead of him. “Whoa,” said Gallegher, pulling on the reins. “There’s -one too many of them,” he added, in apologetic explanation. The horse -stopped, and stood, breathing heavily, with great clouds of steam -rising from its flanks. - -“Why in hell didn’t you stop when I told you to?” demanded the voice, -now close at the cab’s side. - -“I didn’t hear you,” returned Gallegher, sweetly. “But I heard you -whistle, and I heard your partner whistle, and I thought maybe it was -me you wanted to speak to, so I just stopped.” - -“You heard me well enough. Why aren’t your lights lit?” demanded the -voice. - -“Should I have ’em lit?” asked Gallegher, bending over and regarding -them with sudden interest. - -“You know you should, and if you don’t, you’ve no right to be driving -that cab. I don’t believe you’re the regular driver, anyway. Where’d -you get it?” - -“It ain’t my cab, of course,” said Gallegher, with an easy laugh. “It’s -Luke McGovern’s. He left it outside Cronin’s while he went in to get a -drink, and he took too much, and me father told me to drive it round to -the stable for him. I’m Cronin’s son. McGovern ain’t in no condition to -drive. You can see yourself how he’s been misusing the horse. He puts -it up at Bachman’s livery stable, and I was just going around there -now.” - -Gallegher’s knowledge of the local celebrities of the district confused -the zealous officer of the peace. He surveyed the boy with a steady -stare that would have distressed a less skilful liar, but Gallegher -only shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if from the cold, and waited -with apparent indifference to what the officer would say next. - -In reality his heart was beating heavily against his side, and he felt -that if he was kept on a strain much longer he would give way and break -down. A second snow-covered form emerged suddenly from the shadow of -the houses. - -“What is it, Reeder?” it asked. - -“Oh, nothing much,” replied the first officer. “This kid hadn’t any -lamps lit, so I called to him to stop and he didn’t do it, so I -whistled to you. It’s all right, though. He’s just taking it round to -Bachman’s. Go ahead,” he added, sulkily. - -“Get up!” chirped Gallegher. “Good-night,” he added, over his shoulder. - -Gallegher gave an hysterical little gasp of relief as he trotted away -from the two policemen, and poured bitter maledictions on their heads -for two meddling fools as he went. - -“They might as well kill a man as scare him to death,” he said, with -an attempt to get back to his customary flippancy. But the effort was -somewhat pitiful, and he felt guiltily conscious that a salt, warm tear -was creeping slowly down his face, and that a lump that would not keep -down was rising in his throat. - -“‘Tain’t no fair thing for the whole police force to keep worrying at -a little boy like me,” he said, in shame-faced apology. “I’m not doing -nothing wrong, and I’m half froze to death, and yet they keep a-nagging -at me.” - -It was so cold that when the boy stamped his feet against the footboard -to keep them warm, sharp pains shot up through his body, and when he -beat his arms about his shoulders, as he had seen real cabmen do, the -blood in his finger-tips tingled so acutely that he cried aloud with -the pain. - -He had often been up that late before, but he had never felt so sleepy. -It was as if some one was pressing a sponge heavy with chloroform near -his face, and he could not fight off the drowsiness that lay hold of -him. - -He saw, dimly hanging above his head, a round disc of light that seemed -like a great moon, and which he finally guessed to be the clock-face -for which he had been on the lookout. He had passed it before he -realized this; but the fact stirred him into wakefulness again, -and when his cab’s wheels slipped around the City Hall corner, he -remembered to look up at the other big clock-face that keeps awake over -the railroad station and measures out the night. - -He gave a gasp of consternation when he saw that it was half-past -two, and that there was but ten minutes left to him. This, and the -many electric lights and the sight of the familiar pile of buildings, -startled him into a semi-consciousness of where he was and how great -was the necessity for haste. - -He rose in his seat and called on the horse, and urged it into a -reckless gallop over the slippery asphalt. He considered nothing else -but speed, and looking neither to the left nor right dashed off down -Broad Street into Chestnut, where his course lay straight away to the -office, now only seven blocks distant. - -Gallegher never knew how it began, but he was suddenly assaulted by -shouts on either side, his horse was thrown back on its haunches, and -he found two men in cabmen’s livery hanging at its head, and patting -its sides, and calling it by name. And the other cabmen who have their -stand at the corner were swarming about the carriage, all of them -talking and swearing at once, and gesticulating wildly with their whips. - -They said they knew the cab was McGovern’s and they wanted to know -where he was, and why he wasn’t on it; they wanted to know where -Gallegher had stolen it, and why he had been such a fool as to drive it -into the arms of its owner’s friends; they said that it was about time -that a cab-driver could get off his box to take a drink without having -his cab run away with, and some of them called loudly for a policeman -to take the young thief in charge. - -Gallegher felt as if he had been suddenly dragged into consciousness -out of a bad dream, and stood for a second like a half-awakened -somnambulist. - -They had stopped the cab under an electric light, and its glare shone -coldly down upon the trampled snow and the faces of the men around him. - -Gallegher bent forward, and lashed savagely at the horse with his whip. - -“Let me go,” he shouted, as he tugged impotently at the reins. “Let me -go, I tell you. I haven’t stole no cab, and you’ve got no right to stop -me. I only want to take it to the _Press_ office,” he begged. “They’ll -send it back to you all right. They’ll pay you for the trip. I’m not -running away with it. The driver’s got the collar—he’s ’rested—and -I’m only a-going to the _Press_ office. Do you hear me?” he cried, his -voice rising and breaking in a shriek of passion and disappointment. -“I tell you to let go those reins. Let me go, or I’ll kill you. Do you -hear me? I’ll kill you.” And leaning forward, the boy struck savagely -with his long whip at the faces of the men about the horse’s head. - -Some one in the crowd reached up and caught him by the ankles, and with -a quick jerk pulled him off the box, and threw him on to the street. -But he was up on his knees in a moment, and caught at the man’s hand. - -“Don’t let them stop me, mister,” he cried, “please let me go. I didn’t -steal the cab, sir. S’help me, I didn’t. I’m telling you the truth. -Take me to the _Press_ office, and they’ll prove it to you. They’ll pay -you anything you ask ’em. It’s only such a little ways now, and I’ve -come so far, sir. Please don’t let them stop me,” he sobbed, clasping -the man about the knees. “For Heaven’s sake, mister, let me go!” - - * * * * * - -The managing editor of the _Press_ took up the india-rubber -speaking-tube at his side, and answered, “Not yet” to an inquiry the -night editor had already put to him five times within the last twenty -minutes. - -Then he snapped the metal top of the tube impatiently, and went -upstairs. As he passed the door of the local room, he noticed that the -reporters had not gone home, but were sitting about on the tables and -chairs, waiting. They looked up inquiringly as he passed, and the city -editor asked, “Any news yet?” and the managing editor shook his head. - -The compositors were standing idle in the composing-room, and their -foreman was talking with the night editor. - -“Well?” said that gentleman, tentatively. - -“Well,” returned the managing editor, “I don’t think we can wait; do -you?” - -“It’s a half-hour after time now,” said the night editor, “and we’ll -miss the suburban trains if we hold the paper back any longer. We -can’t afford to wait for a purely hypothetical story. The chances are -all against the fight’s having taken place or this Hade’s having been -arrested.” - -“But if we’re beaten on it——” suggested the chief. “But I don’t think -that is possible. If there were any story to print, Dwyer would have -had it here before now.” - -The managing editor looked steadily down at the floor. - -“Very well,” he said, slowly, “we won’t wait any longer. Go ahead,” he -added, turning to the foreman with a sigh of reluctance. The foreman -whirled himself about, and began to give his orders; but the two -editors still looked at each other doubtfully. - -As they stood so, there came a sudden shout and the sound of people -running to and fro in the reportorial rooms below. There was the tramp -of many footsteps on the stairs, and above the confusion they heard the -voice of the city editor telling some one to “run to Madden’s and get -some brandy, quick.” - -No one in the composing-room said anything; but those compositors who -had started to go home began slipping off their overcoats, and every -one stood with his eyes fixed on the door. - -It was kicked open from the outside, and in the doorway stood a -cab-driver and the city editor, supporting between them a pitiful -little figure of a boy, wet and miserable, and with the snow melting -on his clothes and running in little pools to the floor. “Why, -it’s Gallegher,” said the night editor, in a tone of the keenest -disappointment. - -Gallegher shook himself free from his supporters, and took an unsteady -step forward, his fingers fumbling stiffly with the buttons of his -waistcoat. - -“Mr. Dwyer, sir,” he began faintly, with his eyes fixed fearfully on -the managing editor, “he got arrested—and I couldn’t get here no -sooner, ’cause they kept a-stopping me, and they took me cab from under -me—but—” he pulled the note-book from his breast and held it out with -its covers damp and limp from the rain, “but we got Hade, and here’s -Mr. Dwyer’s copy.” - -And then he asked, with a queer note in his voice, partly of dread and -partly of hope, “ Am I in time, sir?” - -The managing editor took the book, and tossed it to the foreman, who -ripped out its leaves and dealt them out to his men as rapidly as a -gambler deals out cards. - -Then the managing editor stooped and picked Gallegher up in his arms, -and, sitting down, began to unlace his wet and muddy shoes. - -Gallegher made a faint effort to resist this degradation of the -managerial dignity; but his protest was a very feeble one, and his head -fell back heavily on the managing editor’s shoulder. - -To Gallegher the incandescent lights began to whirl about in circles, -and to burn in different colors; the faces of the reporters kneeling -before him and chafing his hands and feet grew dim and unfamiliar, and -the roar and rumble of the great presses in the basement sounded far -away, like the murmur of the sea. - -And then the place and the circumstances of it came back to him again -sharply and with sudden vividness. - -Gallegher looked up, with a faint smile, into the managing editor’s -face. “You won’t turn me off for running away, will you?” he whispered. - -The managing editor did not answer immediately. His head was bent, and -he was thinking, for some reason or other, of a little boy of his own, -at home in bed. Then he said, quietly, “Not this time, Gallegher.” - -Gallegher’s head sank back comfortably on the older man’s shoulder, and -he smiled comprehensively at the faces of the young men crowded around -him. “You hadn’t ought to,” he said, with a touch of his old impudence, -“‘cause—I beat the town.” - - - - -THE JUMPING FROG - -BY - -MARK TWAIN - -This is a story typical of American humor. As William Lyon Phelps -says, “The essentially American qualities of common-sense, energy, -good-humor, and Philistinism fairly shriek from his [Mark Twain’s] -pages.”—_Essays on Modern Novelists._ - - - - -THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS[14] COUNTY[15] - - -In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from -the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and -inquired after my friend’s friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested -to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion -that _Leonidas W._ Smiley is a myth; that my friend never knew -such a personage; and that he only conjectured that if I asked old -Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous _Jim_ Smiley, -and he would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating -reminiscence of him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to -me. If that was the design, it succeeded. - -I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of -the dilapidated tavern in the decaying mining camp of Angel’s, and -I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of -winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He -roused up, and gave me good-day. I told him a friend of mine had -commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of -his boyhood named _Leonidas W._ Smiley—_Rev. Leonidas W._ Smiley, -a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a -resident of Angel’s Camp. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me -anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many -obligations to him. - -Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with -his chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative -which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he -never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned -his initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of -enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a -vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly -that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or -funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and -admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in _finesse_. I -let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once. - -“Rev. Leonidas W. H’m, Reverend Le—well, there was a feller here once -by the name of _Jim_ Smiley, in the winter of ’49—or maybe it was the -spring of ’50—I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes -me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume -warn’t finished when he first come to the camp; but anyway, he was -the curiosest man about always betting on anything that turned up you -ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he -couldn’t he’d change sides. Any way that suited the other man would -suit _him_—any way just so’s he got a bet, _he_ was satisfied. But -still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he ’most always come out winner. He -was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn’t be no solit’ry -thing mentioned but that feller’d offer to bet on it, and take ary -side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a horse-race, -you’d find him flush or you’d find him busted at the end of it; if -there was a dogfight, he’d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d -bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why, if there -was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly -first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg’lar to -bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about -here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If he even see a straddle-bug -start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to -get to—to wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would -foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find out where -he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys -here has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about him. Why, it never -made no difference to _him_—he’d bet on _any_ thing—the dangdest -feller. Parson Walker’s wife laid very sick once, for a good while, -and it seemed as if they warn’t going to save her; but one morning he -come in, and Smiley up and asked him how she was, and he said she was -consid’able better—thank the Lord for his inf’nite mercy—and coming -on so smart that with the blessing of Prov’dence she’d get well yet; -and Smiley, before he thought, says: ’Well, I’ll resk two-and-a-half -she don’t anyway.’ - -“Thish-yer Smiley had a mare—the boys called her the fifteen-minute -nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was -faster than that—and he used to win money on that horse, for all -she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the -consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or -three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at -the fag end of the race she’d get excited and desperate like, and come -cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, -sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side among the fences, -and kicking up m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e racket with her -coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose—and _always_ fetch up at -the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down. - -“And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look at him you’d think -he warn’t worth a cent but to set around and look ornery and lay for a -chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him he was a -different dog; his under-jaw’d begin to stick out like the fo’castle of -a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shine like the furnaces. -And a dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw -him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson—which was -the name of the pup—Andrew Jackson would never let on but what _he_ -was satisfied, and hadn’t expected nothing else—and the bets being -doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was -all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by -the j’int of his hind leg and freeze to it—not chaw, you understand, -but only just grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if -it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he -harnessed a dog once that didn’t have no hind legs, because they’d -been sawed off in a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along -far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for -his pet holt, he see in a minute how he’d been imposed on, and how the -other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he ’peared surprised, -and then he looked sorter discouraged-like and didn’t try no more to -win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, as -much as to say his heart was broke, and it was _his_ fault, for putting -up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was -his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and -laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and -would have made a name for hisself if he’d lived, for the stuff was in -him and he had genius—I know it, because he hadn’t no opportunities -to speak of, and it don’t stand to reason that a dog could make such a -fight as he could under them circumstances if he hadn’t no talent. It -always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his’n, -and the way it turned out. - -“Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and -tomcats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn’t rest, and you -couldn’t fetch nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. He ketched -a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal’lated to educate -him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his -back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he _did_ learn -him, too. He’d give him a little punch behind, and the next minute -you’d see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut—see him turn -one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come -down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the -matter of ketching flies, and kep’ him in practice so constant, that -he’d nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. Smiley said -all a frog wanted was education, and he could do ’most anything—and -I believe him. Why, I’ve seen him set Dan’l Webster down here on this -floor—Dan’l Webster was the name of the frog—and sing out, ’Flies, -Dan’l, flies!’ and quicker’n you could wink he’d spring straight up and -snake a fly off’n the counter there, and flop down on the floor ag’in -as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head -with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been -doin’ any more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest -and straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it -come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over -more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. -Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when -it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a -red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for -fellers that had travelled and been everywheres all said he laid over -any frog that ever _they_ see. - -“Well, Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to -fetch him down-town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller—a -stranger in the camp, he was—come acrost him with his box, and says: - -“‘What might it be that you’ve got in the box?’ - -“And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like: ’It might be a parrot, or it -might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t—it’s only just a frog.’ - -“And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round -this way and that, and says: ’H’m—so ’tis. Well, what’s _he_ good for?’ - -“‘Well,’ Smiley says, easy and careless, ’he’s good enough for _one_ -thing, I should judge—he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county.’ - -“The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, -and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, ’Well,’ he says, -’I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other -frog.’ - -“‘Maybe you don’t,’ Smiley says. ’Maybe you understand frogs and maybe -you don’t understand ’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you -ain’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got _my_ opinion, and -I’ll resk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras -county.’ - -“And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, -’Well, I’m only a stranger here, and I ain’t got no frog; but if I had -a frog, I’d bet you.’ - -“And then Smiley says, ’That’s all right—that’s all right—if you’ll -hold my box a minute, I’ll go and get you a frog.’ And so the feller -took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s, and set -down to wait. - -“So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself, and -then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon -and filled him full of quail shot—filled him pretty near up to his -chin—and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped -around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and -fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says: - -“‘Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his forepaws -just even with Dan’l’s, and I’ll give the word.’ Then he says, -’One—two—three—_git_!’ and him and the feller touched up the frogs -from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l give a -heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a Frenchman, but it warn’t -no use—he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and he -couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good -deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn’t have no idea -what the matter was, of course. - -“The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going -out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder—so—at -Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, ’Well,’ he says, ’_I_ don’t see -no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.’ - -“Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a long -time, and at last he says, ’I do wonder what in the nation that frog -throw’d off for—I wonder if there ain’t something the matter with -him—he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.’ And he ketched Dan’l by -the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, ’Why, blame my cats if -he don’t weigh five pound!’ and turned him upside down and he belched -out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was -the maddest man—he set the frog down and took out after that feller, -but he never ketched him. And——” - -[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got -up to see what was wanted.] And turning to me as he moved away, he -said: “Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy—I ain’t going -to be gone a second.” - -But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history -of the enterprising vagabond _Jim_ Smiley would be likely to afford me -much information concerning the Rev. _Leonidas W._ Smiley, and so I -started away. - -At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he button-holed -me and recommenced: - -“Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yeller one-eyed cow that didn’t have no -tail, only just a short stump like a bannanner, and——” - -However, lacking both time and inclination, I did not wait to hear -about the afflicted cow, but took my leave. - - - - -THE LADY OR THE TIGER? - -BY - -FRANK R. STOCKTON - - - - -This is an illustration of the symmetrical plot. It challenges the -constructive imagination of the reader to search the story for the -evidence that will lead to a logical conclusion. - - - - -THE LADY OR THE TIGER?[16] - - -In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, -though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of -distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammelled, as -became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant -fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, -he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to -self-communing, and when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing -was done. When every member of his domestic and political systems moved -smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial; but -whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of -their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased -him so much as to make the crooked straight, and crush down uneven -places. - -Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified -was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and -beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured. - -But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The -arena of the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of -hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view -the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and -hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop -the mental energies of the people. This vast amphitheatre, with its -encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages, -was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was punished, or virtue -rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance. - -When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to -interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day -the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king’s arena—a -structure which well deserved its name; for, although its form and plan -were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain -of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which -he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted on -every adopted form of human thought and action the rich growth of his -barbaric idealism. - -When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, -surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on -one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, -and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheatre. Directly -opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors, -exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege -of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open one -of them. He could open either door he pleased. He was subject to no -guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and -incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a -hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which -immediately sprang upon him, and tore him to pieces, as a punishment -for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus -decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wails went up from the -hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast -audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly their -homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old -and respected, should have merited so dire a fate. - -But if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth -from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his -Majesty could select among his fair subjects; and to this lady he was -immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that -he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections -might be engaged upon an object of his own selection. The king allowed -no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme -of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the other instance, -took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened beneath -the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and dancing -maidens blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an epithalamic -measure, advanced to where the pair stood side by side, and the wedding -was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang -forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the -innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his path, led -his bride to his home. - -This was the king’s semi-barbaric method of administering justice. -Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of -which door would come the lady. He opened either he pleased, without -having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be -devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, -and on some out of the other. The decisions of this tribunal were not -only fair—they were positively determinate. The accused person was -instantly punished if he found himself guilty, and if innocent he was -rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape -from the judgments of the king’s arena. - -The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered -together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they -were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element -of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not -otherwise have attained. Thus the masses were entertained and pleased, -and the thinking part of the community could bring no charge of -unfairness against this plan; for did not the accused person have the -whole matter in his own hands? - -This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid -fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is -usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by -him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that -fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional -heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well -satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree -unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved him with an ardor that -had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. -This love affair moved on happily for many months, until, one day, the -king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver -in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast -into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king’s arena. -This, of course, was an especially important occasion, and his Majesty, -as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the workings and -development of this trial. Never before had such a case occurred—never -before had a subject dared to love the daughter of a king. In after -years such things became commonplace enough, but then they were, in no -slight degree, novel and startling. - -The tiger cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and -relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected -for the arena, and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the -land were carefully surveyed by competent judges, in order that the -young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for -him a different destiny. Of course, everybody knew that the deed with -which the accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess, -and neither he, she, nor any one else thought of denying the fact. But -the king would not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere -with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight -and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth -would be disposed of, and the king would take an æsthetic pleasure in -watching the course of events which would determine whether or not the -young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess. - -The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and -thronged the great galleries of the arena, while crowds, unable to gain -admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and -his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors—those fateful -portals, so terrible in their similarity! - -All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party -opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, -beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of -admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a -youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a -terrible thing for him to be there! - -As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned, as the custom was, to -bow to the king. But he did not think at all of that royal personage; -his eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her -father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature, it -is probable that lady would not have been there. But her intense and -fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which -she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree had -gone forth that her lover should decide his fate in the king’s arena, -she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the -various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, -and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested -in such a case, she had done what no other person had done—she had -possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the -two rooms behind those doors stood the cage of the tiger, with its open -front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors, heavily -curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise or -suggestion should come from within to the person who should approach to -raise the latch of one of them. But gold, and the power of a woman’s -will, had brought the secret to the princess. - -Not only did she know in which room stood the lady, ready to emerge, -all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who -the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels -of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth, -should he be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far -above him; and the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined -that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration -upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances -were perceived and even returned. Now and then she had seen them -talking together. It was but for a moment or two, but much can be said -in a brief space. It may have been on most unimportant topics, but how -could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise -her eyes to the loved one of the princess, and, with all the intensity -of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly -barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind -that silent door. - -When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she -sat there paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious -faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is -given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door -crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected -her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that -she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing, -hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the -youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the -success of the princess in discovering this mystery, and the moment he -looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded. - -Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question, -“Which?” It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he -stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a -flash; it must be answered in another. - -Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her -hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but -her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena. - -He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty -space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye -was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he -went to the door on the right, and opened it. - - * * * * * - -Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that -door, or did the lady? - -The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. -It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious -mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think -of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended -upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, -her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and -jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him? - -How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in -wild horror and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her -lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel -fangs of the tiger! - -But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her -grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth and torn her hair when -she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the -lady! How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to -meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph; -when she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the -joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the -multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen -the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make -them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk -away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous -shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing shriek -was lost and drowned! - -Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her -in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity? - -And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood! - -Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made -after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she -would be asked, she had decided what she would answer, and, without the -slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right. - -The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and -it is not for me to presume to set up myself as the one person able to -answer it. So I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened -door—the lady or the tiger? - - - - - THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT - - BY - - FRANCIS BRET HARTE - -This is often called a story of local color. And it is. It is rich -in the characteristics of California in the gold-seeking days. It is -also classified as a story of setting. And it is. The setting is a -determining factor in the conduct of these outcasts. They are men and -women as inevitably drawn to the mining camp as the ill-fated ship in -“The Arabian Nights” was attracted to the lode-stone mountain, and with -as much certainty of shipwreck. These the blizzard of the west gathers -into its embrace, and compels them to reveal their better selves. But -it is more than a story of local color and of setting. It is also an -illustration of the artistic blending of plot, character, and setting, -and of the magical power of youth to see life at the time truly enough, -but to transform it later into something fine and noble. - - - - -THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT[17] - - -As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker -Flat on the morning of the twenty-third of November, 1850, he was -conscious of a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding -night. Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he -approached, and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull -in the air, which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked -ominous. - -Mr. Oakhurst’s calm, handsome face betrayed small concern of these -indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause, was -another question. “I reckon they’re after somebody,” he reflected; -“likely it’s me.” He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which -he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat -boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture. - -In point of fact, Poker Flat was “after somebody.” It had lately -suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and -a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction, -quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked -it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of all improper -persons. This was done permanently in regard of two men who were then -hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and temporarily in -the banishment of certain other objectionable characters. I regret to -say that some of these were ladies. It is but due to the sex, however, -to state that their impropriety was professional, and it was only in -such easily established standards of evil that Poker Flat ventured to -sit in judgment. - -Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this -category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible -example, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets -of the sums he had won from them. “It’s agin justice,” said Jim -Wheeler, “to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp—an entire -stranger—carry away our money.” But a crude sentiment of equity -residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win -from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice. - -Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none the -less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was -too much of a gambler not to accept Fate. With him life was at best an -uncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the -dealer. - -A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat -to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was -known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the -armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young -woman familiarly known as “The Duchess”; another, who had gained the -infelicitous title of “Mother Shipton”; and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected -sluice-robber and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no -comments from the spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. -Only, when the gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat -was reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles -were forbidden to return at the peril of their lives. - -As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in a few -hysterical tears from “The Duchess,” some bad language from Mother -Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The -philosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly to -Mother Shipton’s desire to cut somebody’s heart out, to the repeated -statements of “The Duchess” that she would die in the road, and to -the alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he -rode forward. With the easy good-humor characteristic of his class, he -insisted upon exchanging his own riding-horse, “Five Spot,” for the -sorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not draw the -party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her somewhat -draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the -possessor of “Five Spot” with malevolence, and Uncle Billy included the -whole party in one sweeping anathema. - -The road to Sandy Bar—a camp that, not having as yet experienced the -regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer -some invitation to the emigrants—lay over a steep mountain range. It -was distant a day’s severe journey. In that advanced season, the party -soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foot-hills -into the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow -and difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon -the ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party -halted. - -The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheatre, -surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite, -sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked -the valley. It was undoubtedly the most suitable spot for a camp, had -camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half the -journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished, and the party were not equipped -or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed out to his companions -curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of “throwing up -their hand before the game was played out.” But they were furnished -with liquor, which in this emergency stood them in place of food, fuel, -rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it was not long -before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle Billy passed -rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, the Duchess became -maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone remained erect, -leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them. - -Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession which -required coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in his -own language, he “couldn’t afford it.” As he gazed at his recumbent -fellow-exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade, his habits -of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him. -He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands -and face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits, -and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his -weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him. -Yet he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which, -singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for which -he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a thousand -feet sheer above the circling pines around him; at the sky, ominously -clouded; at the valley below, already deepening into shadow. And, -doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called. - -A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the -new-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as -“The Innocent” of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over -a “little game,” and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire -fortune—amounting to some forty dollars—of that guileless youth. -After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator -behind the door and thus addressed him: “Tommy, you’re a good little -man, but you can’t gamble worth a cent. Don’t try it over again.” He -then handed him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and so -made a devoted slave of Tom Simson. - -There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic greeting -of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek -his fortune. “Alone?” No, not exactly alone; in fact—a giggle—he had -run away with Piney Woods. Didn’t Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? She -that used to wait on the table at the Temperance House? They had been -engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had objected, and so they had -run away, and were going to Poker Flat to be married, and here they -were. And they were tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a -place to camp and company. All this the Innocent delivered rapidly, -while Piney—a stout, comely damsel of fifteen—emerged from behind the -pine-tree, where she had been blushing unseen, and rode to the side of -her lover. - -Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less -with propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not -felicitous. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to -kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was -sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst’s kick a superior power that -would not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from -delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact that there -was no provision, nor means of making a camp. But, unluckily, “The -Innocent” met this objection by assuring the party that he was provided -with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery of a -rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. “Piney can stay with Mrs. -Oakhurst,” said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess, “and I can shift -for myself.” - -Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst’s admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy from -bursting into a roar of laughter. As it was, he felt compelled to -retire up the cañon until he could recover his gravity. There he -confided the joke to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his -leg, contortions of his face, and the usual profanity. But when -he returned to the party, he found them seated by a fire—for the -air had grown strangely chill and the sky overcast—in apparently -amicable conversation. Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, -girlish fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest and -animation she had not shown for many days. The Innocent was holding -forth, apparently with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother -Shipton, who was actually relaxing into amiability. “Is this yer a -d—-d picnic?” said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed the -sylvan group, the glancing fire-light, and the tethered animals in the -foreground. Suddenly an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that -disturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he felt -impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist into his mouth. - -As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked -the tops of the pine-trees, and moaned through their long and gloomy -aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs, was set -apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly exchanged -a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the -swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton were -probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, -and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was replenished, the -men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep. - -Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and -cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing -strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave -it,—snow! - -He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers, -for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy had -been lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain and -a curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been -tethered; they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly -disappearing in the snow. - -The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with -his usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered -peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin -Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended -by celestial guardians, and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket over his -shoulders, stroked his mustachios and waited for the dawn. It came -slowly in a whirling mist of snowflakes, that dazzled and confused the -eye. What could be seen of the landscape appeared magically changed. He -looked over the valley, and summed up the present and future in two -words,—“Snowed in!” - -A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for the -party, had been stored within the hut, and so escaped the felonious -fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudence -they might last ten days longer. “That is,” said Mr. Oakhurst, -_sotto voce_ to the Innocent, “if you’re willing to board us. If you -ain’t—and perhaps you’d better not—you can wait till Uncle Billy -gets back with provisions.” For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could -not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy’s rascality, and so offered -the hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentally -stampeded the animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother -Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate’s defection. -“They’ll find out the truth about us _all_, when they find out -anything,” he added, significantly, “and there’s no good frightening -them now.” - -Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal of Mr. -Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced seclusion. -“We’ll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow’ll melt, and -we’ll all go back together.” The cheerful gaiety of the young man and -Mr. Oakhurst’s calm infected the others. The Innocent, with the aid -of pine boughs, extemporized a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the -Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the interior with a -taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of that provincial maiden -to their fullest extent. “I reckon now you’re used to fine things at -Poker Flat,” said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal -something that reddened her cheek through its professional tint, and -Mother Shipton requested Piney not to “chatter.” But when Mr. Oakhurst -returned from a weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of -happy laughter echoed from the rocks. He stopped in some alarm, and -his thoughts first naturally reverted to the whiskey, which he had -prudently _cachéd_. “And yet it don’t somehow sound like whiskey,” -said the gambler. It was not until he caught sight of the blazing fire -through the still blinding storm, and the group around it, that he -settled to the conviction that it was “square fun.” - -Whether Mr. Oakhurst had _cachéd_ his cards with the whiskey as -something debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say. -It was certain that, in Mother Shipton’s words, he “didn’t say cards -once” during that evening. Haply the time was beguiled by an accordion, -produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson, from his pack. -Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulation of this -instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies -from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair of bone -castanets. But the crowning festivity of the evening was reached in -a rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang with -great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a certain defiant -tone and Covenanter’s swing to its chorus, rather than any devotional -quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, who at last joined in -the refrain: - - “‘I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord, - And I’m bound to die in His army.’” - -The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable -group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in token -of the vow. - -At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the -stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose -professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible -amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow -managed to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused -himself to the Innocent, by saying that he had “often been a week -without sleep.” “Doing what?” asked Tom. “Poker!” replied Oakhurst, -sententiously; “when a man gets a streak of luck,—nigger-luck,—he -don’t get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck,” continued the gambler, -reflectively, “is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for -certain is that it’s bound to change. And it’s finding out when it’s -going to change that makes you. We’ve had a streak of bad luck since -we left Poker Flat—you come along, and slap you get into it, too. If -you can hold your cards right along you’re all right. For,” added the -gambler, with cheerful irrelevance, - - “‘I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord, - And I’m bound to die in His army.’” - -The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtained -valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store of -provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of -that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the -wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it -revealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut; a hopeless, -uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores to which -the castaways still clung. Through the marvellously clear air, the -smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother -Shipton saw it, and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness, -hurled in that direction a final malediction. It was her last -vituperative attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with a -certain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately informed -the Duchess. “Just you go out there and cuss, and see.” She then set -herself to the task of amusing “the child,” as she and the Duchess were -pleased to call Piney. Piney was no chicken, but it was a soothing and -ingenious theory of the pair thus to account for the fact that she -didn’t swear and wasn’t improper. - -When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the -accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by the -flickering camp-fire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching -void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by -Piney—story-telling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions -caring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would have -failed, too, but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced -upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope’s ingenious translation of the Iliad. He -now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of that poem—having -thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words—in -the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of that -night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and -wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the cañon -seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened -with quiet satisfaction. Most especially was he interested in the -fate of “Ash-heels,” as the Innocent persisted in denominating the -“swift-footed Achilles.” - -So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed -over the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and again -from leaden skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by day -closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked -from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that towered -twenty feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult to -replenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now half -hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained. The lovers turned from -the dreary prospect and looked into each other’s eyes, and were happy. -Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game before him. The -Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed the care of Piney. -Only Mother Shipton—once the strongest of the party—seemed to sicken -and fade. At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to her side. -“I’m going,” she said, in a voice of querulous weakness, “but don’t say -anything about it. Don’t waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my -head and open it.” Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained Mother Shipton’s -rations for the last week, untouched. “Give ’em to the child,” she -said, pointing to the sleeping Piney. “You’ve starved yourself,” said -the gambler. “That’s what they call it,” said the woman, querulously, -as she lay down again, and, turning her face to the wall, passed -quietly away. - -The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer was -forgotten. When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to the -snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of -snowshoes, which he had fashioned from the old packsaddle. “There’s one -chance in a hundred to save her yet,” he said, pointing to Piney; “but -it’s there,” he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. “If you can reach -there in two days she’s safe.” “And you?” asked Tom Simson. “I’ll stay -here,” was the curt reply. - -The lovers parted with a long embrace. “You are not going, too?” said -the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany -him. “As far as the cañon,” he replied. He turned suddenly, and kissed -the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame, and her trembling limbs -rigid with amazement. - -Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again and the -whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that some one -had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer. -The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney. - -The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other’s -faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke; but Piney, accepting the -position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the -Duchess’s waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That -night the storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the -protecting pines, invaded the very hut. - -Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, which -gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess -crept closer to Piney, and broke the silence of many hours: “Piney, -can you pray?” “No, dear,” said Piney, simply. The Duchess, without -knowing exactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney’s -shoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and purer -pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they -fell asleep. - -The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of -snow, shaken from the long pine boughs, flew like white-winged birds, -and settled about them as they slept. The moon through the rifted -clouds looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain, -all trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle -mercifully flung from above. - -They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken when voices -and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying fingers -brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told -from the equal peace that dwelt upon them, which was she that had -sinned. Even the Law of Poker Flat recognized this, and turned away, -leaving them still locked in each other’s arms. - -But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine-trees, they -found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with a bowie knife. It bore -the following, written in pencil, in a firm hand: - - † - BENEATH THIS TREE - LIES THE BODY - OF - JOHN OAKHURST, - WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK - ON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER, 1850, - AND - HANDED IN HIS CHECKS - ON THE 7TH DECEMBER, 1850. - † - -And, pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side and a bullet in -his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay he who -was at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker -Flat. - - - - - THE REVOLT OF “MOTHER” - - BY - - MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN - -This is a story of character against a New England background. Each -character is worked out with the delicacy and minuteness of a cameo. -Each is intensely realistic, yet, as in the cameo, palely flushed -with romance. “Mother,” along with her originality of action and -long-concealed ideals, has the saving quality of common-sense, which -makes its powerful appeal to the daily realities of life. Thus when -“Father,” dazed by the unexpected revelation of the character and -ideals of the woman he has misunderstood for forty years, stands -uncertain whether to assert or to surrender his long-established -supremacy, she decides him in her favor by a practical suggestion of -acquiescence: “You’d better take your coat off an’ get washed—there’s -the wash-basin—an’ then we’ll have supper.” - - - - -THE REVOLT OF “MOTHER”[18] - - -“Father!” - -“What is it?” - -“What are them men diggin’ over there in the field for?” - -There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the lower part of the old -man’s face, as if some heavy weight had settled therein; he shut his -mouth tight, and went on harnessing the great bay mare. He hustled the -collar on to her neck with a jerk. - -“Father!” - -The old man slapped the saddle upon the mare’s back. - -“Look here, father, I want to know what them men are diggin’ over in -the field for, an’ I’m goin’ to know.” - -“I wish you’d go into the house, mother, an’ ’tend to your own -affairs,” the old man said then. He ran his words together, and his -speech was almost as inarticulate as a growl. - -But the woman understood; it was her most native tongue. “I ain’t goin’ -into the house till you tell me what them men are doin’ over there in -the field,” said she. - -Then she stood waiting. She was a small woman, short and -straight-waisted like a child in her brown cotton gown. Her forehead -was mild and benevolent between the smooth curves of gray hair; there -were meek downward lines about her nose and mouth; but her eyes, fixed -upon the old man, looked as if the meekness had been the result of her -own will, never of the will of another. - -They were in the barn, standing before the wide-open doors. The spring -air, full of the smell of growing grass and unseen blossoms, came in -their faces. The deep yard in front was littered with farm wagons and -piles of wood; on the edges, close to the fence and the house, the -grass was a vivid green, and there were some dandelions. - -The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he tightened the last -buckles on the harness. She looked as immovable to him as one of the -rocks in his pastureland, bound to the earth with generations of -blackberry vines. He slapped the reins over the horse, and started -forth from the barn. - -“_Father!_” said she. - -The old man pulled up. “What is it?” - -“I want to know what them men are diggin’ over there in that field for.” - -“They’re diggin’ a cellar, I s’pose, if you’ve got to know.” - -“A cellar for what?” - -“A barn.” - -“A barn? You ain’t goin’ to build a barn over there where we was goin’ -to have a house, father?” - -The old man said not another word. He hurried the horse into the farm -wagon, and clattered out of the yard, jouncing as sturdily on his seat -as a boy. - -The woman stood a moment looking after him, then she went out of the -barn across a corner of the yard to the house. The house, standing -at right angles with the great barn and a long reach of sheds and -out-buildings, was infinitesimal compared with them. It was scarcely -as commodious for people as the little boxes under the barn eaves were -for doves. - -A pretty girl’s face, pink and delicate as a flower, was looking out of -one of the house windows. She was watching three men who were digging -over in the field which bounded the yard near the road line. She turned -quietly when the woman entered. - -“What are they digging for, mother?” said she. “Did he tell you?” - -“They’re diggin’ for—a cellar for a new barn.” - -“Oh, mother, he ain’t going to build another barn?” - -“That’s what he says.” - -A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair. He combed slowly -and painstakingly, arranging his brown hair in a smooth hillock over -his forehead. He did not seem to pay any attention to the conversation. - -“Sammy, did you know father was going to build a new barn?” asked the -girl. - -The boy combed assiduously. - -“Sammy!” - -He turned, and showed a face like his father’s under his smooth crest -of hair. “Yes, I s’pose I did,” he said, reluctantly. - -“How long have you known it?” asked his mother. - -“‘Bout three months, I guess.” - -“Why didn’t you tell of it?” - -“Didn’t think ’twould do no good.” - -“I don’t see what father wants another barn for,” said the girl, in -her sweet, slow voice. She turned again to the window, and stared out -at the digging men in the field. Her tender, sweet face was full of a -gentle distress. Her forehead was as bald and innocent as a baby’s, -with the light hair strained back from it in a row of curl-papers. She -was quite large, but her soft curves did not look as if they covered -muscles. - -Her mother looked sternly at the boy. “Is he goin’ to buy more cows?” -said she. - -The boy did not reply; he was tying his shoes. - -“Sammy, I want you to tell me if he’s goin’ to buy more cows.” - -“I s’pose he is.” - -“How many?” - -“Four, I guess.” - -His mother said nothing more. She went into the pantry, and there was -a clatter of dishes. The boy got his cap from a nail behind the door, -took an old arithmetic from the shelf, and started for school. He was -lightly built, but clumsy. He went out of the yard with a curious -spring in the hips, that made his loose home-made jacket tilt up in the -rear. - -The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the dishes that were piled -up there. Her mother came promptly out of the pantry, and shoved her -aside. “You wipe ’em,” said she; “I’ll wash. There’s a good many this -mornin’.” - -The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the water, the girl wiped -the plates slowly and dreamily. “Mother,” said she, “don’t you think -it’s too bad father’s going to build that new barn, much as we need a -decent house to live in?” - -Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. “You ain’t found out yet we’re -women-folks, Nanny Penn,” said she. “You ain’t seen enough of men-folks -yet to. One of these days you’ll find it out, an’ then you’ll know that -we know only what men-folks think we do, so far as any use of it goes, -an’ how we’d ought to reckon men-folks in with Providence, an’ not -complain of what they do any more than we do of the weather.” - -“I don’t care; I don’t believe George is anything like that, anyhow,” -said Nanny. Her delicate face flushed pink, her lips pouted softly, as -if she were going to cry. - -“You wait an’ see. I guess George Eastman ain’t no better than other -men. You hadn’t ought to judge father, though. He can’t help it, ’cause -he don’t look at things jest the way we do. An’ we’ve been pretty -comfortable here, after all. The roof don’t leak—ain’t never but -once—that’s one thing. Father’s kept it shingled right up.” - -“I do wish we had a parlor.” - -“I guess it won’t hurt George Eastman any to come to see you in a nice -clean kitchen. I guess a good many girls don’t have as good a place as -this. Nobody’s ever heard me complain.” - -“I ain’t complained either, mother.” - -“Well, I don’t think you’d better, a good father an’ a good home as -you’ve got. S’pose your father made you go out an’ work for your -livin’? Lots of girls have to that ain’t no stronger an’ better able to -than you be.” - -Sarah Penn washed the frying-pan with a conclusive air. She scrubbed -the outside of it as faithfully as the inside. She was a masterly -keeper of her box of a house. Her one living-room never seemed to have -in it any of the dust which the friction of life with inanimate matter -produces. She swept, and there seemed to be no dirt to go before the -broom; she cleaned, and one could see no difference. She was like an -artist so perfect that he has apparently no art. To-day she got out a -mixing bowl and a board, and rolled some pies, and there was no more -flour upon her than upon her daughter who was doing finer work. Nanny -was to be married in the fall, and she was sewing on some white cambric -and embroidery. She sewed industriously while her mother cooked, her -soft milk-white hands and wrists showed whiter than her delicate work. - -“We must have the stove moved out in the shed before long,” said Mrs. -Penn. “Talk about not havin’ things, it’s been a real blessin’ to be -able to put a stove up in that shed in hot weather. Father did one good -thing when he fixed that stove-pipe out there.” - -Sarah Penn’s face as she rolled her pies had that expression of meek -vigor which might have characterized one of the New Testament saints. -She was making mince-pies. Her husband, Adoniram Penn, liked them -better than any other kind. She baked twice a week. Adoniram often -liked a piece of pie between meals. She hurried this morning. It had -been later than usual when she began, and she wanted to have a pie -baked for dinner. However deep a resentment she might be forced to hold -against her husband, she would never fail in sedulous attention to his -wants. - -Nobility of character manifests itself at loop-holes when it is not -provided with large doors. Sarah Penn’s showed itself to-day in flaky -dishes of pastry. So she made the pies faithfully, while across the -table she could see, when she glanced up from her work, the sight that -rankled in her patient and steadfast soul—the digging of the cellar of -the new barn in the place where Adoniram forty years ago had promised -her their new house should stand. - -The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and Sammy were home a few -minutes after twelve o’clock. The dinner was eaten with serious haste. -There was never much conversation at the table in the Penn family. -Adoniram asked a blessing, and they ate promptly, then rose up and went -about their work. - -Sammy went back to school, taking soft sly lopes out of the yard like -a rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles before school, and feared his -father would give him some chores to do. Adoniram hastened to the door -and called after him, but he was out of sight. - -“I don’t see what you let him go for, mother,” said he. “I wanted him -to help me unload that wood.” - -Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading wood from the wagon. -Sarah put away the dinner dishes, while Nanny took down her curl-papers -and changed her dress. She was going down to the store to buy some more -embroidery and thread. - -When Nanny was gone, Mrs. Penn went to the door. “Father!” she called. - -“Well, what is it!” - -“I want to see you jest a minute, father.” - -“I can’t leave this wood nohow. I’ve got to git it unloaded an’ go for -a load of gravel afore two o’clock. Sammy had ought to helped me. You -hadn’t ought to let him go to school so early.” - -“I want to see you jest a minute.” - -“I tell ye I can’t, nohow, mother.” - -“Father, you come here.” Sarah Penn stood in the door like a queen; -she held her head as if it bore a crown; there was that patience which -makes authority royal in her voice. Adoniram went. - -Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed to a chair. “Sit -down, father,” said she; “I’ve got somethin’ I want to say to you.” - -He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but he looked at her -with restive eyes. “Well, what is it, mother?” - -“I want to know what you’re buildin’ that new barn for, father?” - -“I ain’t got nothin’ to say about it.” - -“It can’t be you think you need another barn?” - -“I tell ye I ain’t got nothin’ to say about it, mother; an’ I ain’t -goin’ to say nothin’.” - -“Be you goin’ to buy more cows?” - -Adoniram did not reply; he shut his mouth tight. - -“I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, look here”—Sarah -Penn had not sat down; she stood before her husband in the humble -fashion of a Scripture woman—“I’m goin’ to talk real plain to you; I -never have sence I married you, but I’m goin’ to now. I ain’t never -complained, an’ I ain’t goin’ to complain now, but I’m goin’ to talk -plain. You see this room here, father; you look at it well. You see -there ain’t no carpet on the floor, an’ you see the paper is all dirty, -an’ droppin’ off the walls. We ain’t had no new paper on it for ten -year, an’ then I put it on myself, an’ it didn’t cost but ninepence a -roll. You see this room, father; it’s all the one I’ve had to work in -an’ eat in an’ sit in sence we was married. There ain’t another woman -in the whole town whose husband ain’t got half the means you have but -what’s got better. It’s all the room Nanny’s got to have her company -in; an’ there ain’t one of her mates but what’s got better, an’ their -fathers not so able as hers is. It’s all the room she’ll have to be -married in. What would you have thought, father, if we had had our -weddin’ in a room no better than this? I was married in my mother’s -parlor, with a carpet on the floor, an’ stuffed furniture, an’ a -mahogany card-table. An’ this is all the room my daughter will have to -be married in. Look here, father!” - -Sarah Penn went across the room as though it were a tragic stage. She -flung open a door and disclosed a tiny bedroom, only large enough -for a bed and bureau, with a path between. “There, father,” said -she—“there’s all the room I’ve had to sleep in forty year. All my -children were born there—the two that died, an’ the two that’s livin’. -I was sick with a fever there.” - -She stepped to another door and opened it. It led into the small, -ill-lighted pantry. “Here,” said she, “is all the buttery I’ve -got—every place I’ve got for my dishes, to set away my victuals in, -an’ to keep my milk-pans in. Father, I’ve been takin’ care of the milk -of six cows in this place, an’ now you’re goin’ to build a new barn, -an’ keep more cows, an’ give me more to do in it.” - -She threw open another door. A narrow crooked flight of stairs wound -upward from it. “There, father,” said she, “I want you to look at the -stairs that go up to them two unfinished chambers that are all the -places our son an’ daughter have had to sleep in all their lives. There -ain’t a prettier girl in town nor a more ladylike one than Nanny, an’ -that’s the place she has to sleep in. It ain’t so good as your horse’s -stall; it ain’t so warm an’ tight.” - -Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband. “Now, father,” said -she, “I want to know if you think you’re doin’ right an’ accordin’ -to what you profess. Here, when we was married, forty year ago, you -promised me faithful that we should have a new house built in that -lot over in the field before the year was out. You said you had money -enough, an’ you wouldn’t ask me to live in no such place as this. It is -forty year now, an’ you’ve been makin’ more money, an’ I’ve been savin’ -of it for you ever sence, an’ you ain’t built no house yet. You’ve -built sheds an’ cow-houses an’ one new barn, an’ now you’re goin’ to -build another. Father, I want to know if you think it’s right. You’re -lodgin’ your dumb beasts better than you are your own flesh an’ blood. -I want to know if you think it’s right.” - -“I ain’t got nothin’ to say.” - -“You can’t say nothin’ without ownin’ it ain’t right, father. An’ -there’s another thing—I ain’t complained; I’ve got along forty year, -an’ I s’pose I should forty more, if it wa’n’t for that—if we don’t -have another house. Nanny she can’t live with us after she’s married. -She’ll have to go somewheres else to live away from us, an’ it don’t -seem as if I could have it so, noways, father. She wa’n’t ever strong. -She’s got considerable color, but there wa’n’t never any backbone to -her. I’ve always took the heft of everything off her, an’ she ain’t fit -to keep house an’ do everything herself. She’ll be all worn out inside -of a year. Think of her doin’ all the washin’ an’ ironin’ an’ bakin’ -with them soft white hands an’ arms, an’ sweepin’! I can’t have it so, -noways, father.” - -Mrs. Penn’s face was burning; her mild eyes gleamed. She had pleaded -her little cause like a Webster; she had ranged from severity to -pathos; but her opponent employed that obstinate silence which makes -eloquence futile with mocking echoes. Adoniram arose clumsily. - -“Father, ain’t you got nothin’ to say?” said Mrs. Penn. - -“I’ve got to go off after that load of gravel. I can’t stan’ here -talkin’ all day.” - -“Father, won’t you think it over, an’ have a house built there instead -of a barn?” - -“I ain’t got nothin’ to say.” - -Adoniram shuffled out. Mrs. Penn went into her bedroom. When she came -out, her eyes were red. She had a roll of unbleached cotton cloth. She -spread it out on the kitchen table, and began cutting out some shirts -for her husband. The men over in the field had a team to help them this -afternoon; she could hear their halloos. She had a scanty pattern for -the shirts; she had to plan and piece the sleeves. - -Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down with her needlework. -She had taken down her curl-papers, and there was a soft roll of fair -hair like an aureole over her forehead; her face was as delicately fine -and clear as porcelain. Suddenly she looked up, and the tender red -flamed all over her face and neck. “Mother,” said she. - -“What say?” - -“I’ve been thinking—I don’t see how we’re goin’ to have any—wedding -in this room. I’d be ashamed to have his folks come if we didn’t have -anybody else.” - -“Mebbe we can have some new paper before then; I can put it on. I guess -you won’t have no call to be ashamed of your belongin’s.” - -“We might have the wedding in the new barn,” said Nanny, with gentle -pettishness. “Why, mother, what makes you look so?” - -Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curious -expression. She turned again to her work, and spread out a pattern -carefully on the cloth. “Nothin’,” said she. - -Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two-wheeled dump -cart, standing as proudly upright as a Roman charioteer. Mrs. Penn -opened the door and stood there a minute looking out; the halloos of -the men sounded louder. - -It seemed to her all through the spring months that she heard nothing -but the halloos and the noises of saws and hammers. The new barn grew -fast. It was a fine edifice for this little village. Men came on -pleasant Sundays, in their meeting suits and clean shirt bosoms, and -stood around it admiringly. Mrs. Penn did not speak of it, and Adoniram -did not mention it to her, although sometimes, upon a return from -inspecting it, he bore himself with injured dignity. - -“It’s a strange thing how your mother feels about the new barn,” he -said, confidentially, to Sammy one day. - -Sammy only grunted after an odd fashion for a boy; he had learned it -from his father. - -The barn was all completed ready for use by the third week in July. -Adoniram had planned to move his stock in on Wednesday; on Tuesday he -received a letter which changed his plans. He came in with it early -in the morning. “Sammy’s been to the post-office,” said he, “an’ I’ve -got a letter from Hiram.” Hiram was Mrs. Penn’s brother, who lived in -Vermont. - -“Well,” said Mrs. Penn, “what does he say about the folks?” - -“I guess they’re all right. He says he thinks if I come up country -right off there’s a chance to buy jest the kind of a horse I want.” He -stared reflectively out of the window at the new barn. - -Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping the rolling-pin into -the crust, although she was very pale, and her heart beat loudly. - -“I dun’ know but what I’d better go,” said Adoniram. “I hate to go off -jest now, right in the midst of hayin’, but the ten-acre lot’s cut, an’ -I guess Rufus an’ the others can git along without me three or four -days. I can’t get a horse round here to suit me, nohow, an’ I’ve got -to have another for all that wood-haulin’ in the fall. I told Hiram to -watch out, an’ if he got wind of a good horse to let me know. I guess -I’d better go.” - -“I’ll get out your clean shirt an’ collar,” said Mrs. Penn, calmly. - -She laid out Adoniram’s Sunday suit and his clean clothes on the bed in -the little bedroom. She got his shaving-water and razor ready. At last -she buttoned on his collar and fastened his black cravat. - -Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on extra occasions. He -held his head high, with a rasped dignity. When he was all ready, with -his coat and hat brushed, and a lunch of pie and cheese in a paper bag, -he hesitated on the threshold of the door. He looked at his wife, and -his manner was defiantly apologetic. “_If_ them cows come to-day, Sammy -can drive ’em into the new barn,” said he; “an’ when they bring the hay -up, they can pitch it in there.” - -“Well,” replied Mrs. Penn. - -Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When he had cleared the -door-step, he turned and looked back with a kind of nervous solemnity. -“I shall be back by Saturday if nothin’ happens,” said he. - -“Do be careful, father,” returned his wife. - -She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and watched him out -of sight. Her eyes had a strange, doubtful expression in them; her -peaceful forehead was contracted. She went in, and about her baking -again. Nanny sat sewing. Her wedding-day was drawing nearer, and she -was getting pale and thin with her steady sewing. Her mother kept -glancing at her. - -“Have you got that pain in your side this mornin’?” she asked. - -“A little.” - -Mrs. Penn’s face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed forehead -smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips firmly set. She formed a -maxim for herself, although incoherently with her unlettered thoughts. -“Unsolicited opportunities are the guide-posts of the Lord to the new -roads of life,” she repeated in effect, and she made up her mind to her -course of action. - -“S’posin’ I _had_ wrote to Hiram,” she muttered once, when she was -in the pantry—“s’posin’ I had wrote, an’ asked him if he knew of any -horse? But I didn’t, an’ father’s goin’ wa’n’t none of my doin’. It -looks like a providence.” Her voice rang out quite loud at the last. - -“What you talkin’ about, mother?” called Nanny. - -“Nothin’.” - -Mrs. Penn hurried her baking; at eleven o’clock it was all done. -The load of hay from the west field came slowly down the cart -track, and drew up at the new barn. Mrs. Penn ran out. “Stop!” she -screamed—“stop!” - -The men stopped and looked; Sammy upreared from the top of the load, -and stared at his mother. - -“Stop!” she cried out again. “Don’t you put the hay in that barn; put -it in the old one.” - -“Why, he said to put it in here,” returned one of the haymakers, -wonderingly. He was a young man, a neighbor’s son, whom Adoniram hired -by the year to help on the farm. - -“Don’t you put the hay in the new barn; there’s room enough in the old -one, ain’t there?” said Mrs. Penn. - -“Room enough,” returned the hired man, in his thick, rustic tones. -“Didn’t need the new barn, nohow, far as room’s concerned. Well, I -s’pose he changed his mind.” He took hold of the horses’ bridles. - -Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen windows were -darkened, and a fragrance like warm honey came into the room. - -Nanny laid down her work. “I thought father wanted them to put the hay -into the new barn?” she said, wonderingly. - -“It’s all right,” replied her mother. - -Sammy slid down from the load of hay, and came in to see if dinner was -ready. - -“I ain’t goin’ to get a regular dinner to-day, as long as father’s -gone,” said his mother. “I’ve let the fire go out. You can have some -bread an’ milk an’ pie. I thought we could get along.” She set out -some bowls of milk, some bread, and a pie on the kitchen table. “You’d -better eat your dinner now,” said she. “You might jest as well get -through with it. I want you to help me afterward.” - -Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was something strange -in their mother’s manner. Mrs. Penn did not eat anything herself. -She went into the pantry, and they heard her moving dishes while -they ate. Presently she came out with a pile of plates. She got the -clothes-basket out of the shed, and packed them in it. Nanny and Sammy -watched. She brought out cups and saucers, and put them in with the -plates. - -“What you goin’ to do, mother?” inquired Nanny, in a timid voice. A -sense of something unusual made her tremble, as if it were a ghost. -Sammy rolled his eyes over his pie. - -“You’ll see what I’m goin’ to do,” replied Mrs. Penn. “If you’re -through, Nanny, I want you to go upstairs an’ pack up your things; an’ -I want you, Sammy, to help me take down the bed in the bedroom.” - -“Oh, mother, what for?” gasped Nanny. - -“You’ll see.” - -During the next few hours a feat was performed by this simple, pious -New England mother which was equal in its way to Wolfe’s storming of -the Heights of Abraham. It took no more genius and audacity of bravery -for Wolfe to cheer his wondering soldiers up those steep precipices, -under the sleeping eyes of the enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at the head -of her children, to move all their little household goods into the new -barn while her husband was away. - -Nanny and Sammy followed their mother’s instructions without a murmur; -indeed, they were overawed. There is a certain uncanny and superhuman -quality about all such purely original undertakings as their mother’s -was to them. Nanny went back and forth with her light loads, and Sammy -tugged with sober energy. - -At five o’clock in the afternoon the little house in which the Penns -had lived for forty years had emptied itself into the new barn. - -Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, and is in a measure -a prophet. The architect of Adoniram Penn’s barn, while he designed -it for the comfort of four-footed animals, had planned better than -he knew for the comfort of humans. Sarah Penn saw at a glance its -possibilities. Those great box-stalls, with quilts hung before them, -would make better bedrooms than the one she had occupied for forty -years, and there was a tight carriage-room. The harness-room, with its -chimney and shelves, would make a kitchen of her dreams. The great -middle space would make a parlor, by-and-by, fit for a palace. Upstairs -there was as much room as down. With partitions and windows, what a -house would there be! Sarah looked at the row of stanchions before the -allotted space for cows, and reflected that she would have her front -entry there. - -At six o’clock the stove was up in the harness-room, the kettle was -boiling, and the table set for tea. It looked almost as home-like as -the abandoned house across the yard had ever done. The young hired man -milked, and Sarah directed him calmly to bring the milk to the new -barn. He came gaping, dropping little blots of foam from the brimming -pails on the grass. Before the next morning he had spread the story -of Adoniram Penn’s wife moving into the new barn all over the little -village. Men assembled in the store and talked it over, women with -shawls over their heads scuttled into each other’s houses before their -work was done. Any deviation from the ordinary course of life in this -quiet town was enough to stop all progress in it. Everybody paused to -look at the staid, independent figure on the side track. There was a -difference of opinion with regard to her. Some held her to be insane; -some, of a lawless and rebellious spirit. - -Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the forenoon, and she -was at the barn door shelling peas for dinner. She looked up and -returned his salutation with dignity, then she went on with her work. -She did not invite him in. The saintly expression of her face remained -fixed, but there was an angry flush over it. - -The minister stood awkwardly before her, and talked. She handled the -peas as if they were bullets. At last she looked up, and her eyes -showed the spirit that her meek front had covered for a lifetime. - -“There ain’t no use talkin’, Mr. Hersey,” said she. “I’ve thought it -all over an’ over, an’ I believe I’m doin’ what’s right. I’ve made it -the subject of prayer, an’ it’s betwixt me an’ the Lord an’ Adoniram. -There ain’t no call for nobody else to worry about it.” - -“Well, of course, if you have brought it to the Lord in prayer, and -feel satisfied that you are doing right, Mrs. Penn,” said the minister, -helplessly. His thin gray-bearded face was pathetic. He was a sickly -man; his youthful confidence had cooled; he had to scourge himself up -to some of his pastoral duties as relentlessly as a Catholic ascetic, -and then he was prostrated by the smart. - -“I think it’s right jest as much as I think it was right for our -forefathers to come over from the old country ’cause they didn’t have -what belonged to ’em,” said Mrs. Penn. She arose. The barn threshold -might have been Plymouth Rock from her bearing. “I don’t doubt you mean -well, Mr. Hersey,” said she, “but there are things people hadn’t ought -to interfere with. I’ve been a member of the church for over forty -year. I’ve got my own mind an’ my own feet, an’ I’m goin’ to think my -own thoughts an’ go my own ways, an’ nobody but the Lord is goin’ to -dictate to me unless I’ve a mind to have him. Won’t you come in an’ set -down? How is Mis’ Hersey?” - -“She is well, I thank you,” replied the minister. He added some more -perplexed apologetic remarks; then he retreated. - -He could expound the intricacies of every character study in the -Scriptures, he was competent to grasp the Pilgrim Fathers and all -historical innovators, but Sarah Penn was beyond him. He could deal -with primal cases, but parallel ones worsted him. But, after all, -although it was aside from his province, he wondered more how Adoniram -Penn would deal with his wife than how the Lord would. Everybody shared -the wonder. When Adoniram’s four new cows arrived, Sarah ordered three -to be put in the old barn, the other in the house shed where the -cooking-stove had stood. That added to the excitement. It was whispered -that all four cows were domiciled in the house. - -Towards sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was expected home, there was -a knot of men in the road near the new barn. The hired man had milked, -but he still hung around the premises. Sarah Penn had supper all ready. -There were brown-bread and baked beans and a custard pie; it was the -supper that Adoniram loved on a Saturday night. She had on a clean -calico, and she bore herself imperturbably. Nanny and Sammy kept close -at her heels. Their eyes were large, and Nanny was full of nervous -tremors. Still there was to them more pleasant excitement than anything -else. An inborn confidence in their mother over their father asserted -itself. - -Sammy looked out of the harness-room window. “There he is,” he -announced, in an awed whisper. He and Nanny peeped around the casing. -Mrs. Penn kept on about her work. The children watched Adoniram leave -the new horse standing in the drive while he went to the house door. -It was fastened. Then he went around to the shed. That door was seldom -locked, even when the family was away. The thought how her father would -be confronted by the cow flashed upon Nanny. There was a hysterical sob -in her throat. Adoniram emerged from the shed and stood looking about -in a dazed fashion. His lips moved; he was saying something, but they -could not hear what it was. The hired man was peeping around a corner -of the old barn, but nobody saw him. - -Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led him across the yard -to the new barn. Nanny and Sammy slunk close to their mother. The barn -doors rolled back, and there stood Adoniram, with the long mild face of -the great Canadian farm horse looking over his shoulder. - -Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped suddenly forward, and -stood in front of her. - -Adoniram stared at the group. “What on airth you all down here for?” -said he. “What’s the matter over to the house?” - -“We’ve come here to live, father,” said Sammy. His shrill voice -quavered out bravely. - -“What”—Adoniram sniffed—“what is it smells like cookin’?” said he. He -stepped forward and looked in the open door of the harness-room. Then -he turned to his wife. His old bristling face was pale and frightened. -“What on airth does this mean, mother?” he gasped. - -“You come in here, father,” said Sarah. She led the way into the -harness-room and shut the door. “Now, father,” said she, “you needn’t -be scared. I ain’t crazy. There ain’t nothin’ to be upset over. But -we’ve come here to live, an’ we’re goin’ to live here. We’ve got jest -as good a right here as new horses an’ cows. The house wa’n’t fit for -us to live in any longer, an’ I made up my mind I wa’n’t goin’ to stay -there. I’ve done my duty by you forty year, an’ I’m goin’ to do it -now; but I’m goin’ to live here. You’ve got to put in some windows and -partitions; an’ you’ll have to buy some furniture.” - -“Why, mother!” the old man gasped. - -“You’d better take your coat off an’ get washed—there’s the -wash-basin—an’ then we’ll have supper.” - -“Why, mother!” - -Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse to the old barn. The -old man saw him, and shook his head speechlessly. He tried to take off -his coat, but his arms seemed to lack the power. His wife helped him. -She poured some water into the tin basin, and put in a piece of soap. -She got the comb and brush, and smoothed his thin gray hair after he -had washed. Then she put the beans, hot bread, and tea on the table. -Sammy came in, and the family drew up. Adoniram sat looking dazedly at -his plate, and they waited. - -“Ain’t you goin’ to ask a blessin’, father?” said Sarah. - -And the old man bent his head and mumbled. - -All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals, and stared -furtively at his wife; but he ate well. The home food tasted good to -him, and his old frame was too sturdily healthy to be affected by his -mind. But after supper he went out, and sat down on the step of the -smaller door at the right of the barn, through which he had meant his -Jerseys to pass in stately file, but which Sarah designed for her front -house door, and he leaned his head on his hands. - -After the supper dishes were cleared away and the milk-pans washed, -Sarah went out to him. The twilight was deepening. There was a clear -green glow in the sky. Before them stretched the smooth level of field; -in the distance was a cluster of hay-stacks like the huts of a village; -the air was very cool and calm and sweet. The landscape might have been -an ideal one of peace. - -Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of his thin, sinewy -shoulders. “Father!” - -The old man’s shoulders heaved: he was weeping. - -“Why, don’t do so, father,” said Sarah. - -“I’ll—put up the—partitions, an’—everything you—want, mother.” - -Sarah put her apron up to her face; she was overcome by her own triumph. - -Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no active resistance, -and went down the instant the right besieging tools were used. “Why, -mother,” he said, hoarsely, “I hadn’t no idee you was so set on’t as -all this comes to.” - - - - - MARSE CHAN - - A TALE OF OLD VIRGINIA - - BY - - THOMAS NELSON PAGE - - - - -Here plot, character, and setting are happily blended. The story is -sufficient to move smoothly and interestingly; the characters, both -black and white, reveal the Southerner at his best; and the setting -not only furnishes an appropriate background for plot and characters, -but is significant of the leisure, the isolation, and the pride of the -people. - - - - -MARSE CHAN[19] - - -One afternoon, in the autumn of 1872, I was riding leisurely down the -sandy road that winds along the top of the water-shed between two of -the smaller rivers of eastern Virginia. The road I was travelling, -following “the ridge” for miles, had just struck me as most significant -of the character of the race whose only avenue of communication with -the outside world it had formerly been. Their once splendid mansions, -now fast falling to decay, appeared to view from time to time, set back -far from the road, in proud seclusion, among groves of oak and hickory, -now scarlet and gold with the early frost. Distance was nothing to this -people; time was of no consequence to them. They desired but a level -path in life, and that they had, though the way was longer, and the -outer world strode by them as they dreamed. - -I was aroused from my reflections by hearing some one ahead of me -calling, “Heah!—heah—whoo-oop, heah!” - -Turning the curve in the road, I saw just before me a negro standing, -with a hoe and a watering-pot in his hand. He had evidently just gotten -over the “worm-fence” into the road, out of the path which led zigzag -across the “old field” and was lost to sight in the dense growth of -sassafras. When I rode up, he was looking anxiously back down this path -for his dog. So engrossed was he that he did not even hear my horse, -and I reined in to wait until he should turn around and satisfy my -curiosity as to the handsome old place half a mile off from the road. - -The numerous out-buildings and the large barns and stables told that -it had once been the seat of wealth, and the wild waste of sassafras -that covered the broad fields gave it an air of desolation that greatly -excited my interest. Entirely oblivious of my proximity, the negro went -on calling “Whoo-oop, heah!” until along the path, walking very slowly -and with great dignity, appeared a noble-looking old orange and white -setter, gray with age, and corpulent with excessive feeding. As soon as -he came in sight, his master began: - -“Yes, dat you! You gittin’ deaf as well as bline, I s’pose! Kyarnt heah -me callin’, I reckon? Whyn’t yo’ come on, dawg?” - -The setter sauntered slowly up to the fence and stopped, without even -deigning a look at the speaker, who immediately proceeded to take the -rails down, talking meanwhile: - -“Now, I got to pull down de gap, I s’pose! Yo’ so sp’ilt yo’ kyahn -hardly walk. Jes’ ez able to git over it as I is! Jes’ like white -folks—think ’cuz you’s white and I’se black, I got to wait on yo’ all -de time. Ne’m mine, I ain’ gwi’ do it!” - -The fence having been pulled down sufficiently low to suit his dogship, -he marched sedately through, and, with a hardly perceptible lateral -movement of his tail, walked on down the road. Putting up the rails -carefully, the negro turned and saw me. - -“Sarvent, marster,” he said, taking his hat off. Then, as if -apologetically for having permitted a stranger to witness what was -merely a family affair, he added: “He know I don’ mean nothin’ by what -I sez. He’s Marse Chan’s dawg, an’ he’s so ole he kyahn git long no -pearter. He know I’se jes’ prodjickin’ wid ’im.” - -“Who is Marse Chan?” I asked; “and whose place is that over there, and -the one a mile or two back—the place with the big gate and the carved -stone pillars?” - -“Marse Chan,” said the darky, “he’s Marse Channin’—my young marster; -an’ dem places—dis one’s Weall’s, an’ de one back dyar wid de rock -gate-pos’s is ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. Dey don’ nobody live dyar now, -’cep’ niggers. Arfter de war some one or nurr bought our place, but -his name done kind o’ slipped me. I nuver hearn on ’im befo’; I think -dey’s half-strainers. I don’ ax none on ’em no odds. I lives down de -road heah, a little piece, an’ I jes’ steps down of a evenin’ and looks -arfter de graves.” - -“Well, where is Marse Chan?” I asked. - -“Hi! don’ you know? Marse Chan, he went in de army. I was wid ’im. Yo’ -know he warn’ gwine an’ lef’ Sam.” - -“Will you tell me all about it?” I said, dismounting. - -Instantly, and as if by instinct, the darky stepped forward and took my -bridle. I demurred a little; but with a bow that would have honored old -Sir Roger, he shortened the reins, and taking my horse from me, led him -along. - -“Now tell me about Marse Chan,” I said. - -“Lawd, marster, hit’s so long ago, I’d a’most forgit all about it, -ef I hedn’ been wid him ever sence he wuz born. Ez ’tis, I remembers -it jes’ like ’twuz yistiddy. Yo’ know Marse Chan an’ me—we wuz boys -togerr. I wuz older’n he wuz, jes’ de same ez he wuz whiter’n me. I wuz -born plantin’ corn time, de spring arfter big Jim an’ de six steers -got washed away at de upper ford right down dyar b’low de quarters ez -he wuz a-bringin’ de Chris’mas things home; an’ Marse Chan, he warn’ -born tell mos’ to de harves’ arfter my sister Nancy married Cun’l -Chahmb’lin’s Torm, ’bout eight years arfterwoods. - -“Well, when Marse Chan wuz born, dey wuz de grettes’ doin’s at home you -ever did see. De folks all hed holiday, jes’ like in de Chris’mas. Ole -marster (we didn’ call ’im _ole_ marster tell arfter Marster Chan wuz -born—befo’ dat he wuz jes’ de marster, so)—well, ole marster, his -face fyar shine wid pleasure, an’ all de folks wuz mighty glad, too, -’cause dey all loved ole marster, and aldo’ dey did step aroun’ right -peart when ole marster was lookin’ at ’em, dyar warn’ nyar han’ on de -place but what, ef he wanted anythin’, would walk up to de back poach, -an’ say he warn’ to see de marster. An’ ev’ybody wuz talkin’ ’bout de -young marster, an’ de maids an’ de wimmens ’bout de kitchen wuz sayin’ -how ’twuz de purties’ chile dey ever see; an’ at dinner-time de mens -(all on ’em hed holiday) come roun’ de poach an’ ax how de missis an’ -de young marster wuz, an’ ole marster come out on de poach an’ smile -wus’n a ’possum, an’ sez, ’Thankee! Bofe doin’ fust rate, boys’; an’ -den he stepped back in de house, sort o’ laughin’ to hisse’f, an’ in -a minute he come out ag’in wid de baby in he arms, all wrapped up in -flannens an’ things, an’ sez, ’Heah he is, boys.’ All de folks den, dey -went up on de poach to look at ’im, drappin’ dey hats on de steps, an’ -scrapin’ dey feets ez dey went up. An’ pres’n’y old marster, lookin’ -down at we all chil’en all packed togerr down dyah like a parecel o’ -sheep-burrs, cotch sight _o’ me_ (he knowed my name, ’cause I use’ to -hole he hoss fur ’im sometimes; but he didn’t know all de chile’n by -name, dey wuz so many on ’em), an’ he sez, ’Come up heah!’ So up I goes -tippin’, skeered like, an’ old marster sez, ’Ain’ you Mymie’s son?’ -’Yass, seh,’ sez I. ’Well,’ sez he, ’I’m gwine to give you to yo’ young -Marse Channin’ to be his body-servant,’ an’ he put de baby right in my -arms (it’s de truth I’m tellin’ yo’!), an’ yo’ jes’ ought to a-heard -de folks sayin’, ’Lawd! marster, dat boy’ll drap dat chile!’ ’Naw, he -won’t,’ sez marster; ’I kin trust ’im.’ And den he sez: ’Now, Sam, from -dis time you belong to yo’ young Marse Channin’; I wan’ you to tek keer -on ’im ez long ez he lives. You are to be his boy from dis time. An’ -now,’ he sez, ’carry ’im in de house.’ An’ he walks arfter me an’ opens -de do’s fur me, an’ I kyars ’im in my arms, an’ lays ’im down on de -bed. An’ from dat time I was tooken in de house to be Marse Channin’s -body-servant. - -“Well, you nuver see a chile grow so. Pres’n’y he growed up right big, -an’ ole marster sez he must have some edication. So he sont ’im to -school to ole Miss Lawry down dyar, dis side o’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, -an’ I use’ to go ’long wid ’im an’ tote he books an’ we all’s snacks; -an’ when he larnt to read an’ spell right good, an’ got ’bout so-o -big, old Miss Lawry she died, an’ old marster said he mus’ have a man -to teach ’im an’ trounce ’im. So we all went to Mr. Hall, whar kep’ de -school-house beyant de creek, an’ dyar we went ev’y day, ’cep Sat’d’ys -of co’se, an’ sich days ez Marse Chan din’ warn’ go, an’ ole missis -begged ’im off. - -“Hit wuz down dyar Marse Chan fust took notice o’ Miss Anne. Mr. Hall, -he taught gals ez well ez boys, an’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin he sont his -daughter (dat’s Miss Anne I’m talkin’ about). She wuz a leetle bit o’ -gal when she fust come. Yo’ see, her ma wuz dead, an’ old Miss Lucy -Chahmb’lin, she lived wid her brurr an’ kep’ house for ’im; an’ he wuz -so busy wid politics, he didn’ have much time to spyar, so he sont Miss -Anne to Mr. Hall’s by a ’ooman wid a note. When she come dat day in -de school-house, an’ all de chil’en looked at her so hard, she tu’n -right red, an’ tried to pull her long curls over her eyes, an’ den put -bofe de backs of her little han’s in her two eyes, an’ begin to cry to -herse’f. Marse Chan he was settin’ on de een’ o’ de bench nigh de do’, -an’ he jes’ reached out an’ put he arm ’roun’ her an’ drawed her up to -’im. An’ he kep’ whisperin’ to her, an’ callin’ her name, an’ coddlin’ -her; an’ pres’n’y she took her han’s down an’ begin to laugh. - -“Well, dey ’peared to tek’ a gre’t fancy to each urr from dat time. -Miss Anne she warn’ nuthin’ but a baby hardly, an’ Marse Chan he wuz a -good big boy ’bout mos’ thirteen years ole, I reckon. Hows’ever, dey -sut’n’y wuz sot on each urr an’ (yo’ heah me!) ole marster an’ Cun’l -Chahmb’lin dey ’peared to like it ’bout well ez de chil’en. Yo’ see, -Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s place j’ined ourn, an’ it looked jes’ ez natural -fur dem two chil’en to marry an’ mek it one plantation, ez it did fur -de creek to run down de bottom from our place into Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. -I don’ rightly think de chil’en thought ’bout gittin’ _married_, not -den, no mo’n I thought ’bout marryin’ Judy when she wuz a little gal -at Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, runnin’ ’bout de house, huntin’ fur Miss Lucy’s -spectacles; but dey wuz good frien’s from de start. Marse Chan he use’ -to kyar Miss Anne’s books fur her ev’y day, an’ ef de road wuz muddy or -she wuz tired, he use’ to tote her; an’ ’twarn’ hardly a day passed dat -he didn’ kyar her some’n’ to school—apples or hick’y nuts, or some’n. -He wouldn’t let none o’ de chil’en tease her, nurr. Heh! One day, one -o’ de boys poked he finger at Miss Anne, and arfter school Marse Chan -he axed ’im ’roun’ ’hine de school-house out o’ sight, an’ ef he didn’t -whop ’im! - -“Marse Chan, he wuz de peartes’ scholar ole Mr. Hall hed, an’ Mr. Hall -he wuz mighty proud o’ ’im. I don’ think he use’ to beat ’im ez much -ez he did de urrs, aldo’ he wuz de head in all debilment dat went on, -jes’ ez he wuz in sayin’ he lessons. - -“Heh! one day in summer, jes’ fo’ de school broke up, dyah come up a -storm right sudden, an’ riz de creek (dat one yo’ cross’ back yonder), -an’ Marse Chan he toted Miss Anne home on he back. He ve’y off’n did -dat when de parf wuz muddy. But dis day when dey come to de creek, it -had done washed all de logs ’way. ’Twuz still mighty high, so Marse -Chan he put Miss Anne down, an’ he took a pole an’ waded right in. Hit -took ’im long up to de shoulders. Den he waded back, an’ took Miss Anne -up on his head an’ kyared her right over. At fust she wuz skeered; but -he tol’ her he could swim an’ wouldn’ let her git hu’t, an’ den she let -’im kyar her ’cross, she hol’in’ his han’s. I warn’ ’long dat day, but -he sut’n’y did dat thing. - -“Ole marster he wuz so pleased ’bout it, he giv’ Marse Chan a pony; -an’ Marse Chan rode ’im to school de day arfter he come, so proud, -an’ sayin’ how he wuz gwine to let Anne ride behine ’im; an’ when he -come home dat evenin’ he wuz walkin’. ’Hi! where’s yo’ pony?’ said ole -marster. ’I give ’im to Anne,’ says Marse Chan. ’She liked ’im, an’—I -kin walk.’ ’Yes,’ sez ole marster, laughin’, ’I s’pose you’s already -done giv’ her yo’se’f, an’ nex’ thing I know you’ll be givin’ her this -plantation and all my niggers.’ - -“Well, about a fortnight or sich a matter arfter dat, Cun’l Chahmb’lin -sont over an’ invited all o’ we all over to dinner, an’ Marse Chan wuz -’spressly named in de note whar Ned brought; an’ arfter dinner he made -ole Phil, whar wuz his ker’ige-driver, bring ’roun’ Marse Chan’s pony -wid a little side-saddle on ’im, an’ a beautiful little hoss wid a -bran’-new saddle an’ bridle on ’im; an’ he gits up an’ meks Marse Chan -a gre’t speech, an’ presents ’im de little hoss; an’ den he calls Miss -Anne, an’ she comes out on de poach in a little ridin’ frock, an’ dey -puts her on her pony, an’ Marse Chan mounts his hoss, an’ dey goes to -ride, while de grown folks is a-laughin’ an’ chattin’ an’ smokin’ dey -cigars. - -“Dem wuz good ole times, marster—de bes’ Sam ever see! Dey wuz, in -fac’! Niggers didn’ hed nothin’ ’t all to do—jes’ hed to ’ten’ to de -feedin’ an’ cleanin’ de hosses, an’ doin’ what de marster tell ’em to -do; an’ when dey wuz sick, dey had things sont ’em out de house, an’ de -same doctor come to see ’em whar ’ten’ to de white folks when dey wuz -po’ly. Dyar warn’ no trouble nor nothin’. - -“Well, things tuk a change arfter dat. Marse Chan he went to de bo’din’ -school, whar he use’ to write to me constant. Ole missis use’ to read -me de letters, an’ den I’d git Miss Anne to read ’em ag’in to me when -I’d see her. He use’ to write to her too, an’ she use’ to write to him -too. Den Miss Anne she wuz sont off to school too. An’ in de summer -time dey’d bofe come home, an’ yo’ hardly knowed whether Marse Chan -lived at home or over at Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. He wuz over dyah constant. -’Twuz always ridin’ or fishin’ down dyah in de river; or sometimes -he’ go over dyah, an’ ’im an’ she’d go out an’ set in de yard onder -de trees; she settin’ up mekin’ out she wuz knittin’ some sort o’ -bright-cullored some’n’, wid de grarss growin’ all up ’g’inst her, an’ -her hat th’owed back on her neck, an’ he readin’ to her out books; an’ -sometimes dey’d bofe read out de same book, fust one an’ den todder. I -use’ to see em! Dat wuz when dey wuz growin’ up like. - -“Den ole marster he run for Congress, an’ ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin he wuz -put up to run ’g’inst ole marster by de Dimicrats; but ole marster he -beat ’im. Yo’ know he wuz gwine do dat! Co’se he wuz! Dat made ole -Cun’l Chahmb’lin mighty mad, and dey stopt visitin’ each urr reg’lar, -like dey had been doin’ all ’long. Den Cun’l Chahmb’lin he sort o’ got -in debt, an’ sell some o’ he niggers, an’ dat’s de way de fuss begun. -Dat’s whar de lawsuit cum from. Ole marster he didn’ like nobody to -sell niggers, an’ knowin’ dat Cun’l Chahmb’lin wuz sellin’ o’ his, -he writ an’ offered to buy his M’ria an’ all her chil’en, ’cause -she hed married our Zeek’yel. An’ don’ yo’ think, Cun’l Chahmb’lin -axed ole marster mo’ ‘n th’ee niggers wuz wuth fur M’ria! Befo’ old -marster bought her, dough, de sheriff cum an’ levelled on M’ria an’ -a whole parecel o’ urr niggers. Ole marster he went to de sale, an’ -bid for ’em; but Cun’l Chahmb’lin he got some one to bid ’g’inst ole -marster. Dey wuz knocked out to ole marster dough, an’ den dey hed a -big lawsuit, an’ ole marster wuz agwine to co’t, off an’ on, fur some -years, till at lars’ de co’t decided dat M’ria belonged to ole marster. -Ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin den wuz so mad he sued ole marster for a little -strip o’ lan’ down dyah on de line fence, whar he said belonged to ’im. -Ev’ybody knowed hit belonged to ole marster. Ef yo’ go down dyah now, -I kin show it to yo’, inside de line fence, whar it hed done bin ever -sence long befo’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin wuz born. But Cun’l Chahmb’lin wuz a -mons’us perseverin’ man, an’ ole marster he wouldn’ let nobody ran over -’im. No, dat he wouldn’! So dey wuz agwine down to co’t about dat, fur -I don’ know how long, till ole marster beat ’im. - -“All dis time, yo’ know, Marse Chan wuz a-goin’ back’ads an’ for’ads -to college, an’ wuz growed up a ve’y fine young man. He wuz a ve’y -likely gent’man! Miss Anne she hed done mos’ growed up too—wuz puttin’ -her hyar up like old missis use’ to put hers up, an’ ’twuz jes’ ez -bright ez de sorrel’s mane when de sun cotch on it, an’ her eyes wuz -gre’t big dark eyes, like her pa’s, on’y bigger an’ not so fierce, an’ -’twarn’ none o’ de young ladies ez purty ez she wuz. She an’ Marse Chan -still set a heap o’ sto’ by one ‘nurr, but I don’ think dey wuz easy -wid each urr ez when he used to tote her home from school on his back. -Marse Chan he use’ to love de ve’y groun’ she walked on, dough, in my -’pinion. Heh! His face ’twould light up whenever she come into chu’ch, -or anywhere, jes’ like de sun hed come th’oo a chink on it suddenly. - -“Den’ ole marster lost he eyes. D’ yo’ ever heah ’bout dat? Heish! -Didn’ yo’? Well, one night de big barn cotch fire. De stables, yo’ -know, wuz under de big barn, an’ all de hosses wuz in dyah. Hit ’peared -to me like ’twarn’ no time befo’ all de folks an’ de neighbors dey -come, an’ dey wuz a-totin’ water, an’ a-tryin’ to save de po’ critters, -and dey got a heap on ’em out; but de ker’ige-hosses dey wouldn’ come -out, an’ dey wuz a-runnin’ back’ads an’ for’ads inside de stalls, -a-nikerin’ an’ a-screamin’, like dey knowed dey time hed come. Yo’ -could heah ’em so pitiful, an’ pres’n’y old marster said to Ham Fisher -(he wuz de ker’ige-driver), ’Go in dyah an’ try to save ’em; don’ let -’em bu’n to death.’ An’ Ham he went right in. An’ jest arfter he got -in, de shed whar it hed fus’ cotch fell in, an’ de sparks shot ’way up -in de air; an’ Ham didn’ come back, an’ de fire begun to lick out under -de eaves over whar de ker’ige-hosses’ stalls wuz, an’ all of a sudden -ole marster tu’ned an’ kissed ole missis, who wuz standin’ nigh him, -wid her face jes’ ez white ez a sperit’s, an’, befo’ anybody knowed -what he wuz gwine do, jumped right in de do’, an’ de smoke come po’in’ -out behine ’im. Well, seh, I nuver ’spects to heah tell Judgment sich a -soun’ ez de folks set up! Ole missis she jes’ drapt down on her knees -in de mud an’ prayed out loud. Hit ’peared like her pra’r wuz heard; -for in a minit, right out de same do’, kyarin’ Ham Fisher in his arms, -come ole marster, wid his clo’s all blazin’. Dey flung water on ’im, -an’ put ’im out; an’, ef you b’lieve me, yo’ wouldn’t a-knowed ’twuz -ole marster. Yo’ see, he had find Ham Fisher done fall down in de smoke -right by the ker’ige-hoss’ stalls, whar he sont him, an’ he hed to tote -’im back in his arms th’oo de fire what hed done cotch de front part o’ -de stable, and to keep de flame from gittin’ down Ham Fisher’s th’oat -he hed tuk off his own hat and mashed it all over Ham Fisher’s face, -an’ he hed kep’ Ham Fisher from bein’ so much bu’nt; but _he_ wuz bu’nt -dreadful! His beard an’ hyar wuz all nyawed off, an’ his face an’ han’s -an’ neck wuz scorified terrible. Well, he jes’ laid Ham Fisher down, -an’ then he kind o’ staggered for’ad, an’ ole missis ketch’ ’im in her -arms. Ham Fisher, he warn’ bu’nt so bad, an’ he got out in a month to -two; an’ arf ter a long time, ole marster he got well, too; but he wuz -always stone blind arfter that. He nuver could see none from dat night. - -“Marse Chan he comed home from college toreckly, an’ he sut’n’y did -nuss ole marster faithful—jes’ like a ’ooman. Den he took charge of -de plantation arfter dat; an’ I use’ to wait on ’im jes’ like when we -wuz boys togedder; an’ sometimes we’d slip off an’ have a fox-hunt, an’ -he’d be jes’ like he wuz in ole times, befo’ ole marster got bline, an’ -Miss Anne Chahmb’lin stopt comin’ over to our house, an’ settin’ onder -de trees, readin’ out de same book. - -“He sut’n’y wuz good to me. Nothin’ nuver made no diffunce ’bout dat. -He nuver hit me a lick in his life—an’ nuver let nobody else do it, -nurr. - -“I ’members one day, when he wuz a leetle bit o’ boy, ole marster hed -done tole we all chil’en not to slide on de straw-stacks; an’ one day -me an’ Marse Chan thought ole marster hed done gone ’way from home. We -watched him git on he hoss an’ ride up de road out o’ sight, an’ we wuz -out in de field a-slidin’ an’ a-slidin’, when up comes ole marster. We -started to run; but he hed done see us, an’ he called us to come back; -an’ sich a whuppin’ ez he did gi’ us! - -“Fust he took Marse Chan, an’ den he teched me up. He nuver hu’t me, -but in co’se I wuz a-hollerin’ ez hard ez I could stave it, ’cause I -knowed dat wuz gwine mek him stop. Marse Chan he hed’n open he mouf -long ez ole marster wuz tunin’ ’im; but soon ez he commence warmin’ me -an’ I begin to holler, Marse Chan he bu’st out cryin’, an’ stept right -in befo’ ole marster an’ ketchin’ de whup, sed: - -“‘Stop, seh! Yo’ sha’n’t whup ’im; he b’longs to me, an’ ef you hit ’im -another lick I’ll set ’im free!’ - -“I wish yo’ hed see old marster. Marse Chan he warn’ mo’n eight years -ole, an’ dyah dey wuz—old marster stan’in’ wid he whup raised up, an’ -Marse Chan red an’ cryin’, hol’in’ on to it, an’ sayin’ I b’longst to -’im. - -“Ole marster, he raise’ de whup, an’ den he drapt it, an’ broke out in -a smile over he face, an’ he chuck’ Marse Chan onder de chin, an’ tu’n -right ’roun’ an’ went away, laughin’ to hisse’f, an’ I heah ’im tellin’ -ole missis dat evenin’, an’ laughin’ ’bout it. - -“‘Twan’ so mighty long arfter dat when dey fust got to talkin’ ’bout de -war. Dey wuz a-dictatin’ back’ads an’ for’ads ’bout it fur two or th’ee -years ’fo’ it come sho’ nuff, you know. Ole marster, he was a Whig, -an’ of co’se Marse Chan he tuk after he pa. Cun’l Chahmb’lin, he wuz -a Dimicrat. He wuz in favor of de war, an’ ole marster and Marse Chan -dey wuz agin’ it. Dey wuz a-talkin’ ’bout it all de time, an’ purty -soon Cun’l Chahmb’lin he went about ev’ywhar speakin’ an’ noratin’ -’bout Firginia ought to secede; an’ Marse Chan he’wuz picked up to -talk agin’ ’im. Dat wuz de way dey come to fight de dull. I sut’n’y -wuz skeered fur Marse Chan dat mawnin’, an’ he was jes’ ez cool! Yo’ -see, it happen so: Marse Chan he wuz a-speakin’ down at de Deep Creek -Tavern, an’ he kind o’ got de bes’ of ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin. All de -white folks laughed an’ hoorawed, an’ ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin—my Lawd! I -fought he’d ’a’’ bu’st, he was so mad. Well, when it come to his time -to speak, he jes’ light into Marse Chan. He call ’im a traitor, an’ a -ab’litionis’, an’ I don’ know what all. Marse Chan, he jes’ kep’ cool -till de ole Cun’l light into he pa. Ez soon ez he name ole marster, I -seen Marse Chan sort o’ lif up he head. D’ yo’ ever sec a hoss rar he -head up right sudden at night when he see somethiu’ comin’ to’ds ’im -from de side an’ he don’ know what ’tis? Ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin he went -right on. He said ole marster hed taught Marse Chan; dat ole marster -wuz a wuss ab’litionis’ dan he son. I looked at Marse Chan, an’ sez to -myse’f: ’Fo’ Gord! old Cun’l Chahmb’lin better min’, an’ I hedn’ got de -wuds out, when ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin ’cuse’ old marster o’ cheatin’ ’im -out o’ he niggers, an’ stealing piece o’ he lan’—dat’s de lan’ I tole -you ’bout. Well, seh, nex’ thing I knowed, I heahed Marse Chan—hit all -happen right ’long togerr, like lightnin’ and thunder when they hit -right at you—I heah ’im say: - -“‘Cun’l Chahmb’lin, what you say is false, an’ yo’ know it to be so. -You have wilfully slandered one of de pures’ an’ nobles’ men Gord ever -made, an’ nothin’ but yo’ gray hyars protects you.’ - -“Well, ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin, he ra’d an’ he pitch’d. He said he wan’ -too ole, an’ he’d show ’im so. - -“‘Ve’y well,’ says Marse Chan. - -“De meetin’ broke up den. I wuz hol’in’ de hosses out dyar in de road -by dee een’ o’ de poach, an’ I see Marse Chan talkin’ an’ talkin’ to -Mr. Gordon an’ anudder gent’man, and den he come out an’ got on de -sorrel an’ galloped off. Soon ez he got out o’ sight he pulled up, -an’ we walked along tell we come to de road whar leads off to ’ds Mr. -Barbour ’s. He wuz de big lawyer o’ de country. Dar he tu’ned off. All -dis time he hedn’ sed a wud, ’cep’ to kind o’ mumble to hisse’f now and -den. When we got to Mr. Harbour’s, he got down an’ went in. Dat wuz -in de late winter; de folks wuz jes’ beginnin’ to plough fur corn. He -stayed dyar ’bout two hours, an’ when he come out Mr. Barbour come out -to de gate wid ’im an’ shake han’s arfter he got up in de saddle. Den -we all rode off. ’Twuz late den—good dark; an’ we rid ez hard ez we -could, tell we come to de ole school-house at ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s -gate. When we got dar, Marse Chan got down an’ walked right slow ’roun’ -de house. After lookin’ ’roun’ a little while an’ tryin’ de do’ to see -ef if wuz shet, he walked down de road tell he got to de creek. He -stop’ dyar a little while an’ picked up two or three little rocks an’ -frowed ’em in, an’ pres’n’y he got up an’ we come on home. Ez he got -down, he tu’ned to me an’, rubbin’ de sorrel’s nose, said: ’Have ’em -well fed, Sam; I’ll want ’em early in de mawnin’.’ - -“Dat night at supper he laugh an’ talk, an’ he set at de table a long -time. Arfter ole marster went to bed, he went in de charmber an’ set -on de bed by ’im talkin’ to ’im an’ tellin’ ’im ’bout de meetin’ an’ -ev’ything; but he nuver mention ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s name. When he -got up to come out to de office in de yard, whar he slept, he stooped -down an’ kissed ’im jes’ like he wuz a baby layin’ dyar in de bed, an’ -he’d hardly let ole missis go at all. I knowed some’n wuz up, an’ nex’ -mawnin’ I called ’im early befo’ light, like he tole me, an’ he dressed -an’ come out pres’n’y jes’ like he wuz goin’ to church. I had de hosses -ready, an’ we went out de back way to ’ds de river. Ez we rode along, -he said: - -“‘Sam, you an’ I wuz boys togedder, wa’n’t we?’ - -“‘Yes,’ sez I, ’Marse Chan, dat we wuz.’ - -“‘You have been ve’y faithful to me,’ sez he, ’a’n’ I have seen to it -that you are well provided fur. You want to marry Judy, I know, an’ -you’ll be able to buy her ef you want to.’ - -“Den he tole me he wuz goin’ to fight a duil, an’ in case he should git -shot, he had set me free an’ giv’ me nuff to tek keer o’ me an’ my wife -ez long ez we lived. He said he’d like me to stay an’ tek keer o’ ole -marster an’ ole missis ez long ez dey lived, an’ he said it wouldn’ be -very long, he reckoned. Dat wuz de on’y time he voice broke—when he -said dat; an’ I couldn’ speak a wud, my th’oat choked me so. - -“When we come to de river, we tu’ned right up de bank, an’ arfter -ridin’ ’bout a mile or sich a matter, we stopped whar dey wuz a little -clearin’ wid elder bushes on one side an’ two big gum-trees on de urr, -an’ de sky wuz all red, an’ de water down to’ds whar the sun wuz comin’ -wuz jes’ like de sky. - -“Pres’n’y Mr. Gordon he come, wid a ’hogany box ’bout so big ’fore -’im, an’ he got down, an’ Marse Chan tole me to tek all de hosses an’ -go ’roun’ behine de bushes whar I tell you ’bout—off to one side; an’ -’fore I got ’roun’ dar, ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin an’ Mr. Hennin an’ Dr. -Call come ridin’ from t’urr way, to’ds ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. When dey -hed tied dey hosses, de urr gent’mens went up to whar Mr. Gordon wuz, -an’ arfter some chattin’ Mr. Hennin step’ off ’bout fur ez ’cross dis -road, or mebbe it mout be a little furder; an’ den I seed ’em th’oo de -bushes loadin’ de pistils, an’ talk a little while; an’ den Marse Chan -an’ ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin walked up wid de pistils in dey han’s, an’ -Marse Chan he stood wid his face right to’ds de sun. I seen it shine -on him jes’ ez it come up over de low groun’s, an’ he look like he did -sometimes when he come out of church. I wuz so skeered I couldn’ say -nothin’. Ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin could shoot fust rate, an’ Marse Chan he -never missed. - -“Den I heared Mr. Gordon say, ’Gent’mens, is yo’ ready?’ and bofe of -’em sez, ’Ready,’ jes’ so. - -“An’ he sez, ’Fire, one, two’—an’ ez he said ’one,’ old Cun’l -Chahmb’lin raised he pistil an’ shot right at Marse Chan. De ball went -th’oo his hat. I seen he hat sort o’ settle on he head ez de bullit -hit it, an’ _he_ jes’ tilted his pistil up in de a’r an’ shot—_bang_; -an’ ez de pistil went _bang_, he sez to Cun’l Chahmb’lin, ’I mek you a -present to yo’ fam’ly, seh!’ - -“Well, dey had some talkin’ arfter dat. I didn’t git rightly what it -wuz; but it ’peared like Cun’l Chahmb’lin he warn’t satisfied, an’ -wanted to have anurr shot. De seconds dey wuz talkin’, an’ pres’n’y -dey put de pistils up, an’ Marse Chan an’ Mr. Gordon shook han’s wid -Mr. Hennin an’ Dr. Call, an’ come an’ got on dey bosses. An’ Cun’l -Chahmb’lin he got on his hoss an’ rode away wid de urr gent’mens, -lookin’ like he did de day befo’ when all de people laughed at ’im. - -“I b’lieve ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin wan’ to shoot Marse Chan, anyway! - -“We come on home to breakfast, I totin’ de box wid de pistils befo’ me -on de roan. Would you b’lieve me, seh, Marse Chan he nuver said a wud -’bout it to ole marster or nobody. Ole missis didn’ fin’ out ’bout it -for mo’n a month, an’ den, Lawd! how she did cry and kiss Marse Chan; -an’ ole marster, aldo’ he never say much, he wuz jes’ ez please’ ez ole -missis. He call me in de room an’ made me tole ’im all ’bout it, an’ -when I got th’oo he gi’ me five dollars an’ a pyar of breeches. - -“But ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin he nuver did furgive Marse Chan, an’ Miss -Anne she got mad too. Wimmens is mons’us onreasonable nohow. Dey’s jes’ -like a catfish: you can n’ tek hole on ’em like udder folks, an’ when -you gits ’im yo’ can n’ always hole ’em. - -“What meks me think so? Heaps o’ things—dis: Marse Chan he done gi’ -Miss Anne her pa jes’ ez good ez I gi’ Marse Chan’s dawg sweet ’taters, -an’ she git mad wid ’im ez if he hed kill ’im ’stid o’ sen’in’ ’im back -to her dat mawnin’ whole an’ soun’. B’lieve me! she wouldn’ even speak -to him arfter dat! - -“Don’ I ’member dat mawnin’! - -“We wuz gwine fox-huntin’, ’bout six weeks or sich a matter arfter -de duil, an’ we met Miss Anne ridin’ ’long wid anurr lady an’ two -gent’mens whar wuz stayin’ at her house. Dyar wuz always some one or -nurr dyar co’ting her. Well, dat mawnin’ we meet ’em right in de road. -Twuz de fust time Marse Chan had see her sence de duil, an’ he raises -he hat ez he pahss, an’ she looks right at ’im wid her head up in de -yair like she nuver see ’im befo’ in her born days; an’ when she comes -by me, she sez, ’Good-mawnin’, Sam!’ Gord! I nuver see nuthin’ like -de look dat come on Marse Chan’s face when she pahss ’im like dat. He -gi’ de sorrel a pull dat fotch ’im back settin’ down in de san’ on -he handles. He ve’y lips wuz white. I tried to keep up wid ’im, but -’twarn’ no use. He sont me back home pres’n’y, an’ he rid on. I sez to -myself, ’Cun’l Chahmb’lin, don’ yo’ meet Marse Chan dis mawnin’. He -ain’ bin lookin’ ’roun’ de ole school-house, whar he an’ Miss Anne -use’ to go to school to ole Mr. Hall together, fur nuffin’. He won’ -stan’ no prodjickin’ to-day.’ - -“He nuver come home dat night tell ’way late, an’ ef he’d been -fox-huntin’ it mus’ ha’ been de ole red whar lives down in de greenscum -mashes he’d been chasin’. De way de sorrel wuz gormed up wid sweat an’ -mire sut’n’y did hu’t me. He walked up to de stable wid he head down -all de way, an’ I’se seen ’im go eighty miles of a winter day, an’ -prance into de stable at night ez fresh ez if he hed jes’ cantered over -to ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s to supper. I nuver seen a hoss beat so sence -I knowed de fetlock from de fo’lock, an’ bad ez he wuz he wan’ ez bad -ez Marse Chan. - -“Whew! he didn’ git over dat thing, seh—he nuver did git over it. - -“De war come on jes’ den, an’ Marse Chan wuz elected cap’n; but he -wouldn’ tek it. He said Firginia hadn’ seceded, an’ he wuz gwine stan’ -by her. Den dey ’lected Mr. Gordon cap’n. - -“I sut’n’y did wan’ Marse Chan to tek de place, cuz I knowed he wuz -gwine tek me wid ’im. He wan’ gwine widout Sam. An’ beside, he look so -po’ an’ thin, I thought he wuz gwine die. - -“Of co’se, ole missis she heared ’bout it, an’ she met Miss Anne in de -road, an’ cut her jes’ like Miss Anne cut Marse Chan. - -“Ole missis, she wuz proud ez anybody! So we wuz mo’ strangers dan ef -we hadn’ live’ in a hundred miles of each urr. An’ Marse Chan he wuz -gittin’ thinner an’ thinner, an’ Firginia she come out, an’ den Marse -Chan he went to Richmond an’ listed, an’ come back an’ sey he wuz a -private, an’ he didn’ know whe’r he could tek me or not. He writ to Mr. -Gordon, hows’ever, an’ ’twuz ’cided dat when he went I wuz to go ’long -an’ wait on him an’ de cap’n too. I didn’ min’ dat, yo’ know, long ez I -could go wid Marse Chan, an’ I like’ Mr. Gordon, anyways. - -“Well, one night Marse Chan come back from de offis wid a telegram dat -say, ’Come at once,’ so he wuz to start nex’ mawnin’. He uniform wuz -all ready, gray wid yaller trimmin’s, an’ mine wuz ready too, an’ he -had ole marster’s sword, whar de State gi’ ’im in de Mexikin war; an’ -he trunks wuz all packed wid ev’rything in ’em, an’ my chist was packed -too, an’ Jim Rasher he druv ’em over to de depo’ in de waggin, an’ we -wuz to start nex’ mawuin’ ’bout light. Dis wuz ’bout de las’ o’ spring, -you know. Dat night ole missis made Marse Chan dress up in he uniform, -an’ he sut’n’y did look splendid, wid he long mustache an’ he wavin’ -hyar an’ he tall figger. - -“Arfter supper he come down an’ sez: ’Sam, I wan’ you to tek dis note -an’ kyar it over to Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, an’ gi’ it to Miss Anne wid yo’ -own han’s, an’ bring me wud what she sez. Don’ let any one know ’bout -it, or know why you’ve gone.’ ’Yes, seh,’ sez I. - -“Yo’ see, I knowed Miss Anne’s maid over at ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s—dat -wuz Judy whar is my wife now—an’ I knowed I could wuk it. So I tuk de -roan an’ rid over, an’ tied ’im down de hill in de cedars, an’ I wen’ -’roun’ to de back yard. ’Twuz a right blowy sort o’ night; de moon wuz -jes’ risin’, but de clouds wuz so big it didn’ shine ’cep’ th’oo a -crack now an’ den. I soon foun’ my gal, an’ arfter tellin’ her two or -three lies ’bout herse’f, I got her to go in an’ ax Miss Anne to come -to de do’. When she come, I gi’ her de note, an’ arfter a little while -she bro’t me anurr, an’ I tole her good-bye, an’ she gi’ me a dollar, -an’ I come home an’ gi’ de letter to Marse Chan. He read it, an’ tole -me to have de hosses ready at twenty minits to twelve at de corner of -de garden. An’ jes’ befo’ dat he come out ez ef he wuz gwine to bed, -but instid he come, an’ we all struck out to’ds Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. -When we got mos’ to de gate, de hosses got sort o’ skeered, an’ I see -dey wuz some’n or somebody standin’ jes’ inside; an’ Marse Chan he -jumpt off de sorrel an’ flung me de bridle an’ he walked up. - -“She spoke fust (’twuz Miss Anne had done come out dyar to meet Marse -Chan), an’ she sez, jes’ ez cold ez a chill, ’Well, seh, I granted your -favor. I wished to relieve myse’f of de obligations you placed me under -a few months ago, when you made me a present of my father, whom you -fust insulted an’ then prevented from gittin’ satisfaction.’ - -“Marse Chan he didn’ speak fur a minit, an’ den he said: ’Who is with -you?’ Dat wuz ev’y wud. - -“‘No one,’ sez she; ’I came alone.’ - -“‘My God!’ sez he, ’you didn’ come all through those woods by yourse’f -at this time o’ night?’ - -“‘Yes, I’m not afraid,’ sez she. (An’ heah dis nigger! I don’ b’lieve -she wuz.) - -“De moon come out, an’ I cotch sight o’ her stan’in’ dyar in her white -dress, wid de cloak she had wrapped herse’f up in drapped off on de -groun’, an’ she didn’ look like she wuz ’feared o’ nuthin’. She wuz -mons’us purty ez she stood dyar wid de green bushes behine her, an’ she -hed jes’ a few flowers in her breas’—right hyah—and some leaves in -her sorrel hyar; an’ de moon come out an’ shined down on her hyar an’ -her frock an’ ’peared like de light wuz jes’ stan’in’ off it ez she -stood dyar lookin’ at Marse Chan wid her head tho’d back, jes’ like dat -mawnin’ when she pahss Marse Chan in de road widout speakin’ to ’im, -an’ sez to me, ’Good-mawnin’, Sam.’ - -“Marse Chan, he den tole her he hed come to say good-bye to her, ez -he wuz gwine ’way to de war nex’ mawnin’. I wuz watchin’ on her, an’ -I tho’t, when Marse Chan tole her dat, she sort o’ started an’ looked -up at ’im like she wuz mighty sorry, an’ ’peared like she didn’ stan’ -quite so straight arfter dat. Den Marse Chan he went on talkin’ right -fars’ to her; an’ he tole her how he had loved her ever sence she wuz -a little bit o’ baby mos’, an’ how he nuver ’membered de time when he -hedn’t ’spected to marry her. He tole her it wuz his love for her dat -hed made ’im stan’ fust at school an’ collige, an’ hed kep’ ’im good -an’ pure; an’ now he wuz gwine ’way, wouldn’t she let it be like ’twuz -in ole times, an’ ef he come back from de war wouldn’ she try to think -on him ez she use’ to do when she wuz a little guirl? - -“Marse Chan he had done been talkin’ so serious, he hed done tuk Miss -Anne’s han’, an’ wuz lookin’ down in her face like he wuz list’nin’ wid -his eyes. - -“Arfter a minit Miss Anne she said somethin’, an’ Marse Chan he cotch -her urr han’ an’ sez: - -“‘But if you love me, Anne?’ - -“When he said dat, she tu’ned her head ’way from ’im, an’ wait’ a -minit, an’ den she said—right clear: - -“‘But I don’ love yo’.’ (Jes’ dem th’ee wuds!) De wuds fall right -slow-like dirt falls out a spade on a coffin when yo’s buryin’ anybody, -an’ seys, ’Uth to uth.’ Marse Chan he jes’ let her hand drap, an’ he -stiddy hisse’f ’g’inst de gate-pos’, an’ he didn’ speak torekly. When -he did speak, all he sez wuz: - -“‘I mus’ see you home safe.’ - -“I ’clar, marster, I didn’ know ’twuz Marse Chan’s voice tell I look at -’im right good. Well, she wouldn’ let ’im go wid her. She jes’ wrap’ -her cloak ’roun’ her shoulders, an’ wen’ ’long back by herse’f, widout -doin’ more’n jes’ look up once at Marse Chan leanin’ dyah ’g’inst -de gate-pos’ in he sodger clo’s, wid he eyes on de groun’. She said -’Good-bye’ sort o’ sorf, an’ Marse Chan, widout lookin’ up, shake han’s -wid her, an’ she wuz done gone down de road. Soon ez she got ’mos’ -’roun’ de curve, Marse Chan he followed her, keepin’ under de trees so -ez not to be seen, an’ I led de hosses on down de road behine ’im. He -kep’ ’long behine her tell she wuz safe in de house, an’ den he come -an’ got on he hoss, an’ we all come home. - -“Nex’ mawnin’ we all come off to j’ine de army. An’ dey wuz a-drillin’ -an’ a-drillin’ all ’bout for a while, an’ dey went ’long wid all de -res’ o’ de army, an’ I went wid Marse Chan an’ clean he boots, an’ look -arfter de tent, an’ tek keer o’ him an’ de hosses. An’ Marse Chan, -he wan’ a bit like he use’ to be. He wuz so solumn an’ moanful all -de time, at leas’ ’cep’ when dyah wuz gwine to be a fight. Den he’d -peartin’ up, an’ he alwuz rode at de head o’ de company, ’cause he wuz -tall; an’ hit wan’ on’y in battles whar all his company wuz dat _he_ -went, but he use’ to volunteer whenever de cun’l wanted anybody to fine -out anythin’, an’ ’twuz so dangersome he didn’ like to mek one man go -no sooner’n anurr, yo’ know, an’ ax’d who’d volunteer. _He_ ’peared to -like to go prowlin’ aroun’ ’mong dem Yankees, an’ he use’ to tek me wid -’im whenever he could. Yes, seh, he sut’n’y wuz a good sodger! He didn’ -mine bullets no more’n he did so many draps o’ rain. But I use’ to be -pow’ful skeered sometimes. It jes’ use’ to ’pear like fun to ’im. In -camp he use’ to be so sorrerful he’d hardly open he mouf. You’d ’a’’ -tho’t he wuz seekin’, he used to look so moanful; but jes le’ ’im git -into danger, an’ he use’ to be like ole times—jolly an’ laughin’ like -when he wuz a boy. - -“When Cap’n Gordon got he leg shot off, dey mek Marse Chan cap’n on de -spot, ’cause one o’ de lieutenants got kilt de same day, an’ turr one -(named Mr. Ronny) wan’ no ’count, an’ de company said Marse Chan wuz de -man. - -“An’ Marse Chan he wuz jes’ de same. He didn’ never mention Miss -Anne’s name, but I knowed he wuz thinkin’ on her constant. One night -he wuz settin’ by de fire in camp, an’ Mr. Ronny—he wuz de secon’ -lieutenant—got to talkin’ ’bout ladies, an’ he say all sorts o’ things -’bout ’em, an’ I see Marse Chan kinder lookin’ mad; an’ de lieutenant -mention Miss Anne’s name. He had been courtin’ Miss Anne ’bout de time -Marse Chan fit de duil wid her pa, an’ Miss Anne hed kicked ’im, dough -he wuz mighty rich, ’cause he warn’ nuthin’ but a half-strainer, an’ -’cause she like Marse Chan, I believe, dough she didn’ speak to ’im; -an’ Mr. Ronny he got drunk, an’ ’cause Cun’l Chahmb’lin tole ’im not to -come dyah no more, he got mighty mad. An’ dat evenin’ I’se tellin’ yo’ -’bout, he wuz talkin’, an’ he mention’ Miss Anne’s name. I see Marse -Chan tu’n he eye ’roun’ on ’im an’ keep it on he face, and pres’n’y Mr. -Ronny said he wuz gwine hev some fun dyah yit. He didn’ mention her -name dat time; but he said dey wuz all on ’em a parecel of stuck-up -’risticrats, an’ her pa wan’ no gent’man anyway, an’——I don’ know -what he wuz gwine say (he nuver said it), fur ez he got dat far Marse -Chan riz up an’ hit ’im a crack, an’ he fall like he hed been hit wid -a fence-rail. He challenged Marse Chan to fight a duil, an’ Marse Chan -he excepted de challenge, an’ dey wuz gwine fight; but some on ’em -tole ’im Marse Chan wan’ gwine mek a present o’ him to his fam’ly, an’ -he got somebody to bre’k up de duil; ’twan’ nuthin’ dough, but he wuz -’fred to fight Marse Chan. An’ purty soon he lef’ de comp’ny. - -“Well, I got one o’ de gent’mens to write Judy a letter for me, an’ -I tole her all ’bout de fight, an’ how Marse Chan knock Mr. Ronny -over fur speakin’ discontemptuous o’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin, an’ I tole her -how Marse Chan wuz a-dyin’ fur love o’ Miss Anne. An’ Judy she gits -Miss Anne to read de letter fur her. Den Miss Anne she tells her pa, -an’—you mind, Judy tells me all dis arfterwards, an’ she say when -Cun’l Chahmb’lin hear ’bout it, he wuz settin’ on de poach, an’ he set -still a good while, an’ den he sey to hisse’f: - -“‘Well, he carn’ he’p bein’ a Whig.’ - -“An’ den he gits up an’ walks up to Miss Anne an’ looks at her right -hard; an’ Miss Anne she hed done tu’n away her haid an’ wuz makin’ -out she wuz fixin’ a rose-bush ’g’inst de poach; an’ when her pa kep’ -lookin’ at her, her face got jes’ de color o’ de roses on de bush, and -pres’n’y her pa sez: - -“‘Anne!’ - -“An’ she tu’ned roun’, an’ he sez: - -“‘Do yo’ want ’im?’ - -“An’ she sez, ’Yes,’ an’ put her head on he shoulder an’ begin to cry; -an’ he sez: - -“‘Well, I won’ stan’ between yo’ no longer. Write to ’im an’ say so.’ - -“We didn’ know nuthin’ ’bout dis den. We wuz a-fightin’ an’ a-fightin’ -all dat time; an’ come one day a letter to Marse Chan, an’ I see ’im -start to read it in his tent, an’ he face hit look so cu’ious, an’ he -han’s trembled so I couldn’ mek out what wuz de matter wid ’im. An’ he -fol’ de letter up an’ wen’ out an’ wen’ way down ’hine de camp, an’ -stayed dyah ’bout nigh an hour. Well, seh, I wuz on de lookout for -’im when he come back, an’, fo’ Gord, ef he face didn’ shine like a -angel’s! I say to myse’f, ’Um’m! ef de glory o’ Gord ain’ done shine on -’im!’ An’ what yo’ ’spose ’twuz? - -“He tuk me wid ’im dat evenin’, an’ he tell me he hed done git a -letter from Miss Anne, an’ Marse Chan he eyes look like gre’t big -stars, an’ he face wuz jes’ like ’twuz dat mawnin’ when de sun riz up -over de low groun’, an’ I see ’im stan’in’ dyah wid de pistil in he -han’, lookin’ at it, an’ not knowin’ but what it mout be de lars’ time, -an’ he done mek up he mine not to shoot ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin fur Miss -Anne’s sake, what writ ’im de letter. - -“He fol’ de letter wha’ was in his han’ up, an’ put it in he inside -pocket—right dyar on de lef’ side; an’ den he tole me he tho’t mebbe -we wuz gwine hev some warm wuk in de nex’ two or th’ee days, an’ arfter -dat ef Gord speared ’im he’d git a leave o’ absence fur a few days, an’ -we’d go home. - -“Well, dat night de orders come, an’ we all hed to git over to’ds -Romney; an’ we rid all night till ’bout light; an’ we halted right on -a little creek, an’ we stayed dyah till mos’ breakfas’ time, an’ I see -Marse Chan set down on de groun’ ’hine a bush an’ read dat letter over -an’ over. I watch ’im, an’ de battle wuz a-goin’ on, but we had orders -to stay ’hine de hill, an’ ev’y now an’ den de bullets would cut de -limbs o’ de trees right over us, an’ one o’ dem big shells what goes -’_Awhar—awhar—awhar!_’ would fall right ’mong us; but Marse Chan -he didn’ mine it no mo’n nuthin’! Den it ’peared to git closer an’ -thicker, and Marse Chan he calls me, an’ I crep’ up, an’ he sez: - -“‘Sam, we’se goin’ to win in dis battle, an’ den we’ll go home an’ git -married; an’ I’se goin’ home wid a star on my collar.’ An’ den he sez, -’Ef I’m wounded, kyar me home, yo’ hear?’ An’ I sez, ’Yes, Marse Chan.’ - -“Well, jes’ den dey blowed boots an’ saddles, an’ we mounted; an’ de -orders come to ride ’roun’ de slope, an’ Marse Chan’s comp’ny wuz de -secon’, an’ when we got ’roun’ dyah, we wuz right in it. Hit wuz de -wust place ever dis nigger got in. An’ dey said, ’Charge ’em!’ an’ my -king! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey did dat day. Hit wuz jes’ like -hail; an’ we wen’ down de slope (I ’long wid de res’) an’ up de hill -right to’ds de cannons, an’ de fire wuz so strong dyar (dey hed a whole -rigiment o’ infintrys layin’ down dyar onder de cannons) our lines -sort o’ broke an’ stop; de cun’l was kilt, an’ I b’lieve dey wuz jes’ -’bout to bre’k all to pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an’ cotch hol’ -de fleg an’ hollers, ’Foller me!’ an’ rid strainin’ up de hill ’mong -de cannons. I seen ’im when he went, de sorrel four good length ahead -o’ ev’y urr hoss, jes’ like he use’ to be in a fox-hunt, an’ de whole -rigiment right arfter ’im. Yo’ ain’ nuver hear thunder! Fust thing I -knowed, de roan roll’ head over heels an’ flung me up ’g’inst de bank, -like yo’ chuck a nubbin over ’g’inst de foot o’ de corn pile. An’ dat’s -what kep’ me from bein’ kilt, I ’spects. Judy she say she think ’twuz -Providence, but I think ’twuz de bank! O’ co’se, Providence put de bank -dyah, but how come Providence nuver saved Marse Chan? When I look’ -’roun’, de roan wuz layin’ dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball -gone ’mos’ th’oo him, an’ our men hed done swep’ dem on t’urr side from -de top o’ de hill. ’Twan’ mo’n a minit, de sorrel come gallupin’ back -wid his mane flyin’, an’ de rein hangin’ down on one side to his knee. -’Dyar!’ says I, ’fo’ Gord! I ’specks dey done kill Marse Chan, an’ I -promised to tek care on him.’ - -“I jumped up an’ run over de bank, an’ dyar, wid a whole lot o’ dead -men, an’ some not dead yit, onder one o’ de guns wid de fleg still in -he han’, an’ a bullet right th’oo he body, lay Marse Chan. I tu’n ’im -over an’ call ’im, ’Marse Chan!’ but ’twan’ no use, he wuz done gone -home, sho’ ‘nuff. I pick’ ’im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he -han’s, an’ toted ’im back jes’ like I did dat day when he wuz a baby, -an’ ole marster gin ’im to me in my arms, an’ sez he could trus’ me, -an’ tell me to tek keer on ’im long ez he lived. I kyar’d ’im ’way -off de battlefiel’ out de way o’ de balls, an’ I laid ’im down onder -a big tree till I could git somebody to ketch de sorrel for me. He -wuz cotched arfter a while, an’ I hed some money, so I got some pine -plank an’ made a coffin dat evenin’, an’ wrapt Marse Chan’s body up in -de fleg, an’ put ’im in de coffin; but I didn’ nail de top on strong, -’cause I knowed ole missis wan’ see ’im; an’ I got a’ ambulance an’ -set out for home dat night. We reached dyar de nex’ evein’, arfter -travellin’ all dat night an’ all nex’ day. - -“Hit ’peared like somethin’ hed tole ole missis we wuz comin’ so; for -when we got home she wuz waitin’ for us—done drest up in her best -Sunday-clo’es, an’ stan’n’ at de head o’ de big steps, an’ ole marster -settin’ in his big cheer—ez we druv up de hill to’ds de house, I -drivin’ de ambulance an’ de sorrel leadin’ ’long behine wid de stirrups -crost over de saddle. - -“She come down to de gate to meet us. We took de coffin out de -ambulance an’ kyar’d it right into de big parlor wid de pictures in it, -whar dey use’ to dance in ole times when Marse Chan wuz a schoolboy, -an’ Miss Anne Chahmb’lin use’ to come over, an’ go wid ole missis into -her charmber an’ tek her things off. In dyar we laid de coffin on two -o’ de cheers, an’ ole missis nuver said a wud; she jes’ looked so ole -an’ white. - -“When I had tell ’em all ’bout it, I tu’ned right ’roun’ an’ rid over -to Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, ’cause I knowed dat wuz what Marse Chan he’d -’a’ wanted me to do. I didn’ tell nobody whar I wuz gwine, ’cause yo’ -know none on ’em hadn’ nuver speak to Miss Anne, not sence de duil, an’ -dey didn’ know ’bout de letter. - -“When I rid up in de yard, dyar wuz Miss Anne a-stan’in’ on de poach -watchin’ me ez I rid up. I tied my hoss to de fence, an’ walked up de -parf. She knowed by de way I walked dyar wuz somethin’ de motter, an’ -she wuz mighty pale. I drapt my cap down on de een’ o’ de steps an’ -went up. She nuver opened her mouf; jes’ stan’ right still an’ keep her -eyes on my face. Fust, I couldn’ speak; den I cotch my voice, an’ I -say, ’Marse Chan, he done got he furlough.’ - -“Her face was mighty ashy, an’ she sort o’ shook, but she didn’ fall. -She tu’ned ’roun’ an’ said, ’Git me de ker’ige!’ Dat wuz all. - -“When de ker’ige come ’roun’, she hed put on her bonnet, an’ wuz ready. -Ez she got in, she sey to me, ’Hev yo’ brought him home?’ an’ we drove -’long, I ridin’ behine. - -“When we got home, she got out, an’ walked up de big walk—up to de -poach by herse’f. Ole missis hed done fin’ de letter in Marse Chan’s -pocket, wid de love in it, while I wuz ’way, an’ she wuz a-waitin’ on -de poach. Dey sey dat wuz de fust time ole missis cry when she find de -letter, an’ dat she sut’n’y did cry over it, pintedly. - -“Well, seh, Miss Anne she walks right up de steps, mos’ up to ole -missis stan’in’ dyar on de poach, an’ jes’ falls right down mos’ to -her, on her knees fust, an’ den flat on her face right on de flo’, -ketchin’ at ole missis’ dress wid her two han’s—so. - -“Ole missis stood for ’bout a minit lookin’ down at her, an’ den she -drapt down on de flo’ by her, an’ took her in bofe her arms. - -“I couldn’ see, I wuz cryin’ so myse’f, an’ ev’ybody wuz cryin’. But -dey went in arfter a while in de parlor, an’ shet de do’; an’ I heahd -’em say, Miss Anne she tuk de coffin in her arms an’ kissed it, an’ -kissed Marse Chan, an’ call ’im by his name, an’ her darlin’, an’ ole -missis lef’ her cryin’ in dyar tell some on ’em went in, an’ found her -done faint on de flo’. - -“Judy (she’s my wife) she tell me she heah Miss Anne when she axed ole -missis mout she wear mo’nin’ fur ‘im. I don’ know how dat is; but when -we buried ‘im nex’ day, she wuz de one whar walked arfter de coffin, -holdin’ ole marster, an’ ole missis she walked next to ’em. - -“Well, we buried Marse Chan dyar in de ole grabeyard, wid de fleg -wrapped roun’ ‘im, an’ he face lookin’ like it did dat mawnin’ down in -de low groun’s, wid de new sun shinin’ on it so peaceful. - -“Miss Anne she nuver went home to stay arfter dat; she stay wid ole -marster an’ ole missis ez long ez dey lived. Dat warn’ so mighty -long, ’cause ole marster he died dat fall, when dey wuz fallerin’ fur -wheat—I had jes’ married Judy den—an’ ole missis she warn’ long -behine him. We buried her by him next summer. Miss Anne she went in de -hospitals toreckly arfter ole missis died; an’ jes’ fo’ Richmond fell -she come home sick wid de fever. Yo’ nuver would ’a’’ knowed her fur -de same ole Miss Anne. She wuz light ez a piece o’ peth, an’ so white, -’cep’ her eyes an’ her sorrel hyar, an’ she kep’ on gittin’ whiter an’ -weaker. Judy she sut’n’y did nuss her faithful. But she nuver got no -betterment! De fever an’ Marse Chan’s bein’ kilt hed done strain her, -an’ she died jes’ fo’ de folks wuz sot free. - -“So we buried Miss Anne right by Marse Chan, in a place whar ole missis -hed tole us to leave, an’ dey’s bofe on ’em sleep side by side over in -de ole grabeyard at home. - -“An’ will yo’ please tell me, marster? Dey tells me dat de Bible sey -dyar won’ be marryin’ nor givin’ in marriage in heaven, but I don’ -b’lieve it signifies dat—does you?” - -I gave him the comfort of my earnest belief in some other -interpretation, together with several spare “eighteen-pences,” as he -called them, for which he seemed humbly grateful. And as I rode away I -heard him calling across the fence to his wife, who was standing in the -door of a small whitewashed cabin, near which we had been standing for -some time: - -“Judy, have Marse Chan’s dawg got home?” - - - - - “POSSON JONE’” - - BY - - GEORGE W. CABLE - - - - -Bliss Perry mentions this story as one that presents “people and -events and circumstances, blended into an artistic whole that defies -analysis.” It illustrates dramatic incident, local color, and complex -character analysis. - - - - -“POSSON JONE’”[20] - - -To Jules St.-Ange—elegant little heathen—there yet remained at -manhood a remembrance of having been to school, and of having been -taught by a stony-headed Capuchin that the world is round—for example, -like a cheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten through, and -Jules had nibbled quite into his cheeseworld already at twenty-two. - -He realized this as he idled about one Sunday morning where the -intersection of Royal and Conti streets some seventy years ago formed -a central corner of New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was he had been -wasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that faithful friend -and confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. They concluded that, -papa’s patience and _tante’s_ pin-money having been gnawed away quite -to the rind, there were left open only these few easily enumerated -resorts: to go to work—they shuddered; to join Major Innerarity’s -filibustering expedition; or else—why not?—to try some games of -confidence. At twenty-two one must begin to be something. Nothing else -tempted; could that avail? One could but try. It is noble to try; and, -besides, they were hungry. If one could “make the friendship” of some -person from the country, for instance, with money, not expert at cards -or dice, but, as one would say, willing to learn, one might find cause -to say some “Hail Marys.” - -The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste pronounced it good -for luck. There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed-grown -tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe -walls a rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Upstreet, and -across the Rue du Canal, one could get glimpses of the gardens in -Faubourg Ste.-Marie standing in silent wretchedness, so many tearful -Lucretias, tattered victims of the storm. Short remnants of the wind -now and then came down the narrow street in erratic puffs heavily laden -with odors of broken boughs and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools -of rain-water in the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly went -away to nothing, like a juggler’s butterflies or a young man’s money. - -It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale. The rich and poor met -together. The locksmith’s swinging key creaked next door to the bank; -across the way, crouching, mendicant-like, in the shadow of a great -importing-house, was the mud laboratory of the mender of broken combs. -Light balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and stores open for -trade this Sunday morning, and pretty Latin faces of the higher class -glanced over their savagely pronged railings upon the passers below. At -some windows hung lace curtains, flannel duds at some, and at others -only the scraping and sighing one-hinged shutter groaning toward Paris -after its neglectful master. - -M. St.-Ange stood looking up and down the street for nearly an hour. -But few ladies, only the inveterate mass-goers, were out. About the -entrance of the frequent _cafés_ the masculine gentility stood leaning -on canes, with which now one and now another beckoned to Jules, some -even adding pantomimic hints of the social cup. - -M. St.-Ange remarked to his servant without turning his head that -somehow he felt sure he should soon return those _bons_ that the -mulatto had lent him. - -“What will you do with them?” - -“Me!” said Baptiste, quickly; “I will go and see the bull-fight in the -Place Congo.” - -“There is to be a bull-fight? But where is M. Cayetano?” - -“Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. Instead of his circus, -they are to have a bull-fight—not an ordinary bull-fight with sick -horses, but a buffalo-and-tiger fight. I would not miss it——” - -Two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, and commenced striking -at something with their canes. Others followed. Can M. St.-Ange and -servant, who hasten forward—can the Creoles, Cubans, Spaniards, San -Domingo refugees, and other loungers—can they hope it is a fight? -They hurry forward. Is a man in a fit? The crowd pours in from the -side-streets. Have they killed a so-long snake? Bareheaded shopmen -leave their wives, who stand upon chairs. The crowd huddles and packs. -Those on the outside make little leaps into the air, trying to be tall. - -“What is the matter?” - -“Have they caught a real live rat?” - -“Who is hurt?” asks some one in English. - -“_Personne_,” replies a shopkeeper; “a man’s hat blow’ in the gutter; -but he has it now. Jules pick’ it. See, that is the man, head and -shoulders on top the res’.” - -“He in the homespun?” asks a second shopkeeper. “Humph! an -_Américain_—a West-Floridian; bah!” - -“But wait; ’st! he is speaking; listen!” - -“To who is he speak——?” - -“Sh-sh-sh! to Jules.” - -“Jules who?” - -“Silence, you! To Jules St.-Ange, what howe me a bill since long time. -Sh-sh-sh!” - -Then the voice was heard. - -Its owner was a man of giant stature, with a slight stoop in his -shoulders, as if he was making a constant, good-natured attempt to -accommodate himself to ordinary doors and ceilings. His bones were -those of an ox. His face was marked more by weather than age, and his -narrow brow was bald and smooth. He had instantaneously formed an -opinion of Jules St.-Ange, and the multitude of words, most of them -lingual curiosities, with which he was rasping the wide-open ears of -his listeners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his name was -Parson Jones, the little Creole was a “plum gentleman.” - -M. St.-Ange bowed and smiled, and was about to call attention, by both -gesture and speech, to a singular object on top of the still uncovered -head, when the nervous motion of the _Américain_ anticipated him, as, -throwing up an immense hand, he drew down a large roll of bank-notes. -The crowd laughed, the West-Floridian joining, and began to disperse. - -“Why, that money belongs to Smyrny Church,” said the giant. - -“You are very dengerous to make your money expose like that, Misty -Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange, counting it with his eyes. - -The countryman gave a start and smile of surprise. - -“How d’dyou know my name was Jones?” he asked; but, without pausing -for the Creole’s answer, furnished in his reckless way some further -specimens of West-Floridian English; and the conciseness with -which he presented full intelligence of his home, family, calling, -lodging-house, and present and future plans, might have passed for -consummate art, had it not been the most run-wild nature. “And I’ve -done been to Mobile, you know, on busi_ness_ for Bethesdy Church. -It’s the on’yest time I ever been from home; now you wouldn’t of -believed that, would you? But I admire to have saw you, that’s so. -You’ve got to come and eat with me. Me and my boy ain’t been fed -yit. “What might one call yo’ name? Jools? Come on, Jools. Come on, -Colossus. That’s my niggah—his name’s Colossus of Rhodes. Is that yo’ -yallah boy, Jools? Fetch him along, Colossus. It seems like a special -provi_dence_.—Jools, do you believe in a special provi_dence_?” - -Jules said he did. - -The new-made friends moved briskly off, followed by Baptiste and a -short, square, old negro, very black and grotesque, who had introduced -himself to the mulatto, with many glittering and cavernous smiles, as -“d’body-sarvant of d’Rev’n’ Mr. Jones.” - -Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson Jones -descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illustrated in the -perplexities of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would always -be “a special provi_dence_ again’ cotton untell folks quits a-pressin’ -of it and haulin’ of it on Sundays!” - -“_Je dis_,” said St.-Ange, in response, “I thing you is juz right. I -believe, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, yes. You know my papa -he hown a sugah-plantation, you know. ’Jules, me son,’ he say one -time to me, ’I goin’ to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze high -price in New Orleans.’ Well, he take his bez baril sugah—I nevah see -a so careful man like me papa always to make a so beautiful sugah _et -sirop_. ’Jules, go at Father Pierre an’ ged this lill pitcher fill with -holy-water, an’ tell him sen’ his tin bucket, and I will make it fill -with _quitte_.’ I ged the holy-water; my papa sprinkle it over the -baril, an’ make one cross on the ’ead of the baril.” - -“Why, Jools,” said Parson Jones, “that didn’t do no good.” - -“Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value! You can strike me dead -if thad baril sugah din fedge the more high cost than any other in the -city. _Parce-que_, the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistake -of one hundred pound”—falling back—“_Mais_ certainlee!” - -“And you think that was growin’ out of the holy-water?” asked the -parson. - -“_Mais_, what could make it else? Id could not be the _quitte_, because -my papa keep the bucket, an’ forget to sen’ the _quitte_ to Father -Pierre.” - -Parson Jones was disappointed. - -“Well, now, Jools, you know, I don’t think that was right. I reckon you -must be a plum Catholic.” - -M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his faith. - -“I am a _Catholique_, _mais_”—brightening as he hoped to recommend -himself anew—“not a good one.” - -“Well, you know,” said Jones—“where’s Colossus? Oh! all right. -Colossus strayed off a minute in Mobile, and I plum lost him for two -days. Here’s the place; come in. Colossus and this boy can go to the -kitchen.—Now, Colossus, what _air_ you a-beckonin’ at me faw?” - -He let his servant draw him aside and address him in a whisper. - -“Oh, go ’way!” said the parson with a jerk. “Who’s goin’ to throw me? -What? Speak louder. Why, Colossus, you shayn’t talk so, saw. ’Pon my -soul, you’re the mightiest fool I ever taken up with. Jest you go down -that alley-way with this yalla boy, and don’t show yo’ face untell yo’ -called!” - -The negro begged; the master wrathily insisted. - -“Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I hev to strike you, -saw?” - -“O Mahs Jimmy, I—I’s gwine; but”—he ventured nearer—“don’t on no -account drink nothin’, Mahs Jimmy.” - -Such was the negro’s earnestness that he put one foot in the gutter, -and fell heavily against his master. The parson threw him off angrily. - -“Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you most of been dosted with sumthin’; yo’ -plum crazy.—Humph, come on, Jools, let’s eat! Humph! to tell me that -when I never taken a drop, exceptin’ for chills, in my life—which he -knows so as well as me!” - -The two masters began to ascend a stair. - -“_Mais_, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me,” said the young Creole. - -“No, I wouldn’t do that,” replied the parson; “though there is people -in Bethesdy who says he is a rascal. He’s a powerful smart fool. Why, -that boy’s got money, Jools; more money than religion, I reckon. I’m -shore he fallen into mighty bad company”—they passed beyond earshot. - -Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern kitchen, passed -to the next door and entered the dark rear corner of a low grocery, -where, the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold to slaves. -There, in the quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer, the colloquial -powers of Colossus, which were simply prodigious, began very soon to -show themselves. - -“For whilst,” said he, “Mahs Jimmy has eddication, you know—whilst he -has eddication, I has ’scretion. He has eddication and I has ’scretion, -an’ so we gits along.” - -He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying half his length -upon the damp board, continued: - -“As a p’inciple I discredits de imbimin’ of awjus liquors. De imbimin’ -of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de Sabbaf, de playin’ of de fiddle, -and de usin’ of by-words, dey is de fo’ sins of de conscience; an’ if -any man sin de fo’ sins of de conscience, de debble done sharp his fork -fo’ dat man.—Ain’t that so, boss?” - -The grocer was sure it was so. - -“Neberdeless, mind you”—here the orator brimmed his glass from the -bottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye—“mind you, a roytious -man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take a -_leetle_ for de weak stomach.” - -But the fascinations of Colossus’s eloquence must not mislead us; this -is the story of a true Christian; to wit, Parson Jones. - -The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee M. St.-Ange declared -he could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Market, -near by, there was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to be -bought, and Parson Jones had scruples. - -“You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which it -does so in——” - -“Oh, yes!” cried St.-Ange, “conscien’; thad is the bez, Posson Jone’. -Certainlee! I am a _Catholique_, you is a _schismatique_; you thing it -is wrong to dring some coffee—well, then, it _is_ wrong; you thing it -is wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price—well, then, it -_is_ wrong; I thing it is right—well, then, it _is_ right; it is all -’a’bit; _c’est tout_. What a man thing is right, _is right_; ’tis all -’a’bit. A man muz nod go again’ his conscien’. My faith! do you thing -I would go again’ my conscien’? _Mais allons_, led us go and ged some -coffee.” - -“Jools.” - -“W’at?” - -“Jools, it ain’t the drinkin’ of coffee, but the buyin’ of it on a -Sabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools, it’s again’ conscience, you -know.” - -“Ah!” said St.-Ange, “_c’est_ very true. For you it would be a sin, -_mais_ for me it is only ’a’bit. Rilligion is a very strange; I know a -man one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening. -I thing it is all ’a’bit. _Mais_, come, Posson Jone’; I have got one -friend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. Come; -Miguel have no familie; only him and Joe—always like to see friend; -_allons_, led us come yonder.” - -“Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know,” said the shame-faced parson, “I -never visit on Sundays.” - -“Never w’at?” asked the astounded Creole. - -“No,” said Jones, smiling awkwardly. - -“Never visite?” - -“Exceptin’ sometimes amongst church-members,” said Parson Jones. - -“_Mais_,” said the seductive St.-Ange, “Miguel and Joe is -church-member’—certainlee! They love to talk about rilligion. Come at -Miguel and talk about some rilligion. I am nearly expire for me coffee.” - -Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair and rose up. - -“Jools,” said the weak giant, “I ought to be in church right now.” - -“_Mais_, the church is right yonder at Miguel’, yes. Ah!” continued -St.-Ange, as they descended the stairs, “I thing every man muz have the -rilligion he like’ the bez—me, I like the _Catholique_ rilligion the -bez—for me it _is_ the bez. Every man will sure go to heaven if he -like his rilligion the bez.” - -“Jools,” said the West-Floridian, laying his great hand tenderly upon -the Creole’s shoulder, as they stepped out upon the _banquette_, “do -you think you have any shore hopes of heaven?” - -“Yass!” replied St.-Ange; “I am sure-sure. I thing everybody will go -to heaven. I thing you will go, _et_ I thing Miguel will go, _et_ -Joe—everybody, I thing—_mais_, hof course, not if they not have been -christen’. Even I thing some niggers will go.” - -“Jools,” said the parson, stopping in his walk—“Jools, I _don’t_ want -to lose my niggah.” - -“You will not loose him. With Baptiste he _cannot_ ged loose.” - -But Colossus’s master was not reassured. - -“Now,” said he, still tarrying, “this is jest the way; had I of gone to -church——” - -“Posson Jone’,” said Jules. - -“What?” - -“I tell you. We goin’ to church!” - -“Will you?” asked Jones, joyously. - -“_Allons_, come along,” said Jules, taking his elbow. - -They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several corners, and by and -by turned into a cross street. The parson stopped an instant as they -were turning and looked back up the street. - -“W’at you lookin’?” asked his companion. - -“I thought I saw Colossus,” answered the parson, with an anxious face; -“I reckon ’twa’n’t him, though.” And they went on. - -The street they now entered was a very quiet one. The eye of any chance -passer would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick -edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out -like a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair of lamps -hanging before a large closed entrance. It was a theatre, honey-combed -with gambling-dens. At this morning hour all was still, and the only -sign of life was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its -narrow shade, and each carrying an infant relative. Into this place the -parson and M. St.-Ange entered, the little nurses jumping up from the -sills to let them pass in. - -A half-hour may have passed. At the end of that time the whole juvenile -company were laying alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather -what they could of an interesting quarrel going on within. - -“I did not, saw! I given you no cause of offence, saw! It’s not -so, saw! Mister Jools simply mistaken the house, thinkin’ it was a -Sabbath-school! No such thing, saw; I _ain’t_ bound to bet! Yes, I kin -git out. Yes, without bettin’! I hev a right to my _o_pinion; I reckon -I’m _a white man_, saw! No, saw! I on’y said I didn’t think you could -get the game on them cards. ’Sno such thing, saw! I do _not_ know how -to play! I wouldn’t hev a rascal’s money ef I should win it! Shoot, ef -you dare! You can kill me, but you cayn’t scare me! No, I shayn’t bet! -I’ll die first! Yes, saw; Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires to; I -ain’t his mostah.” - -Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St.-Ange. - -“Saw, I don’t understand you, saw. I never said I’d loan you money to -bet for me. I didn’t suspicion this from you, saw. No, I won’t take any -more lemonade; it’s the most notorious stuff I ever drank, saw!” - -M. St.-Ange’s replies were in _falsetto_ and not without effect; for -presently the parson’s indignation and anger began to melt. “Don’t ask -me, Jools, I can’t help you. It’s no use; it’s a matter of conscience -with me, Jools.” - -“Mais oui! ’tis a matt’ of conscien’ wid me, the same.” - -“But, Jools, the money’s none o’ mine, nohow; it belongs to Smyrny, you -know.” - -“If I could make jus’ _one_ bet,” said the persuasive St.-Ange, “I -would leave this place, fas’-fas’, yes. If I had thing—_mais_ I did -not soupspicion this from you, Posson Jone’——” - -“Don’t, Jools, don’t!” - -“No! Posson Jone’.” - -“You’re bound to win?” said the parson, wavering. - -“_Mais certainement!_ But it is not to win that I want; ’tis me -conscien’—me honor!” - -“Well, Jools, I hope I’m not a-doin’ no wrong. I’ll loan you some -of this money if you say you’ll come right out ’thout takin’ your -winnin’s.” - -All was still. The peeping children could see the parson as he -lifted his hand to his breast-pocket. There it paused a moment in -bewilderment, then plunged to the bottom. It came back empty, and fell -lifelessly at his side. His head dropped upon his breast, his eyes -were for a moment closed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed -against his forehead, a tremor seized him, and he fell all in a lump -to the floor. The children ran off with their infant-loads, leaving -Jules St.-Ange swearing by all his deceased relatives, first to Miguel -and Joe, and then to the lifted parson, that he did not know what had -become of the money “except if” the black man had got it. - - * * * * * - -In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites of the old -rampart, a trio of Spanish forts, where the town has since sprung -up and grown old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole -summer, lay the Congo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the -historic Cayetano, who Sunday after Sunday sowed the sawdust for his -circus-ring. - -But to-day the great showman had fallen short of his printed promise. -The hurricane had come by night, and with one fell swash had made an -irretrievable sop of everything. The circus trailed away its bedraggled -magnificence, and the ring was cleared for the bull. - -Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the people. “See,” said -the Spaniards, looking up at the glorious sky with its great, white -fleets drawn off upon the horizon—“see—heaven smiles upon the -bull-fight!” - -In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gaily-decked -wives and daughters of the Gascons, from the _métaries_ along the -Ridge, and the chattering Spanish women of the Market, their shining -hair unbonneted to the sun. Next below were their husbands and lovers -in Sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen, -Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy Portuguese sailors, in little woollen -caps, and strangers of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany, -and Holland. The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, -Canadian _voyageurs_, drinking and singing; _Américains_, too—more’s -the shame—from the upper rivers—who will not keep their seats—who -ply the bottle, and who will get home by and by and tell how wicked -Sodom is; broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans, too, with their -copper cheeks and bat’s eyes, and their tinkling spurred heels. Yonder, -in that quieter section, are the quadroon women in their black lace -shawls—and there is Baptiste; and below them are the turbaned black -women, and there is—but he vanishes—Colossus. - -The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded, -does not begin. The _Américains_ grow derisive and find pastime in -gibes and raillery. They mock the various Latins with their national -inflections, and answer their scowls with laughter. Some of the more -aggressive shout pretty French greetings to the women of Gascony, and -one bargeman, amid peals of applause, stands on a seat and hurls a -kiss to the quad-rooms. The mariners of England, Germany, and Holland, -as spectators, like the fun, while the Spaniards look black and cast -defiant imprecations upon their persecutors. Some Gascons, with timely -caution, pick their women out and depart, running a terrible fire of -gallantries. - -In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull: “The bull, the -bull!—hush!” - -In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling—standing head -and shoulders above the rest—calling in the _Américaine_ tongue. -Another man, big and red, named Joe, and a handsome little Creole -in elegant dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but the -flat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it. Ah, through -some shameful knavery of the men, into whose hands he has fallen, he is -drunk! Even the women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildly -and raises his voice until the whole great circle hears it. He is -preaching! - -Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now! The men of his own -nation—men from the land of the open English Bible and temperance cup -and song are cheering him on to mad disgrace. And now another call for -the appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen singing the ancient -tune of Mear. You can hear the words— - - “Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul” - -—from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with laughter, from -singers who toss their hats aloft and roll in their seats; the chorus -swells to the accompaniment of a thousand brogans— - - “He used to wear an old gray coat - All buttoned down before.” - -A ribboned man in the arena is trying to be heard, and the Latins -raise one mighty cry for silence. The big red man gets a hand over the -parson’s mouth, and the ribboned man seizes his moment. - -“They have been endeavoring for hours,” he says, “to draw the terrible -animals from their dens, but such is their strength and fierceness, -that——” - -His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard to warrant the inference -that the beasts cannot be whipped out of the storm-drenched cages to -which menagerie-life and long starvation have attached them, and from -the roar of indignation the man of ribbons flies. The noise increases. -Men are standing up by hundreds, and women are imploring to be let out -of the turmoil. All at once, like the bursting of a dam, the whole mass -pours down into the ring. They sweep across the arena and over the -showman’s barriers. Miguel gets a frightful trampling. Who cares for -gates or doors? They tear the beasts’ houses bar from bar, and, laying -hold of the gaunt buffalo, drag him forth by feet, ears, and tail; -and in the midst of the _mêlée_, still head and shoulders above all, -wilder, with the cup of the wicked, than any beast, is the man of God -from the Florida parishes! - -In his arms he bore—and all the people shouted at once when they saw -it—the tiger. He had lifted it high up with its back to his breast, -his arms clasped under its shoulders; the wretched brute had curled up -caterpillar-wise, with its long tail against its belly, and through -its filed teeth grinned a fixed and impotent wrath. And Parson Jones -was shouting: - -“The tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together! You dah to say -they shayn’t and I’ll comb you with this varmint from head to foot! The -tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together. They _shell_! Now, -you, Joe! Behold! I am here to see it done. The lion and the buffler -_shell_ lay down together!” - -Mouthing these words again and again, the parson forced his way through -the surge in the wake of the buffalo. This creature the Latins had -secured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging across the old -rampart and into a street of the city. - -The northern races were trying to prevent, and there was pommelling -and knocking down, cursing and knife-drawing, until Jules St.-Ange was -quite carried away with the fun, laughed, clapped his hands, and swore -with delight, and ever kept close to the gallant parson. - -Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child’s-play an interruption. He -had come to find Colossus and the money. In an unlucky moment he made -bold to lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers in -the hands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the terrible crowd -swept over him, the lariat was cut, and the giant parson hurled the -tiger upon the buffalo’s back. In another instant both brutes were dead -at the hands of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet, and prating -of Scripture and the millennium, of Paul at Ephesus and Daniel in the -“buffler’s” den, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing -_Américains_. Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on the floor -of a cell in the _calaboza_. - -When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight. -Somebody was at the door of his cell with a key. The lock grated, -the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of -moonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange. The prisoner sat upon the empty -shackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor. - -“Misty Posson Jone’,” said the visitor, softly. - -“O Jools!” - -“_Mais_, w’at de matter, Posson Jone’?” - -“My sins, Jools, my sins!” - -“Ah! Posson Jone’, is that something to cry, because a man get -sometime a litt’ bit intoxicate? _Mais_, if a man keep _all the time_ -intoxicate, I think that is again’ the conscien’.” - -“Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened—oh! Jools, where’s my pore old -niggah?” - -“Posson Jone’, never min’; he is wid Baptiste.” - -“Where?” - -“I don’ know w’ere—_mais_ he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste is a beautiful -to take care of somebody.” - -“Is he as good as you, Jools?” asked Parson Jones, sincerely. - -Jules was slightly staggered. - -“You know, Posson Jone’, you know, a nigger cannot be good as a w’ite -man—_mais_ Baptiste is a good nigger.” - -The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands. - -“I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on the Isabella schooner. -Pore Smyrny!” He deeply sighed. - -“Posson Jone’,” said Jules, leaning against the wall and smiling, “I -swear you is the moz funny man I ever see. If I was you I would say, -me, ’Ah! ’ow I am lucky! the money I los’, it was not mine, anyhow!’ My -faith! shall a man make hisse’f to be the more sorry because the money -he los’ is not his? Me, I would say, ’it is a specious providence.’ - -“Ah! Misty Posson Jone’,” he continued, “you make a so droll sermon ad -the bull-ring. Ha! ha! I swear I think you can make money to preach -thad sermon many time ad the theatre St. Philippe. Hah! you is the moz -brave dat I never see, _mais_ ad the same time the moz rilligious man. -Where I’m goin’ to fin’ one priest to make like dat? _Mais_, why you -can’t cheer up an’ be ’a’ppy? Me, if I should be miserabl’ like that I -would kill meself.” - -The countryman only shook his head. - -“_Bien_, Posson Jone’, I have the so good news for you.” - -The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry. - -“Las’ evening when they lock’ you, I come right off at M. De Blanc’s -house to get you let out of de calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge. -So soon I was entering—’Ah! Jules, me boy, juz the man to make -complete the game!’ Posson Jone’, it was a specious providence! I win -in t’ree hours more dan six hundred dollah! Look.” He produced a mass -of bank-notes, _bons_, and due-bills. - -“And you got the pass?” asked the parson, regarding the money with a -sadness incomprehensible to Jules. - -“It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight.” - -“Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain.” - -The Creole’s face became a perfect blank. - -“Because,” said the parson, “for two reasons: firstly, I have broken -the laws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly—you must really -excuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I’m -afeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in neither case it don’t -become a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) to ’do evil -that good may come.’ I muss stay.” - -M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at this -exhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon. -“_Mais_, Posson Jone’!”—in his old _falsetto_—“de order—you cannot -read it, it is in French—compel you to go hout, sir!” - -“Is that so?” cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face—“is that -so, Jools?” - -The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he smiled, the fountain of -his tenderness was opened. He made the sign of the cross as the parson -knelt in prayer, and even whispered “Hail Mary,” etc., quite through, -twice over. - - * * * * * - -Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the city, -nestled under live-oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, and -known as Suburb St. Jean. - -With the first beam came the West-Floridian and the Creole out upon -the bank below the village. Upon the parson’s arm hung a pair of -antique saddle-bags. Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes were -encircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone bore the official -impress of every knuckle of Colossus’s left hand. The “beautiful to -take care of somebody” had lost his charge. At mention of the negro he -became wild, and, half in English, half in the “gumbo” dialect, said -murderous things. Intimidated by Jules to calmness, he became able to -speak confidently on one point; he could, would, and did swear that -Colossus had gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost certain; -in fact, he thought so. - -There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the bayou’s -margin, and Baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, -the Isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails -for departure. Moving down to where she lay, the parson and his friend -paused on the bank, loath to say farewell. - -“O Jools!” said the parson, “supposin’ Colossus ain’t gone home! O -Jools, if you’ll look him out for me, I’ll never forget you—I’ll never -forget you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken -that money. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal”—he set foot upon the -gang-plank—“but Colossus wouldn’t steal from me. Good-bye.” - -“Misty Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the parson’s -arm with genuine affection, “hol’ on. You see dis money—w’at I win -las’ night? Well, I win’ it by a specious providence, ain’t it?” - -“There’s no tellin’,” said the humbled Jones. “Providence - - “‘Moves in a mysterious way - His wonders to perform.’” - -“Ah!” cried the Creole, “_c’est_ very true. I ged this money in the -mysterieuze way. _Mais_, if I keep dis money, you know where it goin’ -be to-night?” - -“I really can’t say,” replied the parson. - -“Goin’ to de dev’,” said the sweetly-smiling young man. - -The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even Baptiste, -laughed outright. - -“O Jools, you mustn’t!” - -“Well, den, w’at I shall do wid _it_?” - -“Any thing!” answered the parson; “better donate it away to some poor -man——” - -“Ah! Misty Posson Jone’, dat is w’at I want. You los’ five hondred -dollar’—’twas me fault.” - -“No, it wa’n’t, Jools.” - -“_Mais_, it was!” - -“No!” - -“It _was_ me fault! I _swear_ it was me fault! _Mais_, here is five -hondred dollar’; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don’t got no use -for money.—Oh, my faith! Posson Jone’, you must not begin to cry some -more.” - -Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he found voice he said: - -“O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef -you hed of hed a Christian raisin’! May the Lord show you your errors -better’n I kin, and bless you for your good intentions—oh, no! I -cayn’t touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa’n’t rightly got; -you must really excuse me, my dear friend, but I cayn’t touch it.” - -St.-Ange was petrified. - -“Good-bye, dear Jools,” continued the parson. “I’m in the Lord’s -haynds, and he’s very merciful, which I hope and trust you’ll -find it out. Good-bye!”—the schooner swang slowly off before the -breeze—“good-bye!” - -St.-Ange roused himself. - -“Posson Jone’! make me hany’ow _dis_ promise: you never, never, _never_ -will come back to New Orleans.” - -“Ah, Jools, the Lord willin’, I’ll never leave home again!” - -“All right!” cried the Creole; “I thing he’s willin’. Adieu, Posson -Jone’. My faith’! you are the so fighting an’ moz rilligious man as I -never saw! Adieu! Adieu!” - -Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward the -schooner, his hands full of clods. - -St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of Colossus of -Rhodes emerge from the vessel’s hold, and the pastor of Smyrna and -Bethesda seize him in his embrace. - -“O Colossus! you outlandish old nigger! Thank the Lord! Thank the Lord!” - -The little Creole almost wept. He ran down the tow-path, laughing and -swearing, and making confused allusion to the entire _personnel_ and -furniture of the lower regions. - -By odd fortune, at the moment that St.-Ange further demonstrated his -delight by tripping his mulatto into a bog, the schooner came brushing -along the reedy bank with a graceful curve, the sails napped, and the -crew fell to poling her slowly along. - -Parson Jones was on the deck, kneeling once more in prayer. His hat had -fallen before him; behind him knelt his slave. In thundering tones he -was confessing himself “a plum fool,” from whom “the conceit had been -jolted out,” and who had been made to see that even his “nigger had the -longest head of the two.” - -Colossus clasped his hands and groaned. - -The parson prayed for a contrite heart. - -“Oh, yes!” cried Colossus. - -The master acknowledged countless mercies. - -“Dat’s so!” cried the slave. - -The master prayed that they might still be “piled on.” - -“Glory!” cried the black man, clapping his hands; “pile on!” - -“An’ now,” continued the parson, “bring this pore, backslidin’ jackace -of a parson and this pore ole fool nigger back to thar home in peace!” - -“Pray fo’ de money!” called Colossus. - -But the parson prayed for Jules. - -“Pray fo’ de _money_!” repeated the negro. - -“And oh, give thy servant back that there lost money!” - -Colossus rose stealthily, and tiptoed by his still shouting master. -St.-Ange, the captain, the crew, gazed in silent wonder at the -strategist. Pausing but an instant over the master’s hat to grin an -acknowledgment of his beholders’ speechless interest, he softly placed -in it the faithfully mourned and honestly prayed-for Smyrna fund; then, -saluted by the gesticulative, silent applause of St.-Ange and the -schooner-men, he resumed his first attitude behind his roaring master. - -“Amen!” cried Colossus, meaning to bring him to a close. - -“Onworthy though I be——” cried Jones. - -“_Amen!_” reiterated the negro. - -“A-a-amen!” said Parson Jones. - -He rose to his feet, and, stooping to take up his hat, beheld the -well-known roll. As one stunned, he gazed for a moment upon his slave, -who still knelt with clasped hands and rolling eyeballs; but when he -became aware of the laughter and cheers that greeted him from both -deck and shore, he lifted eyes and hands to heaven, and cried like the -veriest babe. And when he looked at the roll again, and hugged and -kissed it, St.-Ange tried to raise a second shout, but choked, and the -crew fell to their poles. - -And now up runs Baptiste, covered with slime, and prepares to cast his -projectiles. The first one fell wide of the mark; the schooner swung -round into a long reach of water, where the breeze was in her favor; -another shout of laughter drowned the maledictions of the muddy man; -the sails filled; Colossus of Rhodes, smiling and bowing as hero of -the moment, ducked as the main boom swept round, and the schooner, -leaning slightly to the pleasant influence, rustled a moment over the -bulrushes, and then sped far away down the rippling bayou. - -M. Jules St.-Ange stood long, gazing at the receding vessel as it now -disappeared, now reappeared beyond the tops of the high undergrowth; -but, when an arm of the forest hid it finally from sight, he turned -townward, followed by that fagged-out spaniel, his servant, saying, as -he turned, “Baptiste.” - -“_Miché?_” - -“You know w’at I goin’ do wid dis money?” - -“_Non, m’sieur._” - -“Well, you can strike me dead if I don’t goin’ to pay hall my debts! -_Allons!_” - -He began a merry little song to the effect that his sweetheart was a -wine-bottle, and master and man, leaving care behind, returned to the -picturesque Rue Royale. The ways of Providence are indeed strange. In -all Parson Jones’s after-life, amid the many painful reminiscences of -his visit to the City of the Plain, the sweet knowledge was withheld -from him that by the light of the Christian virtue that shone from him -even in his great fall, Jules St.-Ange arose, and went to his father an -honest man. - - - - -OUR AROMATIC UNCLE - -BY - -HENRY CUYLER BUNNER - -The title of Mr. Bunner’s story is attractive and stimulating to -the imagination. The plot is slight, yet clever in its use of the -surprise element. Its leading character is a splendid illustration -of a hero-worshipper who is himself the real hero. The atmosphere is -especially good. It is warmed by family affection and fragrant with -romance. This romance, as Mr. Grabo points out in “The Art of the Short -Story,” is suggested rather than recorded. The running away of the -Judge’s son and of his little admirer, the butcher-boy, really lies -outside the story proper. “With these youthful adventures the story has -not directly to do, but the hints of the antecedent action envelop the -story with a romantic atmosphere. The reader speculates upon the story -suggested, and thereby is the written story enriched and made a part of -a larger whole.” - - - - -OUR AROMATIC UNCLE[21] - - -It is always with a feeling of personal tenderness and regret that I -recall his story, although it began long before I was born, and must -have ended shortly after that important date, and although I myself -never laid eyes on the personage of whom my wife and I always speak as -“The Aromatic Uncle.” - -The story begins so long ago, indeed, that I can tell it only as a -tradition of my wife’s family. It goes back to the days when Boston was -so frankly provincial a town that one of its leading citizens, a man of -eminent position and ancient family, remarked to a young kinsman whom -he was entertaining at his hospitable board, by way of pleasing and -profitable discourse: “Nephew, it may interest you to know that it is -Mr. Everett who has the _other_ hindquarter of this lamb.” This simple -tale I will vouch for, for I got it from the lips of the nephew, who -has been my uncle for so many years that I know him to be a trustworthy -authority. - -In those days which seem so far away—and yet the space between them -and us is spanned by a lifetime of threescore years and ten—life was -simpler in all its details; yet such towns as Boston, already old, -had well-established local customs which varied not at all from year -to year; many of which lingered in later phases of urban growth. In -Boston, or at least in that part of Boston where my wife’s family -dwelt, it was the invariable custom for the head of the family to go to -market in the early morning with his wife’s list of the day’s needs. -When the list was filled, the articles were placed in a basket; and the -baskets thus filled were systematically deposited by the market-boys -at the back-door of the house to which they were consigned. Then the -housekeeper came to the back-door at her convenience, and took the -basket in. Exposed as this position must have been, such a thing as -a theft of the day’s edibles was unknown, and the first authentic -account of any illegitimate handling of the baskets brings me to the -introduction of my wife’s uncle. - -It was on a summer morning, as far as I can find out, that a little -butcher-boy—a very little butcher-boy to be driving so big a -cart—stopped in the rear of two houses that stood close together -in a suburban street. One of these houses belonged to my wife’s -father, who was, from all I can gather, a very pompous, severe, and -generally objectionable old gentleman; a Judge, and a very considerable -dignitary, who apparently devoted all his leisure to making life -miserable for his family. The other was owned by a comparatively poor -and unimportant man, who did a shipping business in a small way. He had -bought it during a period of temporary affluence, and it hung on his -hands like a white elephant. He could not sell it, and it was turning -his hair gray to pay the taxes on it. On this particular morning he had -got up at four o’clock to go down to the wharves to see if a certain -ship in which he was interested had arrived. It was due and overdue, -and its arrival would settle the question of his domestic comfort for -the whole year; for if it failed to appear, or came home with an empty -bottom, his fate would be hard indeed; but if it brought him money or -marketable goods from its long Oriental trip, he might take heart of -grace and look forward to better times. - -When the butcher’s boy stopped at the house of my wife’s father, he set -down at the back-door a basket containing fish, a big joint of roast -beef, and a generous load of fruit and vegetables, including some fine, -fat oranges. At the other door he left a rather unpromising-looking -lump of steak and a half-peck of potatoes, not of the first quality. -When he had deposited these two burdens he ran back and started his -cart up the road. - -But he looked back as he did so, and he saw a sight familiar to him, -and saw the commission of a deed entirely unfamiliar. A handsome young -boy of about his own age stepped out of the back-door of my wife’s -father’s house and looked carelessly around him. He was one of the boys -who compel the admiration of all other boys—strong, sturdy, and a -trifle arrogant. - -He had long ago compelled the admiration of the little butcher-boy. -They had been playmates together at the public school, and although the -Judge’s son looked down from an infinite height upon his poor little -comrade, the butcher-boy worshipped him with the deepest and most -fervent adoration. He had for him the admiring reverence which the boy -who can’t lick anybody has for the boy who can lick everybody. He was -a superior being, a pattern, a model; an ideal never to be achieved, -but perhaps in a crude, humble way to be imitated. And there is no -hero-worship in the world like a boy’s worship of a boy-hero. - -The sight of this fortunate and adorable youth was familiar enough to -the butcher-boy, but the thing he did startled and shocked that poor -little workingman almost as much as if his idol had committed a capital -crime right before his very eyes. For the Judge’s son suddenly let -a look into his face that meant mischief, glanced around him to see -whether anybody was observing him or not, and, failing to notice the -butcher-boy, quickly and dexterously changed the two baskets. Then he -went back into the house and shut the door on himself. - -The butcher-boy reined up his horse and jumped from his cart. His first -impulse, of course, was to undo the shocking iniquity which the object -of his admiration had committed. But before he had walked back a dozen -yards, it struck him that he was taking a great liberty in spoiling -the other boy’s joke. It was wrong, of course, he knew it; but was -it for him to rebuke the wrong-doing of such an exalted personage? -If the Judge’s son came out again, he would see that his joke had -miscarried, and then he would be displeased. And to the butcher-boy -it did not seem right in the nature of things that anything should -displease the Judge’s son. Three times he went hesitatingly backward -and forward, trying to make up his mind, and then he made it up. The -king could do no wrong. Of course he himself was doing wrong in not -putting the baskets back where they belonged; but then he reflected, -he took that sin on his own humble conscience, and in some measure -took it off the conscience of the Judge’s son—if, indeed, it troubled -that lightsome conscience at all. And, of course, too, he knew that, -being an apprentice, he would be whipped for it when the substitution -was discovered. But he didn’t mind being whipped for the boy he -worshipped. So he drove out along the road; and the wife of the poor -shipping-merchant, coming to the back-door, and finding the basket full -of good things, and noticing especially the beautiful China oranges, -naturally concluded that her husband’s ship had come in, and that he -had provided his family with a rare treat. And the Judge, when he came -home to dinner, and Mrs. Judge introduced him to the rump-steak and -potatoes—but I do not wish to make this story any more pathetic than -is necessary. - - * * * * * - -A few months after this episode, perhaps indirectly in consequence of -it—I have never been able to find out exactly—the Judge’s son, my -wife’s uncle, ran away to sea, and for many years his recklessness, his -strength, and his good looks were only traditions in the family, but -traditions which he himself kept alive by remembrances than which none -could have been more effective. - -At first he wrote but seldom, later on more regularly, but his -letters—I have seen many of them—were the most uncommunicative -documents that I ever saw in my life. His wanderings took him to many -strange places on the other side of the globe, but he never wrote -of what he saw or did. His family gleaned from them that his health -was good, that the weather was such-and-such, and that he wished to -have his love, duty, and respects conveyed to his various relatives. -In fact, the first positive bit of personal intelligence that they -received from him was five years after his departure, when he wrote -them from a Chinese port on letter-paper whose heading showed that he -was a member of a commercial firm. The letter itself made no mention -of the fact. As the years passed on, however, the letters came more -regularly and they told less about the weather, and were slightly—very -slightly—more expressive of a kind regard for his relatives. But at -the best they were cramped by the formality of his day and generation, -and we of to-day would have called them cold and perfunctory. - -But the practical assurances that he gave of his undiminished—nay, -his steadily increasing—affection for the people at home, were of a -most satisfying character, for they were convincing proof not only of -his love but of his material prosperity. Almost from his first time -of writing he began to send gifts to all the members of the family. At -first these were mere trifles, little curios of travel such as he was -able to purchase out of a seaman’s scanty wages; but as the years went -on they grew richer and richer, till the munificence of the runaway son -became the pride of the whole family. - -The old house that had been in the suburbs of Boston was fairly in -the heart of the city when I first made its acquaintance, and one of -the famous houses of the town. And it was no wonder it was famous, -for such a collection of Oriental furniture, bric-à-brac, and objects -of art never was seen outside of a museum. There were ebony cabinets, -book-cases, tables, and couches wonderfully carved and inlaid with -mother-of-pearl. There were beautiful things in bronze and jade and -ivory. There were all sorts of strange rugs and curtains and portières. -As to the china-ware and the vases, no house was ever so stocked; and -as for such trifles as shawls and fans and silk handkerchiefs, why such -things were sent not singly but by dozens. - -No one could forget his first entrance into that house. The great -drawing-room was darkened by heavy curtains, and at first you had -only a dim vision of the strange and graceful shapes of its curious -furnishing. But you could not but be instantly conscious of the -delicate perfume that pervaded the apartment, and, for the matter of -that, the whole house. It was a combination of all the delightful -Eastern smells—not sandal-wood only, nor teak, nor couscous, but all -these odors and a hundred others blent in one. Yet it was not heavy nor -overpowering, but delightfully faint and sweet, diffused through those -ample rooms. There was good reason, indeed, for the children of the -generation to which my wife belonged to speak of the generous relative -whom they had never seen as “Our Aromatic Uncle.” There were other -uncles, and I have no doubt they gave presents freely, for it was a -wealthy and free-handed family; but there was no other uncle who sent -such a delicate and delightful reminder with every gift, to breathe a -soft memory of him by day and by night. - - * * * * * - -I did my courting in the sweet atmosphere of that house, and, although -I had no earthly desire to live in Boston, I could not help missing -that strangely blended odor when my wife and I moved into an old house -in an old part of New York, whose former owners had no connections in -the Eastern trade. It was a charming and home-like old house; but at -first, although my wife had brought some belongings from her father’s -house, we missed the pleasant flavor of our aromatic uncle, for he was -now my uncle, as well as my wife’s. I say at first, for we did not miss -it long. Uncle David—that was his name—not only continued to send -his fragrant gifts to my wife at Christmas and upon her birthday, but -he actually adopted me, too, and sent me Chinese cabinets and Chinese -gods in various minerals and metals, and many articles designed for a -smoker’s use, which no smoker would ever want to touch with a ten-foot -pole. But I cared very little about the utility of these presents, -for it was not many years before, among them all, they set up that -exquisite perfume in the house, which we had learned to associate with -our aromatic uncle. - - “FOO-CHOO-LI, CHINA, January—, 18—. - - “DEAR NEPHEW AND NIECE: The Present is to inform you that I have this - day shipped to your address, per Steamer Ocean Queen, one marble and - ebony Table, six assorted gods, and a blue Dinner set; also that I - purpose leaving this Country for a visit to the Land of my Nativity - on the 6th of March next, and will, if same is satisfactory to you, - take up my Abode temporarily in your household. Should same not be - satisfactory, please cable at my charge. Messrs. Smithson & Smithson, - my Customs Brokers, will attend to all charges on the goods, and will - deliver them at your readiness. The health of this place is better - than customary by reason of the cool weather, which Health I am as - usual enjoying. Trusting that you both are at present in possession - of the same Blessing, and will so continue, I remain, dear nephew and - niece, - - “Your affectionate - - “UNCLE.” - - * * * * * - -This was, I believe, by four dozen words—those which he used to inform -us of his intention of visiting America—the longest letter that Uncle -David had ever written to any member of his family. It also conveyed -more information about himself than he had ever given since the day he -ran away to sea. Of course we cabled the old gentleman that we should -be delighted to see him. - -And, late that spring, at some date at which he could not possibly have -been expected to arrive, he turned up at our house. - -Of course we had talked a great deal about him, and wondered what -manner of a man we should find him. Between us, my wife and I had got -an idea of his personal appearance which I despair of conveying in -words. Vaguely, I should say that we had pictured him as something -mid-way between an abnormally tall Chinese mandarin and a benevolent -Quaker. What we found when we got home and were told that our uncle -from India was awaiting us, was a shrunken and bent old gentleman, -dressed very cleanly and neatly in black broadcloth, with a limp, -many-pleated shirt-front of old-fashioned style, and a plain black -cravat. If he had worn an old-time stock we could have forgiven him -the rest of the disappointment he cost us; but we had to admit to -ourselves that he had the most absolutely commonplace appearance of -all our acquaintance. In fact, we soon discovered that, except for a -taciturnity the like of which we had never encountered, our aromatic -uncle had positively not one picturesque characteristic about him. Even -his aroma was a disappointment. He had it, but it was patchouly or some -other cheap perfume of the sort, wherewith he scented his handkerchief, -which was not even a bandanna, but a plain decent white one of the -unnecessarily large sort which clergymen and old gentlemen affect. - -But, even if we could not get one single romantic association to -cluster about him, we very soon got to like the old gentleman. It is -true that at our first meeting, after saying “How d’ye do” to me and -receiving in impassive placidity the kiss which my wife gave him, he -relapsed into dead silence, and continued to smoke a clay pipe with a -long stem and a short bowl. This instrument he filled and re-filled -every few minutes, and it seemed to be his only employment. We plied -him with questions, of course, but to these he responded with a -wonderful brevity. In the course of an hour’s conversation we got from -him that he had had a pleasant voyage, that it was not a long voyage, -that it was not a short voyage, that it was about the usual voyage, -that he had not been seasick, that he was glad to be back, and that -he was not surprised to find the country very much changed. This last -piece of information was repeated in the form of a simple “No,” given -in reply to the direct question; and although it was given politely, -and evidently without the least unamiable intent, it made us both feel -very cheap. After all, it was absurd to ask a man if he were surprised -to find the country changed after fifty or sixty years of absence. -Unless he was an idiot, and unable to read at that, he must have -expected something of the sort. - -But we grew to like him. He was thoroughly kind and inoffensive in -every way. He was entirely willing to be talked to, but he did not -care to talk. If it was absolutely necessary, he _could_ talk, and when -he did talk he always made me think of the “French-English Dictionary -for the Pocket,” compiled by the ingenious Mr. John Bellows; for nobody -except that extraordinary Englishman could condense a greater amount -of information into a smaller number of words. During the time of his -stay with us I think I learned more about China than any other man in -the United States knew, and I do not believe that the aggregate of his -utterances in the course of that six months could have amounted to one -hour’s continuous talk. Don’t ask me for the information. I had no -sort of use for it, and I forgot it as soon as I could. I like Chinese -bric-à-brac, but my interest in China ends there. - -Yet it was not long before Uncle David slid into his own place in the -family circle. We soon found that he did not expect us to entertain -him. He wanted only to sit quiet and smoke his pipe, to take his two -daily walks by himself, and to read the daily paper one afternoon and -Macaulay’s “History of England” the next. He was never tired of sitting -and gazing amiably but silently at my wife; and, to head the list of -his good points, he would hold the baby by the hour, and for some -mysterious reason that baby, who required the exhibition of seventeen -toys in a minute to be reasonably quiet in the arms of anybody else, -would sit placidly in Uncle David’s lap, teething away steadily on the -old gentleman’s watch-chain, as quiet and as solemn and as aged in -appearance as any one of the assorted gods of porcelain and jade and -ivory which our aromatic uncle had sent us. - - * * * * * - -The old house in Boston was a thing of the past. My wife’s parents -had been dead for some years, and no one remained of her immediate -family except a certain Aunt Lucretia, who had lived with them until -shortly before our marriage, when the breaking up of the family sent -her West to find a home with a distant relative in California. We asked -Uncle Davy if he had stopped to see Aunt Lucretia as he came through -California. He said he had not. We asked him if he wanted to have -Aunt Lucretia invited on to pass a visit during his stay with us. He -answered that he did not. This did not surprise us at all. You might -think that a brother might long to see a sister from whom he had been -separated nearly all of a long lifetime, but then you might never have -met Aunt Lucretia. My wife made the offer only from a sense of duty; -and only after a contest with me which lasted three days and nights. -Nothing but loss of sleep during an exceptionally busy time at my -office induced me to consent to her project of inviting Aunt Lucretia. -When Uncle David put his veto upon the proposition I felt that he might -have taken back all his rare and costly gifts, and I could still have -loved him. - -But Aunt Lucretia came, all the same. My wife is afflicted with a New -England conscience, originally of a most uncomfortable character. It -has been much modified and ameliorated, until it is now considerably -less like a case of moral hives; but some wretched lingering remnant -of the original article induced her to write to Aunt Lucretia that -Uncle David was staying with us, and of course Aunt Lucretia came -without invitation and without warning, dropping in on us with ruthless -unexpectedness. - - * * * * * - -You may not think, from what I have said, that Aunt Lucretia’s visit -was a pleasant event. But it was, in some respects; for it was not only -the shortest visit she ever paid us, but it was the last with which -she ever honored us. - -She arrived one morning shortly after breakfast, just as we were -preparing to go out for a drive. She would not have been Aunt Lucretia -if she had not upset somebody’s calculations at every turn of her -existence. We welcomed her with as much hypocrisy as we could summon to -our aid on short notice, and she was not more than usually offensive, -although she certainly did herself full justice in telling us what she -thought of us for not inviting her as soon as we even heard of Uncle -David’s intention to return to his native land. She said she ought to -have been the first to embrace her beloved brother—to whom I don’t -believe she had given one thought in more years than I have yet seen. - -Uncle David was dressing for his drive. His long residence in tropical -countries had rendered him sensitive to the cold, and although it was -a fine, clear September day, with the thermometer at about sixty, he -was industriously building himself up with a series of overcoats. On a -really snappy day I have known him to get into six of these garments; -and when he entered the room on this occasion I think he had on five, -at least. - -My wife had heard his familiar foot on the stairs, and Aunt Lucretia -had risen up and braced herself for an outburst of emotional affection. -I could see that it was going to be such a greeting as is given only -once in two or three centuries, and then on the stage. I felt sure it -would end in a swoon, and I was looking around for a sofa-pillow for -the old lady to fall upon, for from what I knew of Aunt Lucretia I did -not believe she had ever swooned enough to be able to go through the -performance without danger to her aged person. - -But I need not have troubled myself. Uncle David toddled into the -room, gazed at Aunt Lucretia without a sign of recognition in his -features, and toddled out into the hall, where he got his hat and -gloves, and went out to the front lawn, where he always paced up and -down for a few minutes before taking a drive, in order to stimulate his -circulation. This was a surprise, but Aunt Lucretia’s behavior was a -greater surprise. The moment she set eyes on Uncle David the theatrical -fervor went out of her entire system, literally in one instant; and an -absolutely natural, unaffected astonishment displayed itself in her -expressive and strongly marked features. For almost a minute, until the -sound of Uncle David’s footsteps had died away, she stood absolutely -rigid; while my wife and I gazed at her spellbound. - -Then Aunt Lucretia pointed one long bony finger at me, and hissed out -with a true feminine disregard of grammar: - -“That ain’t _him_!” - - * * * * * - -“David,” said Aunt Lucretia, impressively, “had only one arm. He lost -the other in Madagascar.” - -I was too dumbfounded to take in the situation. I remember thinking, -in a vague sort of way, that Madagascar was a curious sort of place to -go for the purpose of losing an arm; but I did not apprehend the full -significance of this disclosure until I heard my wife’s distressed -protestations that Aunt Lucretia must be mistaken; there must be some -horrible mistake somewhere. - -But Aunt Lucretia was not mistaken, and there was no mistake anywhere. -The arm had been lost, and lost in Madagascar, and she could give the -date of the occurrence, and the circumstances attendant. Moreover, -she produced her evidence on the spot. It was an old daguerreotype, -taken in Calcutta a year or two after the Madagascar episode. She had -it in her hand-bag, and she opened it with fingers trembling with -rage and excitement. It showed two men standing side by side near -one of those three-foot Ionic pillars that were an indispensable -adjunct of photography in its early stages. One of the men was large, -broad-shouldered, and handsome—unmistakably a handsome edition of -Aunt Lucretia. His empty left sleeve was pinned across his breast. The -other man was, making allowance for the difference in years, no less -unmistakably the Uncle David who was at that moment walking to and fro -under our windows. For one instant my wife’s face lighted up. - -“Why, Aunt Lucretia,” she cried, “there he is! That’s Uncle David, dear -Uncle David.” - -“There he is _not_,” replied Aunt Lucretia. “That’s his business -partner—some common person that he picked up on the ship he first -sailed in—and, upon my word, I do believe it’s that wretched creature -outside. And I’ll Uncle David _him_.” - -She marched out like a grenadier going to battle, and we followed her -meekly. There was, unfortunately, no room for doubt in the case. It -only needed a glance to see that the man with one arm was a member of -my wife’s family, and that the man by his side, _our_ Uncle David, bore -no resemblance to him in stature or features. - -Out on the lawn Aunt Lucretia sailed into the dear old gentleman in the -five overcoats with a volley of vituperation. He did not interrupt her, -but stood patiently to the end, listening, with his hands behind his -back; and when, with her last gasp of available breath, Aunt Lucretia -demanded: - -“Who—who—who _are_ you, you wretch?” he responded, calmly and -respectfully: - -“I’m Tommy Biggs, Miss Lucretia.” - -But just here my wife threw herself on his neck and hugged him, and -cried: - -“You’re my own dear Uncle David, _anyway_!” - -It was a fortunate, a gloriously fortunate, inspiration. Aunt Lucretia -drew herself up in speechless scorn, stretched forth her bony finger, -tried to say something and failed, and then she and her hand-bag went -out of my gates, never to come in again. - - * * * * * - -When she had gone, our aromatic uncle—for we shall always continue to -think of him in that light, or rather in that odor—looked thoughtfully -after her till she disappeared, and then made one of the few remarks I -ever knew him to volunteer. - -“Ain’t changed a mite in forty-seven years.” - -Up to this time I had been in a dazed condition of mind. As I have -said, my wife’s family was extinct save for herself and Aunt Lucretia, -and she remembered so little of her parents, and she looked herself -so little like Aunt Lucretia, that it was small wonder that neither -of us remarked Uncle David’s unlikeness to the family type. We knew -that he did not resemble the ideal we had formed of him; and that had -been the only consideration we had given to his looks. Now, it took -only a moment of reflection to recall the fact that all the members of -the family had been tall and shapely, and that even between the ugly -ones, like Aunt Lucretia, and the pretty ones, like my wife, there was -a certain resemblance. Perhaps it was only the nose—the nose is the -brand in most families, I believe—but whatever it was, I had only to -see my wife and Aunt Lucretia together to realize that the man who had -passed himself off as our Uncle David had not one feature in common -with either of them—nor with the one-armed man in the daguerreotype. I -was thinking of this, and looking at my wife’s troubled face, when our -aromatic uncle touched me on the arm. - -“I’ll explain,” he said, “to you. _You_ tell _her_.” - -We dismissed the carriage, went into the house, and sat down. The old -gentleman was perfectly cool and collected, but he lit his clay pipe, -and reflected for a good five minutes before he opened his mouth. Then -he began: - -“Finest man in the world, sir. Finest _boy_ in the world. Never -anything like him. But, peculiarities. Had ’em. Peculiarities. -Wouldn’t write home. Wouldn’t”—here he hesitated—“send things home. -I had to do it. Did it for him. Didn’t want his folks to know. Other -peculiarities. Never had any money. Other peculiarities. Drank. Other -peculiarities. Ladies. Finest man in the world, all the same. Nobody -like him. Kept him right with his folks for thirty-one years. Then -died. Fever. Canton. Never been myself since. Kept right on writing, -all the same. Also”—here he hesitated again—“sending things. Why? -Don’t know. Been a fool all my life. Never could do anything but make -money. No family, no friends. Only _him_. Ran away to sea to look after -him. Did look after him. Thought maybe your wife would be some like -him. Barring peculiarities, she is. Getting old. Came here for company. -Meant no harm. Didn’t calculate on Miss Lucretia.” - -Here he paused and smoked reflectively for a minute or two. - -“Hot in the collar—Miss Lucretia. Haughty. Like him, some. Just like -she was forty-seven years ago. Slapped my face one day when I was -delivering meat, because my jumper wasn’t clean. Ain’t changed a mite.” - -This was the first condensed statement of the case of our aromatic -uncle. It was only in reply to patient, and, I hope, loving, gentle, -and considerate, questioning that the whole story came out—at once -pitiful and noble—of the poor little butcher-boy who ran away to sea -to be body-guard, servant, and friend to the splendid, showy, selfish -youth whom he worshipped; whose heartlessness he cloaked for many a -long year, who lived upon his bounty, and who died in his arms, nursed -with a tenderness surpassing that of a brother. And as far as I could -find out, ingratitude and contempt had been his only reward. - - * * * * * - -I need not tell you that when I repeated all this to my wife she ran -to the old gentleman’s room and told him all the things that I should -not have known how to say—that we cared for him; that we wanted him to -stay with us; that he was far, far more our uncle than the brilliant, -unprincipled scapegrace who had died years before, dead for almost a -lifetime to the family who idolized him; and that we wanted him to stay -with us as long as kind heaven would let him. But it was of no use. A -change had come over our aromatic uncle which we could both of us see, -but could not understand. The duplicity of which he had been guilty -weighed on his spirit. The next day he went out for his usual walk, and -he never came back. We used every means of search and inquiry, but we -never heard from him until we got this letter from Foo-choo-li: - - * * * * * - - “DEAR NEPHEW AND NIECE: The present is to inform you that I am - enjoying the Health that might be expected at my Age, and in my - condition of Body, which is to say bad. I ship you by to-day’s - steamer, Pacific Monarch, four dozen jars of ginger, and two dozen - ditto preserved oranges, to which I would have added some other - Comfits, which I purposed offering for your acceptance, if it wore - not that my Physician has forbidden me to leave my Bed. In case of - Fatal Results from this trying Condition, my Will, duly attested, and - made in your favor, will be placed in your hands by Messrs. Smithson - & Smithson, my Customs Brokers, who will also pay all charges on - goods sent. The Health of this place being unfavorably affected by the - Weather, you are unlikely to hear more from, - - “Dear Nephew and Niece, - - “Your affectionate - - “UNCLE.” - -And we never did hear more—except for his will—from Our Aromatic -Uncle; but our whole house still smells of his love. - - - - -QUALITY - -BY - -JOHN GALSWORTHY - -Here the emphasis is upon character. The plot is negligible—hardly -exists. The setting is carefully worked out because it is essential -to the characterization. By means of the shoemaker the author reveals -at least a part of his philosophy of life—that there is a subtle -relation between a man and his work. Each reacts on the other. If a man -recognizes the Soul of Things and strives to give it proper expression, -he becomes an Artist and influences for good all who come into contact -with him. - - - - -QUALITY[22] - - -I knew him from the days of my extreme youth, because he made my -father’s boots; inhabiting with his elder brother two little shops let -into one, in a small by-street—now no more, but then most fashionably -placed in the West End. - -That tenement had a certain quiet distinction; there was no sign -upon its face that he made for any of the Royal Family—merely his -own German name of Gessler Brothers; and in the window a few pairs -of boots. I remember that it always troubled me to account for those -unvarying boots in the window, for he made only what was ordered, -reaching nothing down, and it seemed so inconceivable that what he -made could ever have failed to fit. Had he bought them to put there? -That, too, seemed inconceivable. He would never have tolerated in his -house leather on which he had not worked himself. Besides, they were -too beautiful—the pair of pumps, so inexpressibly slim, the patent -leathers with cloth tops, making water come into one’s mouth, the tall -brown riding boots with marvellous sooty glow, as if, though new, they -had been worn a hundred years. Those pairs could only have been made by -one who saw before him the Soul of Boot—so truly were they prototypes -incarnating the very spirit of all foot-gear. These thoughts, of -course, came to me later, though even when I was promoted to him, at -the age of perhaps fourteen, some inkling haunted me of the dignity of -himself and brother. For to make boots—such boots as he made—seemed -to me then, and still seems to me, mysterious and wonderful. - -I remember well my shy remark, one day, while stretching out to him my -youthful foot: - -“Isn’t it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?” - -And his answer, given with a sudden smile from out of the sardonic -redness of his beard: “Id is an Ardt!” - -Himself, he was a little as if made from leather, with his yellow -crinkly face, and crinkly reddish hair and beard, and neat folds -slanting down his checks to the corners of his mouth, and his guttural -and one-toned voice; for leather is a sardonic substance, and stiff -and slow of purpose. And that was the character of his face, save that -his eyes, which were gray-blue, had in them the simple gravity of one -secretly possessed by the Ideal. His elder brother was so very like -him—though watery, paler in every way, with a great industry—that -sometimes in early days I was not quite sure of him until the interview -was over. Then I knew that it was he, if the words, “I will ask my -brudder,” had not been spoken; and that, if they had, it was his elder -brother. - -When one grew old and wild and ran up bills, one somehow never ran -them up with Gessler Brothers. It would not have seemed becoming to -go in there and stretch out one’s foot to that blue iron-spectacled -glance, owing him for more than—say—two pairs, just the comfortable -reassurance that one was still his client. - -For it was not possible to go to him very often—his boots lasted -terribly, having something beyond the temporary—some, as it were, -essence of boot stitched into them. - -One went in, not as into most shops, in the mood of: “Please serve me, -and let me go!” but restfully, as one enters a church; and, sitting on -the single wooden chair, waited—for there was never anybody there. -Soon, over the top edge of that sort of well—rather dark, and smelling -soothingly of leather—which formed the shop, there would be seen his -face, or that of his elder brother, peering down. A guttural sound, and -the tip-tap of bast slippers beating the narrow wooden stairs, and he -would stand before one without coat, a little bent, in leather apron, -with sleeves turned back, blinking—as if awakened from some dream -of boots, or like an owl surprised in daylight and annoyed at this -interruption. - -And I would say: “How do you do, Mr. Gessler? Could you make me a pair -of Russia leather boots?” - -Without a word he would leave me, retiring whence he came, or into the -other portion of the shop, and I would continue to rest in the wooden -chair, inhaling the incense of his trade. Soon he would come back, -holding in his thin, veined hand a piece of gold-brown leather. With -eyes fixed on it, he would remark: “What a beaudiful biece!” When I, -too, had admired it, he would speak again. “When do you wand dem?” And -I would answer: “Oh! As soon as you conveniently can.” And he would -say: “To-morrow fordnighd?” Or if he were his elder brother: “I will -ask my brudder!” - -Then I would murmur: “Thank you! Good-morning, Mr. Gessler.” -“Goot-morning!” he would reply, still looking at the leather in his -hand. And as I moved to the door, I would hear the tip-tap of his bast -slippers restoring him, up the stairs, to his dream of boots. But if -it were some new kind of foot-gear that he had not yet made me, then -indeed he would observe ceremony—divesting me of my boot and holding -it long in his hand, looking at it with eyes at once critical and -loving, as if recalling the glow with which he had created it, and -rebuking the way in which one had disorganized this masterpiece. Then, -placing my foot on a piece of paper, he would two or three times tickle -the outer edges with a pencil and pass his nervous fingers over my -toes, feeling himself into the heart of my requirements. - -I cannot forget that day on which I had occasion to say to him: “Mr. -Gessler, that last pair of town walking-boots creaked, you know.” - -He looked at me for a time without replying, as if expecting me to -withdraw or qualify the statement, then said: - -“Id shouldn’d ’a’ve greaked.” - -“It did, I’m afraid.” - -“You goddem wed before dey found demselves?” - -“I don’t think so.” - -At that he lowered his eyes, as if hunting for memory of those boots, -and I felt sorry I had mentioned this grave thing. - -“Zend dem back!” he said; “I will look at dem.” - -A feeling of compassion for my creaking boots surged up in me, so well -could I imagine the sorrowful long curiosity of regard which he would -bend on them. - -“Zome boods,” he said slowly, “are bad from birdt. If I can do noding -wid dem, I dake dem off your bill.” - -Once (once only) I went absent-mindedly into his shop in a pair of -boots bought in an emergency at some large firm’s. He took my order -without showing me any leather, and I could feel his eyes penetrating -the inferior integument of my foot. At last he said: - -“Dose are nod my boods.” - -The tone was not one of anger, nor of sorrow, not even of contempt, but -there was in it something quiet that froze the blood. He put his hand -down and pressed a finger on the place where the left boot, endeavoring -to be fashionable, was not quite comfortable. - -“Id ’urds you dere,” he said. “Dose big virms ’a’ve no self-respect. -Drash!” And then, as if something had given way within him, he spoke -long and bitterly. It was the only time I ever heard him discuss the -conditions and hardships of his trade. - -“Dey get id all,” he said, “dey get id by adverdisement, nod by -work. Dey dake it away from us, who lofe our boods. Id gomes to -this—bresently I haf no work. Every year id gets less—you will see.” -And looking at his lined face I saw things I had never noticed before, -bitter things and bitter struggle—and what a lot of gray hairs there -seemed suddenly in his red beard! - -As best I could, I explained the circumstances of the purchase of those -ill-omened boots. But his face and voice made so deep impression that -during the next few minutes I ordered many pairs. Nemesis fell! They -lasted more terribly than ever. And I was not able conscientiously to -go to him for nearly two years. - -When at last I went I was surprised to find that outside one of the -two little windows of his shop another name was painted, also that of -a bootmaker—making, of course, for the Royal Family. The old familiar -boots, no longer in dignified isolation, were huddled in the single -window. Inside, the now contracted well of the one little shop was more -scented and darker than ever. And it was longer than usual, too, before -a face peered down, and the tip-tap of the bast slippers began. At last -he stood before me, and, gazing through those rusty iron spectacles, -said: - -“Mr.——, isn’d it?” - -“Ah! Mr. Gessler,” I stammered, “but your boots are really _too_ good, -you know! See, these are quite decent still!” And I stretched out to -him my foot. He looked at it. - -“Yes,” he said, “beople do nod wand good boods, id seems.” - -To get away from his reproachful eyes and voice I hastily remarked: -“What have you done to your shop?” - -He answered quietly: “Id was too exbensif. Do you wand some boods?” - -I ordered three pairs, though I had only wanted two, and quickly left. -I had, I do not know quite what feeling of being part, in his mind, of -a conspiracy against him; or not perhaps so much against him as against -his idea of boot. One does not, I suppose, care to feel like that; for -it was again many months before my next visit to his shop, paid, I -remember, with the feeling: “Oh! well, I can’t leave the old boy—so -here goes! Perhaps it’ll be his elder brother!” - -For his elder brother, I knew, had not character enough to reproach me, -even dumbly. - -And, to my relief, in the shop there did appear to be his elder -brother, handling a piece of leather. - -“Well, Mr. Gessler,” I said, “how are you?” - -He came close, and peered at me. - -“I am breddy well,” he said slowly; “but my elder brudder is dead.” - -And I saw that it was indeed himself—but how aged and wan! And never -before had I heard him mention his brother. Much shocked, I murmured: -“Oh! I am sorry!” - -“Yes,” he answered, “he was a good man, he made a good bood; but he is -dead.” And he touched the top of his head, where the hair had suddenly -gone as thin as it had been on that of his poor brother, to indicate, -I suppose, the cause of death. “He could nod ged over losing de oder -shop. Do you wand any boods?” And he held up the leather in his hand: -“Id’s a beaudiful biece.” - -I ordered several pairs. It was very long before they came—but they -were better than ever. One simply could not wear them out. And soon -after that I went abroad. - -It was over a year before I was again in London. And the first shop I -went to was my old friend’s. I had left a man of sixty, I came back to -one of seventy-five, pinched and worn and tremulous, who genuinely, -this time, did not at first know me. - -“Oh! Mr. Gessler,” I said, sick at heart; “how splendid your boots are! -See, I’ve been wearing this pair nearly all the time I’ve been abroad; -and they’re not half worn out, are they?” - -He looked long at my boots—a pair of Russia leather, and his face -seemed to regain steadiness. Putting his hand on my instep, he said: - -“Do dey vid you here? I ’a’d drouble wid dat bair, I remember.” - -I assured him that they had fitted beautifully. - -“Do you wand any boods?” he said. “I can make dem quickly; id is a -slack dime.” - -I answered: “Please, please! I want boots all round—every kind!” - -“I will make a vresh model. Your food must be bigger.” And with utter -slowness, he traced round my foot, and felt my toes, only once looking -up to say: - -“Did I dell you my brudder was dead?” - -To watch him was painful, so feeble had he grown; I was glad to get -away. - -I had given those boots up, when one evening they came. Opening the -parcel, I set the four pairs out in a row. Then one by one I tried -them on. There was no doubt about it. In shape and fit, in finish and -quality of leather, they were the best he had ever made me. And in the -mouth of one of the town walking-boots I found his bill. The amount was -the same as usual, but it gave me quite a shock. He had never before -sent it in till quarter day. I flew downstairs, and wrote a check, and -posted it at once with my own hand. - -A week later, passing the little street, I thought I would go in and -tell him how splendidly the new boots fitted. But when I came to where -his shop had been, his name was gone. Still there, in the window, were -the slim pumps, the patent leathers with cloth tops, the sooty riding -boots. - -I went in, very much disturbed. In the two little shops—again made -into one—was a young man with an English face. - -“Mr. Gessler in?” I said. - -He gave me a strange, ingratiating look. - -“No, sir,” he said, “no. But we can attend to anything with pleasure. -We’ve taken the shop over. You’ve seen our name, no doubt, next door. -We make for some very good people.” - -“Yes, yes,” I said; “but Mr. Gessler?” - -“Oh!” he answered; “dead.” - -Dead! But I only received these boots from him last Wednesday week.” - -“Ah!” he said; “a shockin’ go. Poor old man starved ‘imself.” - -“Good God!” - -“Slow starvation, the doctor called it! You see he went to work in such -a way! Would keep the shop on; wouldn’t have a soul touch his boots -except himself. When he got an order, it took him such a time. People -won’t wait. He lost everybody. And there he’d sit, goin’ on and on—I -will say that for him—not a man in London made a better boot! But look -at the competition! He never advertised! Would ’a’ve the best leather, -too, and do it all ‘imself. Well, there it is. What could you expect -with his ideas?” - -“But starvation——!” - -“That may be a bit flowery, as the sayin’ is—but I know myself he was -sittin’ over his boots day and night, to the very last. You see I used -to watch him. Never gave ‘imself time to eat; never had a penny in the -house. All went in rent and leather. How he lived so long I don’t know. -He regular let his fire go out. He was a character. But he made good -boots.” - -“Yes,” I said, “he made good boots.” - -And I turned and went out quickly, for I did not want that youth to -know that I could hardly see. - - - - -THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT - -BY - -EDITH WHARTON - -This is a mystery plot in which the supernatural furnishes the -interest. In dealing with the supernatural Mrs. Wharton does not -allow it to become horrible or grotesque. She secures plausibility -by having for its leading characters practical business men—not a -woman, hysterical or otherwise, really appears—and by placing them in -a perfectly conventional setting. The apparition is not accompanied -by blood stains, shroud, or uncanny noises. Sometimes the writer of -the supernatural feels that he must explain his mystery by material -agencies. The effect is to disappoint the reader who has yielded -himself to the conditions imposed by the author, and is willing, for -the time at least, to believe in ghosts. Mrs. Wharton makes no such -mistake. She does not spoil the effect by commonplace explanation. - -In characterization Mrs. Wharton reveals the power not only to analyze -subtly temperaments and motives, but also to describe vividly with a -few words. This phrasal power is illustrated when she says of Faxon -that he “had a healthy face, but dying hands,” and of Lavington that -“his pinched smile was screwed to his blank face like a gas-light to a -white-washed wall.” - - - - -THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT[23] - - -I - -It was clear that the sleigh from Weymore had not come; and the -shivering young traveller from Boston, who had so confidently counted -on jumping into it when he left the train at Northridge Junction, -found himself standing alone on the open platform, exposed to the full -assault of night-fall and winter. - -The blast that swept him came off New Hampshire snow-fields and -ice-hung forests. It seemed to have traversed interminable leagues of -frozen silence, filling them with the same cold roar and sharpening -its edge against the same bitter black-and-white landscape. Dark, -searching, and sword-like, it alternately muffled and harried its -victim, like a bull-fighter now whirling his cloak and now planting -his darts. This analogy brought home to the young man the fact that he -himself had no cloak, and that the overcoat in which he had faced the -relatively temperate airs of Boston seemed no thicker than a sheet of -paper on the bleak heights of Northridge. George Faxon said to himself -that the place was uncommonly well-named. It clung to an exposed ledge -over the valley from which the train had lifted him, and the wind -combed it with teeth of steel that he seemed actually to hear scraping -against the wooden sides of the station. Other building there was none: -the village lay far down the road, and thither—since the Weymore -sleigh had not come—Faxon saw himself under the immediate necessity -of plodding through several feet of snow. - -He understood well enough what had happened at Weymore: his hostess had -forgotten that he was coming. Young as Faxon was, this sad lucidity of -soul had been acquired as the result of long experience, and he knew -that the visitors who can least afford to hire a carriage are almost -always those whom their hosts forget to send for. Yet to say Mrs. Culme -had forgotten him was perhaps too crude a way of putting it. Similar -incidents led him to think that she had probably told her maid to tell -the butler to telephone the coachman to tell one of the grooms (if -no one else needed him) to drive over to Northridge to fetch the new -secretary; but on a night like this what groom who respected his rights -would fail to forget the order? - -Faxon’s obvious course was to struggle through the drifts to the -village, and there rout out a sleigh to convey him to Weymore; but -what if, on his arrival at Mrs. Culme’s, no one remembered to ask -him what this devotion to duty had cost? That, again, was one of the -contingencies he had expensively learned to look out for, and the -perspicacity so acquired told him it would be cheaper to spend the -night at the Northridge inn, and advise Mrs. Culme of his presence -there by telephone. He had reached this decision, and was about to -entrust his luggage to a vague man with a lantern who seemed to have -some loose connection with the railway company, when his hopes were -raised by the sound of sleigh-bells. - -Two vehicles were just dashing up to the station, and from the foremost -there sprang a young man swathed in furs. - -“Weymore?—No, these are not the Weymore sleighs.” - -The voice was that of the youth who had jumped to the platform—a -voice so agreeable that, in spite of the words, it fell reassuringly -on Faxon’s ears. At the same moment the wandering station-lantern, -casting a transient light on the speaker, showed his features to be -in the pleasantest harmony with his voice. He was very fair and very -young—hardly in the twenties, Faxon thought—but his face, though full -of a morning freshness, was a trifle too thin and fine-drawn, as though -a vivid spirit contended in him with a strain of physical weakness. -Faxon was perhaps the quicker to notice such delicacies of balance -because his own temperament hung on lightly vibrating nerves, which -yet, as he believed, would never quite swing him beyond the arc of a -normal sensibility. - -“You expected a sleigh from Weymore?” the youth continued, standing -beside Faxon like a slender column of fur. - -Mrs. Culme’s secretary explained his difficulty, and the new-comer -brushed it aside with a contemptuous “Oh, _Mrs. Culme_!” that carried -both speakers a long way toward reciprocal understanding. - -“But then you must be——” The youth broke off with a smile of -interrogation. - -“The new secretary? Yes. But apparently there are no notes to be -answered this evening.” Faxon’s laugh deepened the sense of solidarity -which had so promptly established itself between the two. - -The new-comer laughed also. “Mrs. Culme,” he explained, “was lunching -at my uncle’s to-day, and she said you were due this evening. But seven -hours is a long time for Mrs. Culme to remember anything.” - -“Well,” said Faxon philosophically, “I suppose that’s one of the -reasons why she needs a secretary. And I’ve always the inn at -Northridge,” he concluded. - -The youth laughed again. He was at the age when predicaments are food -for gaiety. - -“Oh, but you haven’t, though! It burned down last week.” - -“The deuce it did!” said Faxon; but the humor of the situation struck -him also before its inconvenience. His life, for years past, had been -mainly a succession of resigned adaptations, and he had learned, before -dealing practically with his embarrassments, to extract from most of -them a small tribute of amusement. - -“Oh, well, there’s sure to be somebody in the place who can put me up.” - -“No one _you_ could put up with. Besides, Northridge is three miles -off, and our place—in the opposite direction—is a little nearer.” -Through the darkness, Faxon saw his friend sketch a gesture of -self-introduction. “My name’s Frank Rainer, and I’m staying with my -uncle at Overdale. I’ve driven over to meet two friends of his, who are -due in a few minutes from New York. If you don’t mind waiting till they -arrive I’m sure Overdale can do you better than Northridge. We’re only -down from town for a few days, but the house is always ready for a lot -of people.” - -“But your uncle——?” Faxon could only object, with the odd sense, -through his embarrassment, that it would be magically dispelled by his -invisible friend’s next words. - -“Oh, my uncle—you’ll see! I answer for _him_! I dare say you’ve heard -of him—John Lavington?” - -John Lavington! There was a certain irony in asking if one had heard -of John Lavington! Even from a post of observation as obscure as that -of Mrs. Culme’s secretary, the rumor of John Lavington’s money, of -his pictures, his politics, his charities and his hospitality, was as -difficult to escape as the roar of a cataract in a mountain solitude. -It might almost have been said that the one place in which one would -not have expected to come upon him was in just such a solitude as -now surrounded the speakers—at least in this deepest hour of its -desertedness. But it was just like Lavington’s brilliant ubiquity to -put one in the wrong even there. - -“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of your uncle.” - -“Then you _will_ come, won’t you? We’ve only five minutes to wait,” -young Rainer urged, in the tone that dispels scruples by ignoring them; -and Faxon found himself accepting the invitation as simply as it was -offered. - -A delay in the arrival of the New York train lengthened their five -minutes to fifteen; and as they paced the icy platform Faxon began to -see why it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to accede -to his new acquaintance’s suggestion. It was because Frank Rainer was -one of the privileged beings who simplify human intercourse by the -atmosphere of confidence and good humor they diffuse. He produced this -effect, Faxon noted, by the exercise of no gift save his youth, of no -art save his sincerity; but these qualities were revealed in a smile of -such appealing sweetness that Faxon felt, as never before, what Nature -can achieve when she deigns to match the face with the mind. - -He learned that the young man was the ward, and only nephew, of John -Lavington, with whom he had made his home since the death of his -mother, the great man’s sister. Mr. Lavington, Rainer said, had been -“a regular brick” to him—“But then he is to every one. you know”—and -the young fellow’s situation seemed, in fact to be perfectly in keeping -with his person. Apparently the only shade that had ever rested on him -was cast by the physical weakness which Faxon had already detected. -Young Rainer had been threatened with a disease of the lungs which, -according to the highest authorities, made banishment to Arizona or New -Mexico inevitable. “But luckily my uncle didn’t pack me off, as most -people would have done, without getting another opinion. Whose? Oh, an -awfully clever chap, a young doctor with a lot of new ideas, who simply -laughed at my being sent away, and said I’d do perfectly well in New -York if I didn’t dine out too much, and if I dashed off occasionally to -Northridge for a little fresh air. So it’s really my uncle’s doing that -I’m not in exile—and I feel no end better since the new chap told me I -needn’t bother.” Young Rainer went on to confess that he was extremely -fond of dining out, dancing, and other urban distractions; and Faxon, -listening to him, concluded that the physician who had refused to -cut him off altogether from these pleasures was probably a better -psychologist than his seniors. - -“All the same you ought to be careful, you know.” The sense of -elder-brotherly concern that forced the words from Faxon made him, as -he spoke, slip his arm impulsively through Frank Rainer’s. - -The latter met the movement with a responsive pressure. “Oh, I _am_: -awfully, awfully. And then my uncle has such an eye on me!” - -“But if your uncle has such an eye on you, what does he say to your -swallowing knives out here in this Siberian wild?” - -Rainer raised his fur collar with a careless gesture. “It’s not that -that does it—the cold’s good for me.” - -“And it’s not the dinners and dances? What is it, then?” Faxon -good-humoredly insisted; to which his companion answered with a laugh: -“Well, my uncle says it’s being bored; and I rather think he’s right!” - -His laugh ended in a spasm of coughing and a struggle for breath that -made Faxon, still holding his arm, guide him hastily into the shelter -of the fireless waiting-room. - -Young Rainer had dropped down on the bench against the wall and pulled -off one of his fur gloves to grope for a handkerchief. He tossed aside -his cap and drew the handkerchief across his forehead, which was -intensely white, and beaded with moisture, though his face retained a -healthy glow. But Faxon’s gaze remained fastened to the hand he had -uncovered: it was so long, so colorless, so wasted, so much older than -the brow he passed it over. - -“It’s queer—a healthy face but dying hands,” the secretary mused; he -somehow wished young Rainer had kept on his glove. - -The whistle of the express drew the young men to their feet, and the -next moment two heavily-furred gentlemen had descended to the platform -and were breasting the rigor of the night. Frank Rainer introduced -them as Mr. Grisben and Mr. Balch, and Faxon, while their luggage was -being lifted into the second sleigh, discerned them, by the roving -lantern-gleam, to be an elderly gray-headed pair, apparently of the -average prosperous business cut. - -They saluted their host’s nephew with friendly familiarity, and Mr. -Grisben, who seemed the spokesman of the two, ended his greeting with -a genial—“and many many more of them, dear boy!” which suggested to -Faxon that their arrival coincided with an anniversary. But he could -not press the inquiry, for the seat allotted him was at the coachman’s -side, while Frank Rainer joined his uncle’s guests inside the sleigh. - -A swift flight (behind such horses as one could be sure of John -Lavington’s having) brought them to tall gate-posts, an illuminated -lodge, and an avenue on which the snow had been levelled to the -smoothness of marble. At the end of the avenue the long house -loomed through trees, its principal bulk dark but one wing sending -out a ray of welcome; and the next moment Faxon was receiving a -violent impression of warmth and light, of hot-house plants, hurrying -servants, a vast spectacular oak hall like a stage-setting, and, -in its unreal middle distance, a small concise figure, correctly -dressed, conventionally featured, and utterly unlike his rather florid -conception of the great John Lavington. - -The shock of the contrast remained with him through his hurried -dressing in the large impersonally luxurious bedroom to which he had -been shown. “I don’t see where he comes in,” was the only way he could -put it, so difficult was it to fit the exuberance of Lavington’s -public personality into his host’s contracted frame and manner. Mr. -Lavington, to whom Faxon’s case had been rapidly explained by young -Rainer, had welcomed him with a sort of dry and stilted cordiality -that exactly matched his narrow face, his stiff hand, the whiff of -scent on his evening handkerchief. “Make yourself at home—at home!” -he had repeated, in a tone that suggested, on his own part, a complete -inability to perform the feat he urged on his visitor. “Any friend of -Frank’s ... delighted ... make yourself thoroughly at home!” - - -II - -In spite of the balmy temperature and complicated conveniences of -Faxon’s bedroom, the injunction was not easy to obey. It was wonderful -luck to have found a night’s shelter under the opulent roof of -Overdale, and he tasted the physical satisfaction to the full. But -the place, for all its ingenuities of comfort, was oddly cold and -unwelcoming. He couldn’t have said why, and could only suppose that -Mr. Lavington’s intense personality—intensely negative, but intense -all the same—must, in some occult way, have penetrated every corner -of his dwelling. Perhaps, though, it was merely that Faxon himself was -tired and hungry, more deeply chilled than he had known till he came in -from the cold, and unutterably sick of all strange houses, and of the -prospect of perpetually treading other people’s stairs. - -“I hope you’re not famished?” Rainer’s slim figure was in the doorway. -“My uncle has a little business to attend to with Mr. Grisben, and we -don’t dine for half an hour. Shall I fetch you, or can you find your -way down? Come straight to the dining-room—the second door on the left -of the long gallery.” - -He disappeared, leaving a ray of warmth behind him, and Faxon, -relieved, lit a cigarette and sat down by the fire. - -Looking about with less haste, he was struck by a detail that had -escaped him. The room was full of flowers—a mere “bachelor’s room,” -in the wing of a house opened only for a few days, in the dead middle -of a New Hampshire winter! Flowers were everywhere, not in senseless -profusion, but placed with the same conscious art he had remarked in -the grouping of the blossoming shrubs that filled the hall. A vase of -arums stood on the writing-table, a cluster of strange-hued carnations -on the stand at his elbow, and from wide bowls of glass and porcelain -clumps of freesia-bulbs diffused their melting fragrance. The fact -implied acres of glass—but that was the least interesting part of -it. The flowers themselves, their quality, selection and arrangement, -attested on some one’s part—and on whose but John Lavington’s?—a -solicitous and sensitive passion for that particular embodiment of -beauty. Well, it simply made the man, as he had appeared to Faxon, all -the harder to understand! - -The half-hour elapsed, and Faxon, rejoicing at the near prospect of -food, set out to make his way to the dining-room. He had not noticed -the direction he had followed in going to his room, and was puzzled, -when he left it, to find that two staircases, of apparently equal -importance, invited him. He chose the one to his right, and reached, -at its foot, a long gallery such as Rainer had described. The gallery -was empty, the doors down its length were closed; but Rainer had said: -“The second to the left,” and Faxon, after pausing for some chance -enlightenment which did not come, laid his hand on the second knob to -the left. - -The room he entered was square, with dusky picture-hung walls. In its -centre, about a table lit by veiled lamps, he fancied Mr. Lavington -and his guests to be already seated at dinner; then he perceived that -the table was covered not with viands but with papers, and that he had -blundered into what seemed to be his host’s study. As he paused in the -irresolution of embarrassment Frank Rainer looked up. - -“Oh, here’s Mr. Faxon. Why not ask him——?” - -Mr. Lavington, from the end of the table, reflected his nephew’s smile -in a glance of impartial benevolence. - -“Certainly. Come in, Mr. Faxon. If you won’t think it a liberty——” - -Mr. Grisben, who sat opposite his host, turned his solid head toward -the door. “Of course Mr. Faxon’s an American citizen?” - -Frank Rainer laughed. “That’s all right!... Oh, no, not one of your -pin-pointed pens, Uncle Jack! Haven’t you got a quill somewhere?” - -Mr. Balch, who spoke slowly and as if reluctantly, in a muffled voice -of which there seemed to be very little left, raised his hand to say: -“One moment: you acknowledge this to be——?” - -“My last will and testament?” Rainer’s laugh redoubled. “Well, I won’t -answer for the ’last.’ It’s the first one, anyway.” - -“It’s a mere formula,” Mr. Balch explained. - -“Well, here goes.” Rainer dipped his quill in the inkstand his uncle -had pushed in his direction, and dashed a gallant signature across the -document. - -Faxon, understanding what was expected of him, and conjecturing that -the young man was signing his will on the attainment of his majority, -had placed himself behind Mr. Grisben, and stood awaiting his turn to -affix his name to the instrument. Rainer, having signed, was about to -push the paper across the table to Mr. Balch; but the latter, again -raising his hand, said in his sad imprisoned voice: “The seal——?” - -“Oh, does there have to be a seal?” - -Faxon, looking over Mr. Grisben at John Lavington, saw a faint frown -between his impassive eyes. “Really, Frank!” He seemed, Faxon thought, -slightly irritated by his nephew’s frivolity. - -“Who’s got a seal?” Frank Rainer continued, glancing about the table. -“There doesn’t seem to be one here.” - -Mr. Grisben interposed. “A wafer will do. Lavington, you have a wafer?” - -Mr. Lavington had recovered his serenity. “There must be some in one -of the drawers. But I’m ashamed to say I don’t know where my secretary -keeps these things. He ought, of course, to have seen to it that a -wafer was sent with the document.” - -“Oh, hang it——” Frank Rainer pushed the paper aside: “It’s the hand -of God—and I’m hungry as a wolf. Let’s dine first, Uncle Jack.” - -“I think I’ve a seal upstairs,” said Faxon suddenly. - -Mr. Lavington sent him a barely perceptible smile. “So sorry to give -you the trouble——” - -“Oh, I say, don’t send him after it now. Let’s wait till after dinner!” - -Mr. Lavington continued to smile on his guest, and the latter, as if -under the faint coercion of the smile, turned from the room and ran -upstairs. Having taken the seal from his writing-case he came down -again, and once more opened the door of the study. No one was speaking -when he entered—they were evidently awaiting his return with the -mute impatience of hunger, and he put the seal in Rainer’s reach, and -stood watching while Mr. Grisben struck a match and held it to one of -the candles flanking the inkstand. As the wax descended on the paper -Faxon remarked again the singular emaciation, the premature physical -weariness, of the hand that, held it: he wondered if Mr. Lavington had -ever noticed his nephew’s hand, and if it were not poignantly visible -to him now. - -With this thought in his mind, Faxon raised his eyes to look at -Mr. Lavington. The great man’s gaze rested on Frank Rainer with an -expression of untroubled benevolence; and at the same instant Faxon’s -attention was attracted by the presence in the room of another person, -who must have joined the group while he was upstairs searching for the -seal. The new-comer was a man of about Mr. Lavington’s age and figure, -who stood directly behind his chair, and who, at the moment when Faxon -first saw him, was gazing at young Rainer with an equal intensity of -attention. The likeness between the two men—perhaps increased by the -fact that the hooded lamps on the table left the figure behind the -chair in shadow—struck Faxon the more because of the strange contrast -in their expression. John Lavington, during his nephew’s blundering -attempt to drop the wax and apply the seal, continued to fasten on him -a look of half-amused affection; while the man behind the chair, so -oddly reduplicating the lines of his features and figure, turned on the -boy a face of pale hostility. - -The impression was so startling Faxon forgot what was going on about -him. He was just dimly aware of young Rainer’s exclaiming: “Your turn, -Mr. Grisben!” of Mr. Grisben’s ceremoniously protesting: “No—no; Mr. -Faxon first,” and of the pen’s being thereupon transferred to his own -hand. He received it with a deadly sense of being unable to move, or -even to understand what was expected of him, till he became conscious -of Mr. Grisben’s paternally pointing out the precise spot on which he -was to leave his autograph. The effort to fix his attention and steady -his hand prolonged the process of signing, and when he stood up—a -strange weight of fatigue on all his limbs—the figure behind Mr. -Lavington’s chair was gone. - -Faxon felt an immediate sense of relief. It was puzzling that the man’s -exit should have been so rapid and noiseless, but the door behind Mr. -Lavington was screened by a tapestry hanging, and Faxon concluded -that the unknown looker-on had merely had to raise it to pass out. At -any rate, he was gone, and with his withdrawal the strange weight was -lifted. Young Rainer was lighting a cigarette, Mr. Balch meticulously -inscribing his name at the foot of the document, Mr. Lavington—his -eyes no longer on his nephew—examining a strange white-winged orchid -in the vase at his elbow. Everything suddenly seemed to have grown -natural and simple again, and Faxon found himself responding with a -smile to the affable gesture with which his host declared: “And now, -Mr. Faxon, we’ll dine.” - - -III - -“I wonder how I blundered into the wrong room just now; I thought you -told me to take the second door to the left,” Faxon said to Frank -Rainer as they followed the older men down the gallery. - -“So I did; but I probably forgot to tell you which staircase to take. -Coming from your bedroom, I ought to have said the fourth door to the -right. It’s a puzzling house, because my uncle keeps adding to it from -year to year. He built this room last summer for his modern pictures.” - -Young Rainer, pausing to open another door, touched an electric button -which sent a circle of light about the walls of a long room hung with -canvases of the French impressionist school. - -Faxon advanced, attracted by a shimmering Monet, but Rainer laid a hand -on his arm. - -“He bought that last week for a thundering price. But come along—I’ll -show you all this after dinner. Or _he_ will rather—he loves it.” - -“Does he really love things?” - -Rainer stared, clearly perplexed at the question. “Rather! Flowers and -pictures especially! Haven’t you noticed the flowers? I suppose you -think his manner’s cold; it seems so at first; but he’s really awfully -keen about things.” - -Faxon looked quickly at the speaker. “Has your uncle a brother?” - -“Brother? No—never had. He and my mother were the only ones.” - -“Or any relation who—who looks like him? Who might be mistaken for -him?” - -“Not that I ever heard of. Does he remind you of some one?” - -“Yes.” - -“That’s queer. We’ll ask him if he’s got a double. Come on!” - -But another picture had arrested Faxon, and some minutes elapsed before -he and his young host reached the dining-room. It was a large room, -with the same conventionally handsome furniture and delicately grouped -flowers; and Faxon’s first glance showed him that only three men -were seated about the dining-table. The man who had stood behind Mr. -Lavington’s chair was not present, and no seat awaited him. - -When the young men entered, Mr. Grisben was speaking, and his host, -who faced the door, sat looking down at his untouched soup-plate and -turning the spoon about in his small dry hand. - -“It’s pretty late to call them rumors—they were devilish close to -facts when we left town this morning,” Mr. Grisben was saying, with an -unexpected incisiveness of tone. - -Mr. Lavington laid down his spoon and smiled interrogatively. “Oh, -facts—what _are_ facts? Just the way a thing happens to look at a -given minute.” - -“You haven’t heard anything from town?” Mr. Grisben persisted. - -“Not a syllable. So you see ... Balch, a little more of that _petite -marmite_. Mr. Faxon ... between Frank and Mr. Grisben, please.” - -The dinner progressed through a series of complicated courses, -ceremoniously dispensed by a stout butler attended by three tall -footmen, and it was evident that Mr. Lavington took a somewhat puerile -satisfaction in the pageant. That, Faxon reflected, was probably -the joint in his armor—that and the flowers. He had changed the -subject—not abruptly but firmly—when the young men entered, but Faxon -perceived that it still possessed the thoughts of the two elderly -visitors, and Mr. Balch presently observed, in a voice that seemed to -come from the last survivor down a mine-shaft: “If it _does_ come, it -will be the biggest crash since ’93.” - -Mr. Lavington looked bored but polite. “Wall Street can stand crashes -better than it could then. It’s got a robuster constitution.” - -“Yes; but——” - -“Speaking of constitutions,” Mr. Grisben intervened: “Frank, are you -taking care of yourself?” - -A flush rose to young Rainer’s cheeks. - -“Why, of course! Isn’t that what I’m here for?” - -“You’re here about three days in the month, aren’t you? And the rest of -the time it’s crowded restaurants and hot ballrooms in town. I thought -you were to be shipped off to New Mexico?” - -“Oh, I’ve got a new man who says that’s rot.” - -“Well, you don’t look as if your new man were right,” said Mr. Grisben -bluntly. - -Faxon saw the lad’s color fade, and the rings of shadow deepen under -his gay eyes. At the same moment his uncle turned to him with a renewed -intensity of attention. There was such solicitude in Mr. Lavington’s -gaze that it seemed almost to fling a tangible shield between his -nephew and Mr. Grisben’s tactless scrutiny. - -“We think Frank’s a good deal better,” he began; “this new doctor——” - -The butler, coming up, bent discreetly to whisper a word in his ear, -and the communication caused a sudden change in Mr. Lavington’s -expression. His face was naturally so colorless that it seemed not so -much to pale as to fade, to dwindle and recede into something blurred -and blotted-out. He half rose, sat down again and sent a rigid smile -about the table. - -“Will you excuse me? The telephone. Peters, go on with the dinner.” -With small precise steps he walked out of the door which one of the -footmen had hastened to throw open. - -A momentary silence fell on the group; then Mr. Grisben once more -addressed himself to Rainer. “You ought to have gone, my boy; you ought -to have gone.” - -The anxious look returned to the youth’s eyes. “My uncle doesn’t think -so, really.” - -“You’re not a baby, to be always governed on your uncle’s opinion. You -came of age to-day, didn’t you? Your uncle spoils you ... that’s what’s -the matter....” - -The thrust evidently went home, for Rainer laughed and looked down with -a slight accession of color. - -“But the doctor——” - -“Use your common sense, Frank! You had to try twenty doctors to find -one to tell you what you wanted to be told.” - -A look of apprehension overshadowed Rainer’s gaiety. “Oh, come—I -say!... What would _you_ do?” he stammered. - -“Pack up and jump on the first train.” Mr. Grisben leaned forward and -laid a firm hand on the young man’s arm. “Look here: my nephew Jim -Grisben is out there ranching on a big scale. He’ll take you in and be -glad to have you. You say your new doctor thinks it won’t do you any -good; but he doesn’t pretend to say it will do you harm, does he? Well, -then—give it a trial. It’ll take you out of hot theatres and night -restaurants, anyhow.... And all the rest of it.... Eh, Balch?” - -“Go!” said Mr. Balch hollowly. “Go _at once_,” he added, as if a closer -look at the youth’s face had impressed on him the need of backing up -his friend. - -Young Rainer had turned ashy-pale. He tried to stiffen his mouth into -a smile. “Do I look as bad as all that?” - -Mr. Grisben was helping himself to terrapin. “You look like the day -after an earthquake,” he said concisely. - -The terrapin had encircled the table, and been deliberately enjoyed by -Mr. Lavington’s three visitors (Rainer, Faxon noticed, left his plate -untouched) before the door was thrown open to re-admit their host. - -Mr. Lavington advanced with an air of recovered composure. He seated -himself, picked up his napkin, and consulted the gold-monogrammed menu. -“No, don’t bring back the filet.... Some terrapin; yes....” He looked -affably about the table. “Sorry to have deserted you, but the storm has -played the deuce with the wires, and I had to wait a long time before I -could get a good connection. It must be blowing up for a blizzard.” - -“Uncle Jack,” young Rainer broke out, “Mr. Grisben’s been lecturing me.” - -Mr. Lavington was helping himself to terrapin. “Ah—what about?” - -“He thinks I ought to have given New Mexico a show.” - -“I want him to go straight out to my nephew at Santa Paz and stay there -till his next birthday.” Mr. Lavington signed to the butler to hand the -terrapin to Mr. Grisben, who, as he took a second helping, addressed -himself again to Rainer. “Jim’s in New York now, and going back the day -after to-morrow in Olyphant’s private car. I’ll ask Olyphant to squeeze -you in if you’ll go. And when you’ve been out there a week or two, in -the saddle all day and sleeping nine hours a night, I suspect you won’t -think much of the doctor who prescribed New York.” - -Faxon spoke up, he knew not why. “I was out there once: it’s a splendid -life. I saw a fellow—oh, a really _bad_ case—who’d been simply made -over by it.” - -“It _does_ sound jolly,” Rainer laughed, a sudden eagerness of -anticipation in his tone. - -His uncle looked at him gently. “Perhaps Grisben’s right. It’s an -opportunity——” - -Faxon looked up with a start: the figure dimly perceived in the study -was now more visibly and tangibly planted behind Mr. Lavington’s chair. - -“That’s right, Frank: you see your uncle approves. And the trip out -there with Olyphant isn’t a thing to be missed. So drop a few dozen -dinners and be at the Grand Central the day after to-morrow at five.” - -Mr. Grisben’s pleasant gray eye sought corroboration of his host, and -Faxon, in a cold anguish of suspense, continued to watch him as he -turned his glance on Mr. Lavington. One could not look at Lavington -without seeing the presence at his back, and it was clear that, the -next minute, some change in Mr. Grisben’s expression must give his -watcher a clue. - -But Mr. Grisben’s expression did not change: the gaze he fixed on his -host remained unperturbed, and the clue he gave was the startling one -of not seeming to see the other figure. - -Faxon’s first impulse was to look away, to look anywhere else, to -resort again to the champagne glass the watchful butler had already -brimmed; but some fatal attraction, at war in him with an overwhelming -physical resistance, held his eyes upon the spot they feared. - -The figure was still standing, more distinctly, and therefore more -resemblingly, at Mr. Lavington’s back; and while the latter continued -to gaze affectionately at his nephew, his counterpart, as before, fixed -young Rainer with eyes of deadly menace. - -Faxon, with what felt like an actual wrench of the muscles, dragged -his own eyes from the sight to scan the other countenances about the -table; but not one revealed the least consciousness of what he saw, and -a sense of mortal isolation sank upon him. - -“It’s worth considering, certainly——” he heard Mr. Lavington -continue; and as Rainer’s face lit up, the face behind his uncle’s -chair seemed to gather into its look all the fierce weariness of old -unsatisfied hates. That was the thing that, as the minutes labored by, -Faxon was becoming most conscious of. The watcher behind the chair was -no longer merely malevolent: he had grown suddenly, unutterably tired. -His hatred seemed to well up out of the very depths of balked effort -and thwarted hopes, and the fact made him more pitiable, and yet more -dire. - -Faxon’s look reverted to Mr. Lavington, as if to surprise in him a -corresponding change. At first none was visible: his pinched smile was -screwed to his blank face like a gas-light to a white-washed wall. Then -the fixity of the smile became ominous: Faxon saw that its wearer was -afraid to let it go. It was evident that Mr. Lavington was unutterably -tired too, and the discovery sent a colder current through Faxon’s -veins. Looking down at his untouched plate, he caught the soliciting -twinkle of the champagne glass; but the sight of the wine turned him -sick. - -“Well, we’ll go into the details presently,” he heard Mr. Lavington -say, still on the question of his nephew’s future. “Let’s have a cigar -first. No—not here, Peters.” He turned his smile on Faxon. “When we’ve -had coffee I want to show you my pictures.” - -“Oh, by the way, Uncle Jack—Mr. Faxon wants to know if you’ve got a -double?” - -“A double?” Mr. Lavington, still smiling, continued to address himself -to his guest. “Not that I know of. Have you seen one, Mr. Faxon?” - -Faxon thought: “My God, if I look up now they’ll _both_ be looking at -me!” To avoid raising his eyes he made as though to lift the glass to -his lips; but his hand sank inert, and he looked up. Mr. Lavington’s -glance was politely bent on him, but with a loosening of the strain -about his heart he saw that the figure behind the chair still kept its -gaze on Rainer. - -“Do you think you’ve seen my double, Mr. Faxon?” - -Would the other face turn if he said yes? Faxon felt a dryness in his -throat. “No,” he answered. - -“Ah? It’s possible I’ve a dozen. I believe I’m extremely -usual-looking,” Mr. Lavington went on conversationally; and still the -other face watched Rainer. - -“It was ... a mistake ... a confusion of memory ...” Faxon heard -himself stammer. Mr. Lavington pushed back his chair, and as he did so -Mr. Grisben suddenly leaned forward. - -“Lavington! What have we been thinking of? We haven’t drunk Frank’s -health!” - -Mr. Lavington reseated himself. “My dear boy!... Peters, another -bottle....” He turned to his nephew. “After such a sin of omission I -don’t presume to propose the toast myself ... but Frank knows.... Go -ahead, Grisben!” - -The boy shone on his uncle. “No, no, Uncle Jack! Mr. Grisben won’t -mind. Nobody but _you_—to-day!” - -The butler was replenishing the glasses. He filled Mr. Lavington’s -last, and Mr. Lavington put out his small hand to raise it.... As he -did so, Faxon looked away. - -“Well, then—All the good I’ve wished you in all the past years.... I -put it into the prayer that the coming ones may be healthy and happy -and many ... and _many_, dear boy!” - -Faxon saw the hands about him reach out for their glasses. -Automatically, he made the same gesture. His eyes were still on the -table, and he repeated to himself with a trembling vehemence: “I won’t -look up! I won’t.... I won’t....” - -His fingers clasped the stem of the glass, and raised it to the level -of his lips. He saw the other hands making the same motion. He heard -Mr. Grisben’s genial “Hear! Hear!” and Mr. Balch’s hollow echo. He said -to himself, as the rim of the glass touched his lips: - -“I won’t look up! I swear I won’t!——” and he looked. - -The glass was so full that it required an extraordinary effort to hold -it there, brimming and suspended, during the awful interval before he -could trust his hand to lower it again, untouched, to the table. It was -this merciful preoccupation which saved him, kept him from crying out, -from losing his hold, from slipping down into the bottomless blackness -that gaped for him. As long as the problem of the glass engaged him he -felt able to keep his seat, manage his muscles, fit unnoticeably into -the group; but as the glass touched the table his last link with safety -snapped. He stood up and dashed out of the room. - - -IV - -In the gallery, the instinct of self-preservation helped him to turn -back and sign to young Rainer not to follow. He stammered out something -about a touch of dizziness, and joining them presently; and the boy -waved an unsuspecting hand and drew back. - -At the foot of the stairs Faxon ran against a servant. “I should like -to telephone to Weymore,” he said with dry lips. - -“Sorry, sir; wires all down. We’ve been trying the last hour to get New -York again for Mr. Lavington.” - -Faxon shot on to his room, burst into it, and bolted the door. The -mild lamplight lay on furniture, flowers, books, in the ashes a log -still glimmered. He dropped down on the sofa and hid his face. The -room was utterly silent, the whole house was still: nothing about him -gave a hint of what was going on, darkly and dumbly, in the horrible -room he had flown from, and with the covering of his eyes oblivion and -reassurance seemed to fall on him. But they fell for a moment only; -then his lids opened again to the monstrous vision. There it was, -stamped on his pupils, a part of him forever, an indelible horror burnt -into his body and brain. But why into his—just his? Why had he alone -been chosen to see what he had seen? What business was it of _his_, -in God’s name? Any one of the others, thus enlightened, might have -exposed the horror and defeated it; but _he_, the one weaponless and -defenceless spectator, the one whom none of the others would believe or -understand if he attempted to reveal what he knew—_he_ alone had been -singled out as the victim of this atrocious initiation! - -Suddenly he sat up, listening: he had heard a step on the stairs. Some -one, no doubt, was coming to see how he was—to urge him, if he felt -better, to go down and join the smokers. Cautiously he opened his -door; yes, it was young Rainer’s step. Faxon looked down the passage, -remembered the other stairway, and darted to it. All he wanted was -to get out of the house. Not another instant would he breathe its -abominable air! What business was it of _his_, in God’s name? - -He reached the opposite end of the lower gallery, and beyond it saw -the hall by which he had entered. It was empty, and on a long table he -recognized his coat and cap among the furs of the other travellers. He -got into his coat, unbolted the door, and plunged into the purifying -night. - - * * * * * - -The darkness was deep, and the cold so intense that for an instant it -stopped his breathing. Then he perceived that only a thin snow was -falling, and resolutely set his face for flight. The trees along the -avenue dimly marked his way as he hastened with long strides over -the beaten snow. Gradually, while he walked, the tumult in his brain -subsided. The impulse to fly still drove him forward, but he began to -feel that he was flying from a terror of his own creating, and that -the most urgent reason for escape was the need of hiding his state, of -shunning other eyes’ scrutiny till he should regain his balance. - -He had spent the long hours in the train in fruitless broodings on a -discouraging situation, and he remembered how his bitterness had turned -to exasperation when he found that the Weymore sleigh was not awaiting -him. It was absurd, of course; but, though he had joked with Rainer -over Mrs. Culme’s forgetfulness, to confess it had cost a pang. That -was what his rootless life had brought him to: for lack of a personal -stake in things his sensibility was at the mercy of such trivial -accidents.... Yes; that, and the cold and fatigue, the absence of hope -and the haunting sense of starved aptitudes, all these had brought him -to the perilous verge over which, once or twice before, his terrified -brain had hung. - -Why else, in the name of any imaginable logic, human or devilish, -should he, a stranger, be singled out for this experience? What could -it mean to him, how was he related to it, what bearing had it on his -case?... Unless, indeed, it was just because he was a stranger—a -stranger everywhere—because he had no personal life, no warm strong -screen of private egotisms to shield him from exposure, that he had -developed this abnormal sensitiveness to the vicissitudes of others. -The thought pulled him up with a shudder. No! Such a fate was too -abominable; all that was strong and sound in him rejected it. A -thousand times better regard himself as ill, disorganized, deluded, -than as the predestined victim of such warnings! - -He reached the gates and paused before the darkened lodge. The wind had -risen and was sweeping the snow into his face in lacerating streamers. -The cold had him in its grasp again, and he stood uncertain. Should he -put his sanity to the test and go back? He turned and looked down the -dark drive to the house. A single ray shone through the trees, evoking -a picture of the lights, the flowers, the faces grouped about that -fatal room. He turned and plunged out into the road. - -He remembered that, about a mile from Overdale, the coachman had -pointed out the road to Northridge; and he began to walk in that -direction. Once in the road, he had the gale in his face, and the wet -snow on his moustache and eye-lashes instantly hardened to metal. The -same metal seemed to be driving a million blades into his throat and -lungs, but he pushed on, desperately determined, the vision of the warm -room pursuing him. - -The snow in the road was deep and uneven. He stumbled across ruts and -sank into drifts, and the wind rose before him like a granite cliff. -Now and then he stopped, gasping, as if an invisible hand had tightened -an iron band about his body; then he started again, stiffening himself -against the stealthy penetration of the cold. The snow continued to -descend out of a pall of inscrutable darkness, and once or twice he -paused, fearing he had missed the road to Northridge; but, seeing no -sign of a turn, he ploughed on doggedly. - -At last, feeling sure that he had walked for more than a mile, he -halted and looked back. The act of turning brought immediate relief, -first because it put his back to the wind, and then because, far down -the road, it showed him the advancing gleam of a lantern. A sleigh was -coming—a sleigh that might perhaps give him a lift to the village! -Fortified by the hope, he began to walk back toward the light. It -seemed to come forward very slowly, with unaccountable zigzags and -waverings; and even when he was within a few yards of it he could catch -no sound of sleigh-bells. Then the light paused and became stationary -by the roadside, as though carried by a pedestrian who had stopped, -exhausted by the cold. The thought made Faxon hasten on, and a moment -later he was stooping over a motionless figure huddled against the -snow-bank. The lantern had dropped from its bearer’s hand, and Faxon, -fearfully raising it, threw its light into the face of Frank Rainer. - -“Rainer! What on earth are you doing here?” - -The boy smiled back through his pallor. “What are _you_, I’d like -to know?” he retorted; and, scrambling to his feet with a clutch on -Faxon’s arm, he added gaily: “Well, I’ve run you down, anyhow!” - -Faxon stood confounded, his heart sinking. The lad’s face was gray. - -“What madness——” he began. - -“Yes, it _is_. What on earth did you do it for?” - -“I? Do what?... Why, I ... I was just taking a walk.... I often walk at -night....” - -Frank Rainer burst into a laugh. “On such nights? Then you hadn’t -bolted?” - -“Bolted?” - -“Because I’d done something to offend you? My uncle thought you had.” - -Faxon grasped his arm. “Did your uncle send you after me?” - -“Well, he gave me an awful rowing for not going up to your room with -you when you said you were ill. And when we found you’d gone we were -frightened—and he was awfully upset—so I said I’d catch you.... -You’re _not_ ill, are you?” - -“Ill? No. Never better.” Faxon picked up the lantern. “Come; let’s go -back. It was awfully hot in that dining-room,” he added. - -“Yes; I hoped it was only that.” - -They trudged on in silence for a few minutes; then Faxon questioned: -“You’re not too done up?” - -“Oh, no. It’s a lot easier with the wind behind us.” - -“All right. Don’t talk any more.” - -They pushed ahead, walking, in spite of the light that guided them, -more slowly than Faxon had walked alone into the gale. The fact of his -companion’s stumbling against a drift gave him a pretext for saying: -“Take hold of my arm,” and Rainer, obeying, gasped out: “I’m blown!” - -“So am I. Who wouldn’t be?” - -“What a dance you led me! If it hadn’t been for one of the servants’ -happening to see you——” - -“Yes: all right. And now, won’t you kindly shut up?” - -Rainer laughed and hung on him. “Oh, the cold doesn’t hurt me....” - -For the first few minutes after Rainer had overtaken him, anxiety for -the lad had been Faxon’s only thought. But as each laboring step -carried them nearer to the spot he had been fleeing, the reasons for -his flight grew more ominous and more insistent. No, he was not ill; -he was not distraught and deluded—he was the instrument singled out -to warn and save; and here he was, irresistibly driven, dragging the -victim back to his doom! - -The intensity of the conviction had almost checked his steps. But what -could he do or say? At all costs he must get Rainer out of the cold, -into the house and into his bed. After that he would act. - -The snow-fall was thickening, and as they reached a stretch of the road -between open fields the wind took them at an angle, lashing their faces -with barbed thongs. Rainer stopped to take breath, and Faxon felt the -heavier pressure of his arm. - -“When we get to the lodge, can’t we telephone to the stable for a -sleigh?” - -“If they’re not all asleep at the lodge.” - -“Oh, I’ll manage. Don’t talk!” Faxon ordered; and they plodded on.... - -At length the lantern ray showed ruts that curved away from the road -under tree-darkness. - -Faxon’s spirits rose. “There’s the gate! We’ll be there in five -minutes.” - -As he spoke he caught, above the boundary hedge, the gleam of a light -at the farther end of the dark avenue. It was the same light that had -shone on the scene of which every detail was burnt into his brain; and -he felt again its overpowering reality. No—he couldn’t let the boy go -back! - -They were at the lodge at last, and Faxon was hammering on the door. He -said to himself: “I’ll get him inside first, and make them give him a -hot drink. Then I’ll see—I’ll find an argument....” - -There was no answer to his knocking, and after an interval Rainer said: -“Look here—we’d better go on.” - -“No!” - -“I can, perfectly——” - -“You sha’n’t go to the house, I say!” Faxon furiously redoubled his -blows, and at length steps sounded on the stairs. Rainer was leaning -against the lintel, and as the door opened the light from the hall -flashed on his pale face and fixed eyes. Faxon caught him by the arm -and drew him in. - -“It _was_ cold out there,” he sighed; and then, abruptly, as if -invisible shears at a single stroke had cut every muscle in his body, -he swerved, drooped on Faxon’s arm, and seemed to sink into nothing at -his feet. - -The lodge-keeper and Faxon bent over him, and somehow, between them, -lifted him into the kitchen and laid him on a sofa by the stove. - -The lodge-keeper, stammering: “I’ll ring up the house,” dashed out -of the room. But Faxon heard the words without heeding them: omens -mattered nothing now, beside this woe fulfilled. He knelt down to undo -the fur collar about Rainer’s throat, and as he did so he felt a warm -moisture on his hands. He held them up, and they were red.... - - -V - -The palms threaded their endless line along the yellow river. The -little steamer lay at the wharf, and George Faxon, sitting in the -veranda of the wooden hotel, idly watched the coolies carrying the -freight across the gang-plank. - -He had been looking at such scenes for two months. Nearly five had -elapsed since he had descended from the train at Northridge and -strained his eyes for the sleigh that was to take him to Weymore: -Weymore, which he was never to behold!... Part of the interval—the -first part—was still a great gray blur. Even now he could not be quite -sure how he had got back to Boston, reached the house of a cousin, and -been thence transferred to a quiet room looking out on snow under bare -trees. He looked out a long time at the same scene, and finally one day -a man he had known at Harvard came to see him and invited him to go out -on a business trip to the Malay Peninsula. - -“You’ve had a bad shake-up, and it’ll do you no end of good to get away -from things.” - -When the doctor came the next day it turned out that he knew of the -plan and approved it. “You ought to be quiet for a year. Just loaf and -look at the landscape,” he advised. - -Faxon felt the first faint stirrings of curiosity. - -“What’s been the matter with me, anyhow?” - -“Well, over-work, I suppose. You must have been bottling up for a bad -breakdown before you started for New Hampshire last December. And the -shock of that poor boy’s death did the rest.” - -Ah, yes—Rainer had died. He remembered.... - -He started for the East, and gradually, by imperceptible degrees, -life crept back into his weary bones and leaden brain. His friend was -very considerate and forbearing, and they travelled slowly and talked -little. At first Faxon had felt a great shrinking from whatever touched -on familiar things. He seldom looked at a newspaper, he never opened -a letter without a moment’s contraction of the heart. It was not that -he had any special cause for apprehension, but merely that a great -trail of darkness lay on everything. He had looked too deep down into -the abyss.... But little by little health and energy returned to him, -and with them the common promptings of curiosity. He was beginning to -wonder how the world was going, and when, presently, the hotel-keeper -told him there were no letters for him in the steamer’s mail-bag, he -felt a distinct sense of disappointment. His friend had gone into -the jungle on a long excursion, and he was lonely, unoccupied, and -wholesomely bored. He got up and strolled into the stuffy reading-room. - -There he found a game of dominoes, a mutilated picture-puzzle, some -copies of _Zion’s Herald_, and a pile of New York and London newspapers. - -He began to glance through the papers, and was disappointed to find -that they were less recent than he had hoped. Evidently the last -numbers had been carried off by luckier travellers. He continued to -turn them over, picking out the American ones first. These, as it -happened, were the oldest: they dated back to December and January. To -Faxon, however, they had all the flavor of novelty, since they covered -the precise period during which he had virtually ceased to exist. It -had never before occurred to him to wonder what had happened in the -world during that interval of obliteration; but now he felt a sudden -desire to know. - -To prolong the pleasure, he began by sorting the papers -chronologically, and as he found and spread out the earliest number, -the date at the top of the page entered into his consciousness like a -key slipping into a lock. It was the seventeenth of December: the date -of the day after his arrival at Northridge. He glanced at the first -page and read in blazing characters: “Reported Failure of Opal Cement -Company. Lavington’s Name Involved. Gigantic Exposure of Corruption -Shakes Wall Street to Its Foundations.” - -He read on, and when he had finished the first paper he turned -to the next. There was a gap of three days, but the Opal Cement -“Investigation” still held the centre of the stage. From its complex -revelations of greed and ruin his eye wandered to the death notices, -and he read: “Rainer. Suddenly, at Northridge, New Hampshire, Francis -John, only son of the late....” - -His eyes clouded, and he dropped the newspaper and sat for a long time -with his face in his hands. When he looked up again he noticed that -his gesture had pushed the other papers from the table and scattered -them on the floor at his feet. The uppermost lay spread out before him, -and heavily his eyes began their search again. “John Lavington comes -forward with plan for reconstructing Company. Offers to put in ten -millions of his own—The proposal under consideration by the District -Attorney.” - -Ten millions ... ten millions of his own. But if John Lavington was -ruined?... Faxon stood up with a cry. That was it, then—that was what -the warning meant! And if he had not fled from it, dashed wildly away -from it into the night, he might have broken the spell of iniquity, the -powers of darkness might not have prevailed! He caught up the pile of -newspapers and began to glance through each in turn for the headline: -“Wills Admitted to Probate.” In the last of all he found the paragraph -he sought, and it stared up at him as if with Rainer’s dying eyes. - -That—_that_ was what he had done! The powers of pity had singled him -out to warn and save, and he had closed his ears to their call, had -washed his hands of it, and fled. Washed his hands of it! That was the -word. It caught him back to the dreadful moment in the lodge when, -raising himself up from Rainer’s side, he had looked at his hands and -seen that they were red.... - - - - - A MESSENGER - - BY - - MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS - - - - -The Berserker of the North, because he believed in the directing -power of the gods, knew no fear. Death or life—it was meted out by a -destiny that could not err. In song and story he has been one of the -most attractive figures of the past; far more attractive in his savage -virtues than the more sensuous heroes of Greece and Rome. In this story -he lives again in the American boy who has his ancestor’s inexplicable -uplift of spirit in the presence of danger and his implicit faith in -“the God of battles and the beauty of holiness.” The ideal of Miles -Morgan is such a man as Chinese Gordon, who, not only in youth but all -through life, had eyes for “the vision splendid.” - -The ethical value of “A Messenger” may be summed up in the words of the -General: “There is nothing in Americanism to prevent either inspiration -or heroism.” - - - - -A MESSENGER[24] - - How oft do they their silver bowers leave, - To come to succour us that succour want! - How oft do they with golden pineons cleave - The flitting skyes, like flying Pursuivant, - Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! - They for us fight, they watch and dewly ward, - And their bright Squadrons round about us plant; - And all for love, and nothing for reward. - O! Why should heavenly God to men have such regard? - - —_Spenser’s “Faerie Queene.”_ - - -That the other world of our hope rests on no distant, shining star, -but lies about us as an atmosphere, unseen yet near, is the belief of -many. The veil of material life shades earthly eyes, they say, from -the glories in which we ever are. But sometimes when the veil wears -thin in mortal stress, or is caught away by a rushing, mighty wind of -inspiration, the trembling human soul, so bared, so purified, may look -down unimagined heavenly vistas, and messengers may steal across the -shifting boundary, breathing hope and the air of a brighter world. And -of him who speaks his vision, men say “He is mad,” or “He has dreamed.” - - * * * * * - -The group of officers in the tent was silent for a long half minute -after Colonel Wilson’s voice had stopped. Then the General spoke. - -“There is but one thing to do,” he said. “We must get word to Captain -Thornton at once.” - -The Colonel thought deeply a moment, and glanced at the orderly outside -the tent. “Flannigan!” The man, wheeling swiftly, saluted. “Present -my compliments to Lieutenant Morgan and say that I should like to see -him here at once,” and the soldier went off, with the quick military -precision in which there is no haste and no delay. - -“You have some fine, powerful young officers, Colonel,” said the -General casually. “I suppose we shall see in Lieutenant Morgan one of -the best. It will take strength and brains both, perhaps, for this -message.” - -A shadow of a smile touched the Colonel’s lips. “I think I have chosen -a capable man, General,” was all he said. - -Against the doorway of the tent the breeze blew the flap lazily back -and forth. A light rain fell with muffled gentle insistence on the -canvas over their heads, and out through the opening the landscape -was blurred—the wide stretch of monotonous, billowy prairie, the -sluggish, shining river, bending in the distance about the base of -Black Wind Mountain—Black Wind Mountain, whose high top lifted, though -it was almost June, a white point of snow above dark pine ridges of -the hills below. The five officers talked a little as they waited, -but spasmodically, absent-mindedly. A shadow blocked the light of the -entrance, and in the doorway stood a young man, undersized, slight, -blond. He looked inquiringly at the Colonel. - -“You sent for me, sir?” and the General and his aide, and the grizzled -old Captain, and the big, fresh-faced young one, all watched him. - -In direct, quiet words—words whose bareness made them dramatic for the -weight of possibility they carried—the Colonel explained. Black Wolf -and his band were out on the war-path. A soldier coming in wounded, -escaped from the massacre of the post at Devil’s Hoof Gap, had reported -it. With the large command known to be here camped on Sweetstream Fork, -they would not come this way; they would swerve up the Gunpowder River -twenty miles away, destroying the settlement and Little Fort Slade, -and would sweep on, probably for a general massacre, up the Great Horn -as far as Fort Doncaster. He himself, with the regiment, would try to -save Fort Slade, but in the meantime Captain Thornton’s troop, coming -to join him, ignorant that Black Wolf had taken the war-path, would be -directly in their track. Some one must be sent to warn them, and of -course the fewer the quicker. Lieutenant Morgan would take a sergeant, -the Colonel ordered quietly, and start at once. - -In the misty light inside the tent, the young officer looked hardly -more than seventeen years old as he stood listening. His small figure -was light, fragile; his hair was blond to an extreme, a thick thatch of -pale gold; and there was about him, among these tanned, stalwart men in -uniform, a presence, an effect of something unusual, a simplicity out -of place yet harmonious, which might have come with a little child into -a scene like this. His large blue eyes were fixed on the Colonel as he -talked, and in them was just such a look of innocent, pleased wonder, -as might be in a child’s eyes, who had been told to leave studying and -go pick violets. But as the Colonel ended he spoke, and the few words -he said, the few questions he asked, were full of poise, of crisp -directness. As the General volunteered a word or two, he turned to him -and answered with a very charming deference, a respect that was yet -full of gracious ease, the unconscious air of a man to whom generals -are first as men, and then as generals. The slight figure in its dark -uniform was already beyond the tent doorway when the Colonel spoke -again, with a shade of hesitation in his manner. - -“Mr. Morgan!” and the young officer turned quickly. “I think it may be -right to warn you that there is likely to be more than usual danger in -your ride.” - -“Yes, sir.” The fresh, young voice had a note of inquiry. - -“You will—you will”—what was it the Colonel wanted to say? He -finished abruptly. “Choose the man carefully who goes with you.” - -“Thank you, Colonel,” Morgan responded heartily, but with a hint of -bewilderment. “I shall take Sergeant O’Hara,” and he was gone. - -There was a touch of color in the Colonel’s face, and he sighed as if -glad to have it over. The General watched him, and slowly, after a -pause, he demanded: - -“May I ask, Colonel, why you chose that blond baby to send on a mission -of uncommon danger and importance?” - -The Colonel answered quietly: “There were several reasons, -General—good ones. The blond baby”—that ghost of a smile touched the -Colonel’s lips again—“the blond baby has some remarkable qualities. He -never loses his head; he has uncommon invention and facility of getting -out of bad holes; he rides light and so can make a horse last longer -than most, and”—the Colonel considered a moment—“I may say he has no -fear of death. Even among my officers he is known for the quality of -his courage. There is one more reason: he is the most popular man I -have, both with officers and men; if anything happened to Morgan the -whole command would race into hell after the devils that did it, before -they would miss their revenge.” - -The General reflected, pulling at his moustache. “It seems a bit like -taking advantage of his popularity,” he said. - -“It is,” the Colonel threw back quickly. “It’s just that. But that’s -what one must do—a commanding officer—isn’t it so, General? In this -war music we play on human instruments, and if a big chord comes out -stronger for the silence of a note, the note must be silenced—that’s -all. It’s cruel, but it’s fighting; it’s the game.” - -The General, as if impressed with the tense words, did not respond, and -the other officers stared at the Colonel’s face, as carved, as stern -as if done in marble—a face from which the warm, strong heart seldom -shone, held back always by the stronger will. - -The big, fresh-colored young Captain broke the silence. “Has the -General ever heard of the trick Morgan played on Sun Boy, sir?” he -asked. - -“Tell the General, Captain Booth,” the Colonel said briefly, and the -Captain turned toward the higher officer. - -“It was apropos of what the Colonel said of his inventive faculties, -General,” he began. “A year ago the youngster with a squad of ten men -walked into Sun Boy’s camp of seventy-five warriors. Morgan had made -quite a pet of a young Sioux, who was our prisoner for five months, -and the boy had taught him a lot of the language, and assured him that -he would have the friendship of the band in return for his kindness to -Blue Arrow—that was the chap’s name. So he thought he was safe; but it -turned out that Blue Arrow’s father, a chief, had got into a row with -Sun Boy, and the latter would not think of ratifying the boy’s promise. -So there was Morgan with his dozen men, in a nasty enough fix. He knew -plenty of Indian talk to understand that they were discussing what -they would do with him, and it wasn’t pleasant. - -“All of a sudden he had an inspiration. He tells the story himself, -sir, and I assure you he’d make you laugh—Morgan is a wonderful -mimic. Well, he remembered suddenly, as I said, that he was a mighty -good ventriloquist, and he saw his chance. He gave a great jump like -a startled fawn, and threw up his arms and stared like one demented -into the tree over their heads. There was a mangy-looking crow -sitting up there on a branch, and Morgan pointed at him as if at -something marvellous, supernatural, and all those fool Indians stopped -pow-wowing and stared up after him, as curious as monkeys. Then to all -appearances, the crow began to talk. Morgan said they must have thought -that spirits didn’t speak very choice Sioux, but he did his best. The -bird cawed out: “‘Oh, Sun Boy, great chief, beware what you do!’ - -“And then the real bird flapped its wings and Morgan thought it was -going to fly, and he was lost. But it settled back again on the branch, -and Morgan proceeded to caw on: - -“‘Hurt not the white man, or the curses of the gods will come upon Sun -Boy and his people.’ - -“And he proceeded to give a list of what would happen if the Indians -touched a hair of their heads. By this time the red devils were all -down on their stomachs, moaning softly whenever Morgan stopped cawing. -He said he quite got into the spirit of it, and would have liked to go -on some time, but he was beginning to get hoarse, and besides he was in -deadly terror for fear the crow would fly before he got to the point. -So he had the spirit order them to give the white men their horses and -turn them loose instanter; and just as he got all through, off went the -thing with a big flap and a parting caw on its own account. I wish I -could tell it as Morgan does—you’d think he was a bird and an Indian -rolled together. He’s a great actor spoiled, that lad.” - -“You leave out a fine point, to my mind, Captain Booth,” the Colonel -said quickly. “About his going back.” - -“Oh! certainly that ought to be told,” said the Captain, and the -General’s eyes turned to him again. “Morgan forgot to see young Blue -Arrow, his friend, before he got away, and nothing would do but that he -should go back and speak to him. He said the boy would be disappointed. -The men were visibly uneasy at his going, but that didn’t affect him. -He ordered them to wait, and back he went, pell-mell, all alone into -that horde of fiends. They hadn’t got over their funk, luckily, and he -saw Blue Arrow and made his party call and got out again all right. He -didn’t tell that himself, but Sergeant O’Hara made the camp ring with -it. He adores Morgan, and claims that he doesn’t know what fear is. I -believe it’s about so. I’ve seen him in a fight three times now. His -cap always goes off—he loses a cap every blessed scrimmage—and with -that yellow mop of hair, and a sort of rapt expression he gets, he -looks like a child saying its prayers all the time he is slashing and -shooting like a berserker.” Captain Booth faced abruptly toward the -Colonel. “I beg your pardon for talking so long, sir,” he said. “You -know we’re all rather keen about little Miles Morgan.” - -The General lifted his head suddenly. “Miles Morgan?” he demanded. “Is -his name Miles Morgan?” - -The Colonel nodded. “Yes. The grandson of the old Bishop—named for -him.” - -“Lord!” ejaculated the General. “Miles Morgan was my earliest friend, -my friend until he died! This must be Jim’s son—Miles’s only child. -And Jim is dead these ten years,” he went on rapidly. “I’ve lost track -of him since the Bishop died, but I knew Jim left children. Why, he -married”—he searched rapidly in his memory—“he married a daughter of -General Fitzbrian’s. This boy’s got the church and the army both in -him. I knew his mother,” he went on, talking to the Colonel, garrulous -with interest. “Irish and fascinating she was—believed in fairies and -ghosts and all that, as her father did before her. A clever woman, but -with the superstitious, wild Irish blood strong in her. Good Lord! I -wish I’d known that was Miles Morgan’s grandson.” - -The Colonel’s voice sounded quiet and rather cold after the General’s -impulsive enthusiasm. “You have summed him up by his antecedents, -General,” he said. “The church and the army—both strains are strong. -He is deeply religious.” - -The General looked thoughtful. “Religious, eh? And popular? They don’t -always go together.” - -Captain Booth spoke quickly. “It’s not that kind, General,” he said. -“There’s no cant in the boy. He’s more popular for it—that’s often so -with the genuine thing, isn’t it? I sometimes think”—the young Captain -hesitated and smiled a trifle deprecatingly—“that Morgan is much of -the same stuff as Gordon—Chinese Gordon; the martyr stuff, you know. -But it seems a bit rash to compare an every-day American youngster to -an inspired hero.” - -“There’s nothing in Americanism to prevent either inspiration or -heroism that I know of,” the General affirmed stoutly, his fine old -head up, his eyes gleaming with pride of his profession. - -Out through the open doorway, beyond the slapping tent-flap, the keen, -gray eyes of the Colonel were fixed musingly on two black points which -crawled along the edge of the dulled silver of the distant river—Miles -Morgan and Sergeant O’Hara had started. - - * * * * * - -“Sergeant!” They were eight miles out now, and the camp had disappeared -behind the elbow of Black Wind Mountain. “There’s something wrong with -your horse. Listen! He’s not loping evenly.” The soft cadence of eight -hoofs on earth had somewhere a lighter and then a heavier note; the ear -of a good horseman tells in a minute, as a musician’s ear at a false -note, when an animal saves one foot ever so slightly, to come down -harder on another. - -“Yessirr. The Lieutenant’ll remimber ’tis the horrse that had a bit of -a spavin. Sure I thot ’twas cured, and ’tis the kindest baste in the -rigiment f’r a pleasure ride, sorr—that willin’ ’tis. So I tuk it. I -think ’tis only the stiffness at furrst aff. ’Twill wurruk aff later. -Plaze God, I’ll wallop him.” And the Sergeant walloped with a will. - -But the kindest beast in the regiment failed to respond except with a -plunge and increased lameness. Soon there was no more question of his -incapacity. - -Lieutenant Morgan halted his mount, and, looking at the woe-begone -O’Hara, laughed. “A nice trick this is, Sergeant,” he said, “to start -out on a trip to dodge Indians with a spavined horse. Why didn’t you -get a broomstick? Now go back to camp as fast as you can go; and that -horse ought to be blistered when you get there. See if you can’t really -cure him. He’s too good to be shot.” He patted the gray’s nervous head, -and the beast rubbed it gently against his sleeve, quiet under his hand. - -“Yessirr. The Lieutenant’ll ride slow, sorr, f’r me to catch up on ye, -sorr?” - -Miles Morgan smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, Sergeant, but there’ll -be no slow riding in this. I’ll have to press right on without you; -I must be at Massacre Mountain to-night to catch Captain Thornton -to-morrow.” - -Sergeant O’Hara’s chin dropped. “Sure the Lieutenant’ll niver be -thinkin’ to g’wan alone—widout _me_?” and with all the Sergeant’s -respect for his superiors, it took the Lieutenant ten valuable -minutes to get the man started back, shaking his head and muttering -forebodings, to the camp. - -It was quiet riding on alone. There were a few miles to go before -there was any chance of Indians, and no particular lookout to be kept, -so he put the horse ahead rapidly while he might, and suddenly he -found himself singing softly as he galloped. How the words had come -to him he did not know, for no conscious train of thought had brought -them; but they surely fitted to the situation, and a pleasant sense -of companionship, of safety, warmed him as the swing of an old hymn -carried his voice along with it. - - “God shall charge His angel legions - Watch and ward o’er thee to keep; - Though thou walk through hostile regions, - Though in desert wilds thou sleep.” - -Surely a man riding toward—perhaps through—skulking Indian hordes, -as he must, could have no better message reach him than that. The bent -of his mind was toward mysticism, and while he did not think the train -of reasoning out, could not have said that he believed it so, yet the -familiar lines flashing suddenly, clearly, on the curtain of his mind, -seemed to him, very simply, to be sent from a larger thought than his -own. As a child might take a strong hand held out as it walked over -rough country, so he accepted this quite readily and happily, as from -that Power who was never far from him, and in whose service, beyond -most people, he lived and moved. Low but clear and deep his voice went -on, following one stanza with its mate: - - “Since with pure and firm affection - Thou on God hast set thy love, - With the wings of His protection - He will shield thee from above.” - -The simplicity of his being sheltered itself in the broad promise of -the words. - -Light-heartedly he rode on and on, though now more carefully; lying -flat and peering over the crests of hills a long time before he crossed -their tops; going miles perhaps through ravines; taking advantage of -every bit of cover where a man and a horse might be hidden; travelling -as he had learned to travel in three years of experience in this -dangerous Indian country, where a shrub taken for granted might mean a -warrior, and that warrior a hundred others within signal. It was his -plan to ride until about twelve—to reach Massacre Mountain, and there -rest his horse and himself till gray daylight. There was grass there -and a spring—two good and innocent things that had been the cause of -the bad, dark thing which had given the place its name. A troop under -Captain James camping at this point, because of the water and grass, -had been surprised and wiped out by five hundred Indian braves of the -wicked and famous Red Crow. There were ghastly signs about the place -yet; Morgan had seen them, but soldiers may not have nerves, and it was -good camping ground. - -On through the valleys and half-way up the slopes, which rolled here -far away into a still wilder world, the young man rode. Behind the -distant hills in the east a glow like fire flushed the horizon. A -rim of pale gold lifted sharply over the ridge; a huge round ball of -light pushed faster, higher, and lay, a bright world on the edge of the -world, great against the sky—the moon had risen. The twilight trembled -as the yellow rays struck into its depths, and deepened, dying into -purple shadows. Across the plain zigzagged the pools of a level stream, -as if a giant had spilled handfuls of quicksilver here and there. - -Miles Morgan, riding, drank in all the mysterious, wild, beauty, as a -man at ease; as open to each fair impression as if he were not riding -each moment into deeper danger, as if his every sense were not on -guard. On through the shining moonlight and in the shadow of the hills -he rode, and, where he might, through the trees, and stopped to listen -often, to stare at the hill-tops, to question a heap of stones or a -bush. - -At last, when his leg-weary horse was beginning to stumble a bit, he -saw, as he came around a turn, Massacre Mountain’s dark head rising -in front of him, only half a mile away. The spring trickled its low -song, as musical, as limpidly pure as if it had never run scarlet. The -picketed horse fell to browsing and Miles sighed restfully as he laid -his head on his saddle and fell instantly to sleep with the light of -the moon on his damp, fair hair. But he did not sleep long. Suddenly -with a start he awoke, and sat up sharply, and listened. He heard the -horse still munching grass near him, and made out the shadow of its -bulk against the sky; he heard the stream, softly falling and calling -to the waters where it was going. That was all. Strain his hearing as -he might he could hear nothing else in the still night. Yet there was -something. It might not be sound or sight, but there was a presence, a -something—he could not explain. He was alert in every nerve. Suddenly -the words of the hymn he had been singing in the afternoon flashed -again into his mind, and, with his cocked revolver in his hand, alone, -on guard, in the midnight of the savage wilderness, the words came that -were not even a whisper: - - “God shall charge His angel legions - Watch and ward o’er thee to keep; - Though thou walk through hostile regions, - Though in desert wilds thou sleep.” - -He gave a contented sigh and lay down. What was there to worry -about? It was just his case for which the hymn was written. “Desert -wilds”—that surely meant Massacre Mountain, and why should he not -sleep here quietly, and let the angels keep their watch and ward? He -closed his eyes with a smile. But sleep did not come, and soon his eyes -were open again, staring into blackness, thinking, thinking. - -It was Sunday when he started out on this mission, and he fell to -remembering the Sunday nights at home—long, long ago they seemed now. -The family sang hymns after supper always; his mother played, and the -children stood around her—five of them, Miles and his brothers and -sisters. There was a little sister with brown hair about her shoulders, -who always stood by Miles, leaned against him, held his hand, looked up -at him with adoring eyes—he could see those uplifted eyes now, shining -through the darkness of this lonely place. He remembered the big, -home-like room; the crackling fire; the peaceful atmosphere of books -and pictures; the dumb things about its walls that were yet eloquent -to him of home and family; the sword that his great-grandfather had -worn under Washington; the old ivories that another great-grandfather, -the Admiral, had brought from China; the portraits of Morgans of half -a dozen generations which hung there; the magazine table, the books -and books and books. A pang of desperate homesickness suddenly shook -him. He wanted them—his own. Why should he, their best-beloved, throw -away his life—a life filled to the brim with hope and energy and high -ideals—on this futile quest? He knew quite as well as the General or -the Colonel that his ride was but a forlorn hope. As he lay there, -longing so, in the dangerous dark, he went about the library at home -in his thought and placed each familiar belonging where he had known -it all his life. And as he finished, his mother’s head shone darkly -golden by the piano; her fingers swept over the keys; he heard all -their voices, the dear never-forgotten voices. Hark! They were singing -his hymn—little Alice’s reedy note lifted above the others—“God shall -charge His angel legions——” - -Now! He was on his feet with a spring, and his revolver pointed -steadily. This time there was no mistaking—something had rustled in -the bushes. There was but one thing for it to be—Indians. Without -realizing what he did, he spoke sharply. - -“Who goes there?” he demanded, and out of the darkness a voice answered -quietly: - -“A friend.” - -“A friend?” With a shock of relief the pistol dropped by his side, and -he stood tense, waiting. How might a friend be here, at midnight in -this desert? As the thought framed itself swiftly the leaves parted, -and his straining eyes saw the figure of a young man standing before -him. - -“How came you here?” demanded Miles sternly. “Who are you?” - -Even in the dimness he could see the radiant smile that answered him. -The calm voice spoke again: “You will understand that later. I am here -to help you.” - -As if a door had suddenly opened into that lighted room of which he -dreamed, Miles felt a sense of tranquillity, of happiness stirring -through him. Never in his life had he known such a sudden utter -confidence in any one, such a glow of eager friendliness as this -half-seen, mysterious stranger inspired. “It is because I was lonelier -than I knew,” he said mentally. “It is because human companionship -gives courage to the most self-reliant of us;” and somewhere in the -words he was aware of a false note, but he did not stop to place it. - -The low, even voice of the stranger spoke again. “There are Indians on -your trail,” he said. “A small band of Black Wolf’s scouts. But don’t -be troubled. They will not hurt you.” - -“You escaped from them?” demanded Miles eagerly, and again the light of -a swift smile shone into the night. “You came to save me—how was it? -Tell me, so that we can plan. It is very dark yet, but hadn’t we better -ride? Where is your horse?” - -He threw the earnest questions rapidly across the black night, and the -unhurried voice answered him. “No,” it said, and the verdict was not to -be disputed. “You must stay here.” - -Who this man might be or how he came Miles could not tell, but this -much he knew, without reason for knowing it; it was some one stronger -than he, in whom he could trust. As the new-comer had said, it would -be time enough later to understand the rest. Wondering a little at his -own swift acceptance of an unknown authority, wondering more at the -peace which wrapped him as an atmosphere at the sound of the stranger’s -voice, Miles made a place for him by his side, and the two talked -softly to the plashing undertone of the stream. - -Easily, naturally, Miles found himself telling how he had been -homesick, longing for his people. He told him of the big familiar room, -and of the old things that were in it, that he loved; of his mother; -of little Alice, and her baby adoration for the big brother; of how -they had always sung hymns together Sunday night; he never for a moment -doubted the stranger’s interest and sympathy—he knew that he cared to -hear. - -“There is a hymn,” Miles said, “that we used to sing a lot—it was -my favorite; ’Miles’s hymn,’ the family called it. Before you came -to-night, while I lay there getting lonelier every minute, I almost -thought I heard them singing it. You may not have heard it, but it has -a grand swing. I always think”—he hesitated—“it always seems to me as -if the God of battles and the beauty of holiness must both have filled -the man’s mind who wrote it.” He stopped, surprised at his own lack of -reserve, at the freedom with which, to this friend of an hour, he spoke -his inmost heart. - -“I know,” the stranger said gently. There was silence for a moment, and -then the wonderful low tones, beautiful, clear, beyond any voice Miles -had ever heard, began again, and it was as if the great sweet notes of -an organ whispered the words: - - “God shall charge His angel legions - Watch and ward o’er thee to keep; - Though thou walk through hostile regions, - Though in desert wilds thou sleep.” - -“Great Heavens!” gasped Miles. “How could you know I meant that? Why, -this is marvellous—why, this”—he stared, speechless, at the dim -outlines of the face which he had never seen before to-night, but -which seemed to him already familiar and dear beyond all reason. As -he gazed the tall figure rose, lightly towering above him. “Look!” he -said, and Miles was on his feet. In the east, beyond the long sweep of -the prairie, was a faint blush against the blackness; already threads -of broken light, of pale darkness, stirred through the pall of the air; -the dawn was at hand. - -“We must saddle,” Miles said, “and be off. Where is your horse -picketed?” he demanded again. - -But the strange young man stood still; and now his arm was stretched -pointing. “Look,” he said again, and Miles followed the direction with -his eyes. - -From the way he had come, in that fast-growing glow at the edge of the -sky, sharp against the mist of the little river, crept slowly half -a dozen pin points, and Miles, watching their tiny movement, knew -that they were ponies bearing Indian braves. He turned hotly to his -companion. - -“It’s your fault,” he said. “If I’d had my way we’d have ridden from -here an hour ago. Now here we are caught like rats in a trap; and who’s -to do my work and save Thornton’s troop—who’s to save them—God!” The -name was a prayer, not an oath. - -“Yes,” said the quiet voice at his side, “God,”—and for a second there -was a silence that was like an Amen. - -Quickly, without a word, Miles turned and began to saddle. Then -suddenly, as he pulled at the girth, he stopped. “It’s no use,” he -said. “We can’t get away except over the rise, and they’ll see us -there;” he nodded at the hill which rose beyond the camping ground -three hundred yards away, and stretched in a long, level sweep into -other hills and the west. “Our chance is that they’re not on my trail -after all—it’s quite possible.” There was a tranquil unconcern about -the figure near him; his own bright courage caught the meaning of its -relaxed lines with a bound of pleasure. “As you say, it’s best to stay -here,” he said, and as if thinking aloud—“I believe you must always be -right.” Then he added, as if his very soul would speak itself to this -wonderful new friend: “We can’t be killed, unless the Lord wills it, -and if he does it’s right. Death is only the step into life; I suppose -when we know that life, we will wonder how we could have cared for this -one.” - -Through the gray light the stranger turned his face swiftly, bent -toward Miles, and smiled once again, and the boy thought suddenly of -the martyrdom of St. Stephen, and how those who were looking “saw his -face as it had been the face of an angel.” - -Across the plain, out of the mist-wreaths, came rushing, scurrying, -the handful of Indian braves. Pale light streamed now from the east, -filtering over a hushed world. Miles faced across the plain, stood -close to the tall stranger whose shape, as the dawn touched it, seemed -to rise beyond the boy’s slight figure wonderfully large and high. -There was a sense of unending power, of alertness of great, easy -movement about him; one might have looked at him, and looking away -again, have said that wings were folded about him. But Miles did not -see him. His eyes were on the fast-nearing, galloping ponies, each -with its load of filthy, cruel savagery. This was his death coming; -there was disgust, but not dread in the thought for the boy. In a few -minutes he should be fighting hopelessly, fiercely against this froth -of a lower world; in a few minutes after that he should be lying here -still—for he meant to be killed; he had that planned. They should not -take him—a wave of sick repulsion at that thought shook him. Nearer, -nearer, right on his track came the riders pell-mell. He could hear -their weird, horrible cries; now he could see gleaming through the -dimness the huge head-dress of the foremost, the white coronet of -feathers, almost the stripes of paint on the fierce face. - -Suddenly a feeling that he knew well caught him, and he laughed. It was -the possession that had held in him in every action which he had so -far been in. It lifted his high-strung spirit into an atmosphere where -there was no dread and no disgust, only a keen rapture in throwing -every atom of soul and body into physical intensity; it was as if he -himself were a bright blade, dashing, cutting, killing, a living sword -rejoicing to destroy. With the coolness that may go with such a frenzy -he felt that his pistols were loose; saw with satisfaction that he -and his new ally were placed on the slope to the best advantage, then -turned swiftly, eager now for the fight to come, toward the Indian -band. As he looked, suddenly in mid-career, pulling in their plunging -ponies with a jerk that threw them, snorting, on their haunches, the -warriors halted. Miles watched in amazement. The bunch of Indians, -not more than a hundred yards away, were staring, arrested, startled, -back of him to his right, where the lower ridge of Massacre Mountain -stretched far and level over the valley that wound westward beneath it -on the road to Fort Rain-and-Thunder. As he gazed, the ponies had swept -about and were galloping back as they had come, across the plain. - -Before he knew if it might be true, if he were not dreaming this -curious thing, the clear voice of his companion spoke in one word -again, like the single note of a deep bell. “Look!” he said, and Miles -swung about toward the ridge behind, following the pointing finger. - -In the gray dawn the hill-top was clad with the still strength of an -army. Regiment after regiment, silent, motionless, it stretched back -into silver mist, and the mist rolled beyond, above, about it; and -through it he saw, as through rifts in broken gauze, lines interminable -of soldiers, glitter of steel. Miles, looking, knew. - -He never remembered how long he stood gazing, earth and time and self -forgotten, at a sight not meant for mortal eyes; but suddenly, with a -stab it came to him, that if the hosts of heaven fought his battle it -was that he might do his duty, might save Captain Thornton and his men; -he turned to speak to the young man who had been with him. There was no -one there. Over the bushes the mountain breeze blew damp and cold; they -rustled softly under its touch; his horse stared at him mildly; away -off at the foot-hills he could see the diminishing dots of the fleeing -Indian ponies; as he wheeled again and looked, the hills that had been -covered with the glory of heavenly armies, lay hushed and empty. And -his friend was gone. - -Clatter of steel, jingle of harness, an order ringing out far but -clear—Miles threw up his head sharply and listened. In a second he -was pulling at his horse’s girth, slipping the bit swiftly into its -mouth—in a moment more he was off and away to meet them, as a body of -cavalry swung out of the valley where the ridge had hidden them. - -“Captain Thornton’s troop?” the officer repeated carelessly. “Why, yes; -they are here with us. We picked them up yesterday, headed straight for -Black Wolf’s war-path. Mighty lucky we found them. How about you—seen -any Indians, have you?” - -Miles answered slowly: “A party of eight were on my trail; they were -riding for Massacre Mountain, where I camped, about an hour—about -half an hour—awhile ago.” He spoke vaguely, rather oddly, the officer -thought. “Something—stopped them about a hundred yards from the -mountain. They turned, and rode away.” - -“Ah,” said the officer. “They saw us down the valley.” - -“I couldn’t see you,” said Miles. - -The officer smiled. “You’re not an Indian, Lieutenant. Besides, they -were out on the plain and had a farther view behind the ridge.” And -Miles answered not a word. - -General Miles Morgan, full of years and of honors, has never but twice -told the story of that night of forty years ago. But he believes that -when his time comes, and he goes to join the majority, he will know -again the presence which guarded him through the blackness of it, and -among the angel legions he looks to find an angel, a messenger, who was -his friend. - - - - - MARKHEIM - - BY - - ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - - - - -In one of the old Greek tragedies, after the actors on the stage have -played their parts and the chorus in the orchestra below has hinted -mysteriously of crime and retribution, the doors of the palace in the -background suddenly fly apart. There stands the criminal queen. She -confesses her crime and explains the reason for it. So sometimes a -story opens the doors of a character’s heart and mind, and invites us -to look within. Such a story is called psychological. Sometimes there -is action, not for action’s sake, but for its revelation of character. -Sometimes nothing happens. “This,” says Bliss Perry, “may be precisely -what most interests us, because we are made to understand what it is -that inhibits action.” In the story of this type we see the moods of -the character; we watch motives appear, encounter other motives, and -retreat or advance. In short, we are allowed to observe the man’s -mental processes until we understand him. - -The emotional value of this story may be stated in the words of C. T. -Winchester: - -“We may lay it down as a rule that those emotions which are intimately -related to the conduct of life are of higher rank than those which -are not; and that, consequently, the emotions highest of all are -those related to the deciding forces of life the affections, and the -conscience.” - - - - -MARKHEIM[25] - - -“Yes,” said the dealer, “our windfalls are of various kinds. Some -customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior -knowledge. Some are dishonest,” and here he held up the candle, so -that the light fell strongly on his visitor, “and in that case,” he -continued, “I profit by my virtue.” - -Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes -had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the -shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the -flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside. - -The dealer chuckled. “You come to me on Christmas Day,” he resumed, -“when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and -make a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; -you will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing -my books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I -remark in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, -and ask no awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in -the eye, he has to pay for it.” The dealer once more chuckled; and -then, changing to his usual business voice, though still with a note -of irony, “You can give, as usual, a clear account of how you came -into the possession of the object?” he continued. “Still your uncle’s -cabinet? A remarkable collector, sir!” - -And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip-toe, -looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head -with every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of -infinite pity, and a touch of horror. - -“This time,” said he, “you are in error. I have not come to sell, but -to buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle’s cabinet is bare to -the wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock -Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my -errand to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a Christmas present for a -lady,” he continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he -had prepared; “and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing -you upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I -must produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well -know, a rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected.” - -There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this -statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious -lumber of the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near -thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence. - -“Well, sir,” said the dealer, “be it so. You are an old customer after -all; and if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far -be it from me to be an obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now,” -he went on, “this hand glass—fifteenth century, warranted; comes from -a good collection, too; but I reserve the name, in the interests of my -customer, who was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole -heir of a remarkable collector.” - -The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting voice, had -stooped to take the object from its place; and, as he had done so, a -shock had passed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, -a sudden leap of many tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as -swiftly as it came, and left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the -hand that now received the glass. - -“A glass,” he said hoarsely, and then paused, and repeated it more -clearly. “A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?” - -“And why not?” cried the dealer. “Why not a glass?” - -Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression. “You ask -me why not?” he said. “Why, look here—look in it—look at yourself! Do -you like to see it? No! nor I—nor any man.” - -The little man had jumped back when Markheim had so suddenly confronted -him with the mirror; but now, perceiving there was nothing worse -on hand, he chuckled. “Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard -favored,” said he. - -“I ask you,” said Markheim, “for a Christmas present, and you give -me this—this damned reminder of years, and sins, and follies—this -hand-conscience! Did you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell -me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me about yourself. -I hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable man?” - -The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was very odd, Markheim -did not appear to be laughing; there was something in his face like an -eager sparkle of hope, but nothing of mirth. - -“What are you driving at?” the dealer asked. - -“Not charitable?” returned the other, gloomily. “Not charitable; not -pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe -to keep it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is that all?” - -“I will tell you what it is,” began the dealer, with some sharpness, -and then broke off again into a chuckle. “But I see this is a love -match of yours, and you have been drinking the lady’s health.” - -“Ah!” cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. “Ah, have you been in -love? Tell me about that.” - -“I,” cried the dealer. “I in love! I never had the time, nor have I the -time to-day for all this nonsense. Will you take the glass?” - -“Where is the hurry?” returned Markheim. “It is very pleasant to stand -here talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry -away from any pleasure—no, not even from so mild a one as this. We -should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, like a man at a -cliff’s edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it—a cliff -a mile high—high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of every feature -of humanity. Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each -other; why should we wear this mask? Let us be confidential. Who knows, -we might become friends?” - -“I have just one word to say to you,” said the dealer. “Either make -your purchase, or walk out of my shop.” - -“True, true,” said Markheim. “Enough fooling. To business. Show me -something else.” - -The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the glass upon -the shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so. -Markheim moved a little nearer, with one hand in the pocket of his -great-coat; he drew himself up and filled his lungs; at the same time -many different emotions were depicted together on his face—terror, -horror, and resolve, fascination and a physical repulsion; and through -a haggard lift of his upper lip, his teeth looked out. - -“This, perhaps, may suit,” observed the dealer; and then, as he began -to re-arise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his victim. The long, -skewerlike dagger flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, -striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a -heap. - -Time had some score of small voices in that shop, some stately and slow -as was becoming to their great age; others garrulous and hurried. All -these told out the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then -the passage of a lad’s feet, heavily running on the pavement, broke in -upon these smaller voices and startled Markheim into the consciousness -of his surroundings. He looked about him awfully. The candle stood -on the counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught; and by that -inconsiderable movement, the whole room was filled with noiseless -bustle and kept heaving like a sea: the tall shadows nodding, the gross -blots of darkness swelling and dwindling as with respiration, the faces -of the portraits and the china gods changing and wavering like images -in water. The inner door stood ajar, and peered into that leaguer of -shadows with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger. - -From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim’s eyes returned to the body -of his victim, where it lay both humped and sprawling, incredibly small -and strangely meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in -that ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. Markheim -had feared to see it, and, lo! it was nothing. And yet, as he gazed, -this bundle of old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent -voices. There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning hinges or -direct the miracle of locomotion—there it must lie till it was found. -Found! ay, and then? Then would this dead flesh lift up a cry that -would ring over England, and fill the world with the echoes of pursuit. -Ay, dead or not, this was still the enemy. “Time was that when the -brains were out,” he thought; and the first word struck into his mind. -Time, now that the deed was accomplished—time, which had closed for -the victim, had become instant and momentous for the slayer. - -The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and then another, with -every variety of pace and voice—one deep as the bell from a cathedral -turret, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz—the -clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon. - -The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber staggered -him. He began to bestir himself, going to and fro with the candle, -beleaguered by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance -reflections. In many rich mirrors, some of home designs, some from -Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and repeated, as it were -an army of spies; his own eyes met and detected him; and the sound of -his own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the surrounding quiet. And -still as he continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him, with -a sickening iteration, of the thousand faults of his design. He should -have chosen a more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi; he -should not have used a knife; he should have been more cautious, and -only bound and gagged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have -been more bold, and killed the servant also; he should have done all -things otherwise; poignant regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the -mind to change what was unchangeable, to plan what was now useless, to -be the architect of the irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all -this activity, brute terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted -attic, filled the more remote chambers of his brain with riot; the hand -of the constable would fall heavy on his shoulder, and his nerves would -jerk like a hooked fish; or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, -the prison, the gallows, and the black coffin. - -Terror of the people in the street sat down before his mind like a -besieging army. It was impossible, he thought, but that some rumor -of the struggle must have reached their ears and set on edge their -curiosity; and now, in all the neighboring houses, he divined them -sitting motionless and with uplifted ear—solitary people, condemned -to spend Christmas dwelling alone on memories of the past, and now -startlingly recalled from that tender exercise; happy family parties, -struck into silence round the table, the mother still with raised -finger: every degree and age and humor, but all, by their own hearts, -prying and hearkening and weaving the rope that was to hang him. -Sometimes it seemed to him he could not move too softly; the clink of -the tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell; and alarmed by -the bigness of the ticking, he was tempted to stop the clocks. And -then, again, with a swift transition of his terrors, the very silence -of the place appeared a source of peril, and a thing to strike and -freeze the passer-by; and he would step more boldly, and bustle aloud -among the contents of the shop, and imitate, with elaborate bravado, -the movements of a busy man at ease in his own house. - -But he was now so pulled about by different alarms that, while one -portion of his mind was still alert and cunning, another trembled on -the brink of lunacy. One hallucination in particular took a strong -hold on his credulity. The neighbor hearkening with white face beside -his window, the passer-by arrested by a horrible surmise on the -pavement—these could at worst suspect, they could not know; through -the brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate. But -here, within the house, was he alone? He knew he was; he had watched -the servant set forth sweethearting, in her poor best, “out for the -day” written in every ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of course; -and yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he could surely hear -a stir of delicate footing—he was surely conscious, inexplicably -conscious of some presence. Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the -house his imagination followed it; and now it was a faceless thing, and -yet had eyes to see with; and again it was a shadow of himself; and yet -again behold the image of the dead dealer, reinspired with cunning and -hatred. - -At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door which -still seemed to repel his eyes. The house was tall, the skylight small -and dirty, the day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down -to the ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the -threshold of the shop. And yet, in that strip of doubtful brightness, -did there not hang wavering a shadow? - -Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentleman began to -beat with a staff on the shop-door, accompanying his blows with shouts -and railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon by name. -Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he lay -quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot of these blows and -shoutings; he was sunk beneath seas of silence; and his name, which -would once have caught his notice above the howling of a storm, had -become come an empty sound. And presently the jovial gentleman desisted -from his knocking and departed. - -Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be done, to get forth -from this accusing neighborhood, to plunge into a bath of London -multitudes, and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of -safety and apparent innocence—his bed. One visitor had come: at any -moment another might follow and be more obstinate. To have done the -deed, and yet not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. -The money, that was now Markheim’s concern; and as a means to that, the -keys. - -He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where the shadow was -still lingering and shivering; and with no conscious repugnance of -the mind, yet with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the body of -his victim. The human character had quite departed. Like a suit -half-stuffed with bran, the limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, -on the floor; and yet the thing repelled him. Although so dingy and -inconsiderable to the eye, he feared it might have more significance -to the touch. He took the body by the shoulders, and turned it on its -back. It was strangely light and supple, and the limbs, as if they had -been broken, fell into the oddest postures. The face was robbed of all -expression; but it was as pale as wax, and shockingly smeared with -blood about one temple. That was, for Markheim, the one displeasing -circumstance. It carried him back, upon the instant, to a certain day -in a fishers’ village: a gray day, a piping wind, a crowd upon the -street, the blare of brasses, the booming of drums, the nasal voice of -a ballad singer; and a boy going to and fro, buried over head in the -crowd and divided between interest and fear, until, coming out upon -the chief place of concourse, he beheld a booth and a great screen -with pictures, dismally designed, garishly colored: Brownrigg with -her apprentice; the Mannings with their murdered guest; Weare in the -death-grip of Thurtell; and a score besides of famous crimes. The thing -was as clear as an illusion; he was once again that little boy; he -was looking once again, and with the same sense of physical revolt, -at these vile pictures; he was still stunned by the thumping of the -drums. A bar of that day’s music returned upon his memory; and at that, -for the first time, a qualm came over him, a breath of nausea, a sudden -weakness of the joints, which he must instantly resist and conquer. - -He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee from these -considerations; looking the more hardily in the dead face, bending -his mind to realize the nature and greatness of his crime. So little -a while ago that face had moved with every change of sentiment, that -pale mouth had spoken, that body had been all on fire with governable -energies; and now, and by his act, that piece of life had been -arrested, as the horologist, with interjected finger, arrests the -beating of the clock. So he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more -remorseful consciousness; the same heart which had shuddered before -the painted effigies of crime, looked on its reality unmoved. At best, -he felt a gleam of pity for one who had been endowed in vain with all -those faculties that can make the world a garden of enchantment, one -who had never lived and who was now dead. But of penitence, no, not a -tremor. - -With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations, he found the -keys and advanced towards the open door of the shop. Outside, it had -begun to rain smartly; and the sound of the shower upon the roof had -banished silence. Like some dripping cavern, the chambers of the house -were haunted by an incessant echoing, which filled the ear and mingled -with the ticking of the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the door, -he seemed to hear, in answer to his own cautious tread, the steps of -another foot withdrawing up the stair. The shadow still palpitated -loosely on the threshold. He threw a ton’s weight of resolve upon his -muscles, and drew back the door. - -The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the bare floor and stairs; -on the bright suit of armor posted, halbert in hand, upon the landing; -and on the dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that hung against -the yellow panels of the wainscot. So loud was the beating of the -rain through all the house that, in Markheim’s ears, it began to be -distinguished into many different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the -tread of regiments marching in the distance, the chink of money in the -counting, and the creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to -mingle with the patter of the drops upon the cupola and the gushing of -the water in the pipes. The sense that he was not alone grew upon him -to the verge of madness. On every side he was haunted and begirt by -presences. He heard them moving in the upper chambers; from the shop, -he heard the dead man getting to his legs; and as he began with a great -effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before him and followed -stealthily behind. If he were but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he -would possess his soul! And then again, and hearkening with ever fresh -attention, he blessed himself for that unresting sense which held the -outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon his life. His head turned -continually on his neck; his eyes, which seemed starting from their -orbits, scouted on every side, and on every side were half-rewarded -as with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The four-and-twenty -steps to the first floor were four-and-twenty agonies. - -On that first story, the doors stood ajar, three of them like three -ambushes, shaking his nerves like the throats of cannon. He could -never again, he felt, be sufficiently immured and fortified from men’s -observing eyes; he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried among -bedclothes, and invisible to all but God. And at that thought he -wondered a little, recollecting tales of other murderers and the fear -they were said to entertain of heavenly avengers. It was not so, at -least, with him. He feared the laws of nature, lest, in their callous -and immutable procedure, they should preserve some damning evidence -of his crime. He feared tenfold more, with a slavish, superstitious -terror, some scission in the continuity of man’s experience, some -wilful illegality of nature. He played a game of skill, depending on -the rules, calculating consequence from cause; and what if nature, as -the defeated tyrant overthrew the chess-board, should break the mould -of their succession? The like had befallen Napoleon (so writers said) -when the winter changed the time of its appearance. The like might -befall Markheim: the solid walls might become transparent and reveal -his doings like those of bees in a glass hive; the stout planks might -yield under his foot like quicksands and detain him in their clutch; -ay, and there were soberer accidents that might destroy him: if, for -instance, the house should fall and imprison him beside the body of -his victim; or the house next door should fly on fire, and the firemen -invade him from all sides. These things he feared; and, in a sense, -these things might be called the hands of God reached forth against -sin. But about God himself he was at ease; his act was doubtless -exceptional, but so were his excuses, which God knew; it was there, and -not among men, that he felt sure of justice. - -When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and shut the door behind -him, he was aware of a respite from alarms. The room was quite -dismantled, uncarpeted besides, and strewn with packing-cases and -incongruous furniture; several great pier-glasses, in which he beheld -himself at various angles, like an actor on a stage; many pictures, -framed and unframed, standing, with their faces to the wall; a fine -Sheraton sideboard, a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old bed, with -tapestry hangings. The windows opened to the floor; but by great good -fortune the lower part of the shutters had been closed, and this -concealed him from the neighbors. Here, then, Markheim drew in a -packing-case before the cabinet, and began to search among the keys. It -was a long business, for there were many; and it was irksome, besides; -for, after all, there might be nothing in the cabinet, and time was on -the wing. But the closeness of the occupation sobered him. With the -tail of his eye he saw the door—even glanced at it from time to time -directly, like a besieged commander pleased to verify the good estate -of his defences. But in truth he was at peace. The rain falling in the -street sounded natural and pleasant. Presently, on the other side, the -notes of a piano were wakened to the music of a hymn, and the voices of -many children took up the air and words. How stately, how comfortable -was the melody! How fresh the youthful voices! Markheim gave ear to it -smilingly, as he sorted out the keys; and his mind was thronged with -answerable ideas and images; church-going children and the pealing of -the high organ; children afield, bathers by the brookside, ramblers on -the brambly common, kite-fliers in the windy and cloud-navigated sky; -and then, at another cadence of the hymn, back again to church, and the -somnolence of summer Sundays, and the high genteel voice of the parson -(which he smiled a little to recall) and the painted Jacobean tombs, -and the dim lettering of the Ten Commandments in the chancel. - -And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was startled to his -feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush of blood, went -over him, and then he stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted -the stair slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the -knob, and the lock clicked, and the door opened. - -Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he knew not, whether the -dead man walking, or the official ministers of human justice, or some -chance witness blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows. -But when a face was thrust into the aperture, glanced round the room, -looked at him, nodded and smiled as if in friendly recognition, and -then withdrew again, and the door closed behind it, his fear broke -loose from his control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this the -visitant returned. - -“Did you call me?” he asked, pleasantly, and with that he entered the -room and closed the door behind him. - -Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. Perhaps there was a -film upon his sight, but the outlines of the new-comer seemed to change -and waver like those of the idols in the wavering candle-light of the -shop; and at times he thought he knew him; and at times he thought he -bore a likeness to himself; and always, like a lump of living terror, -there lay in his bosom the conviction that this thing was not of the -earth and not of God. - -And yet the creature had a strange air of the commonplace, as he stood -looking on Markheim with a smile; and when he added: “You are looking -for the money, I believe?” it was in the tones of every-day politeness. - -Markheim made no answer. - -“I should warn you,” resumed the other, “that the maid has left her -sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be -found in this house, I need not describe to him the consequences.” - -“You know me?” cried the murderer. - -The visitor smiled. “You have long been a favorite of mine,” he said; -“and I have long observed and often sought to help you.” - -“What are you?” cried Markheim: “the devil?” - -“What I may be,” returned the other, “cannot affect the service I -propose to render you.” - -“It can,” cried Markheim; “it does! Be helped by you? No, never; not by -you! You do not know me yet; thank God, you do not know me!” - -“I know you,” replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity or -rather firmness. “I know you to the soul.” - -“Know me!” cried Markheim. “Who can do so? My life is but a travesty -and slander on myself. I have lived to belie my nature. All men do; all -men are better than this disguise that grows about and stifles them. -You see each dragged away by life, like one whom bravos have seized and -muffled in a cloak. If they had their own control—if you could see -their faces, they would be altogether different, they would shine out -for heroes and saints! I am worse than most; my self is more overlaid; -my excuse is known to me and God. But, had I the time, I could disclose -myself.” - -“To me?” inquired the visitant. - -“To you before all,” returned the murderer. “I supposed you were -intelligent. I thought—since you exist—you would prove a reader of -the heart. And yet you would propose to judge me by my acts! Think of -it; my acts! I was born and I have lived in a land of giants; giants -have dragged me by the wrists since I was born out of my mother—the -giants of circumstance. And you would judge me by my acts! But can -you not look within? Can you not understand that evil is hateful to -me? Can you not see within me the clear writing of conscience, never -blurred by any wilful sophistry, although too often disregarded? Can -you not read me for a thing that surely must be common as humanity—the -unwilling sinner?” - -“All this is very feelingly expressed,” was the reply, “but it regards -me not. These points of consistency are beyond my province, and I care -not in the least by what compulsion you may have been dragged away, -so as you are but carried in the right direction. But time flies; the -servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the pictures -on the hoardings, but still she keeps moving nearer; and remember, -it is as if the gallows itself was striding towards you through the -Christmas streets! Shall I help you; I, who know all? Shall I tell you -where to find the money?” - -“For what price?” asked Markheim. - -“I offer you the service for a Christmas gift,” returned the other. - -Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of bitter triumph. -“No,” said he, “I will take nothing at your hands; if I were dying of -thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should -find the courage to refuse. It may be credulous, but I will do nothing -to commit myself to evil.” - -“I have no objection to a death-bed repentance,” observed the visitant. - -“Because you disbelieve their efficacy!” Markheim cried. - -“I do not say so,” returned the other; “but I look on these things from -a different side, and when the life is done my interest falls. The man -has lived to serve me, to spread black looks under color of religion, -or to sow tares in the wheat-field, as you do, in a course of weak -compliance with desire. Now that he draws so near to his deliverance, -he can add but one act of service—to repent, to die smiling, and thus -to build up in confidence and hope the more timorous of my surviving -followers. I am not so hard a master. Try me. Accept my help. Please -yourself in life as you have done hitherto; please yourself more amply, -spread your elbows at the board; and when the night begins to fall -and the curtains to be drawn, I tell you, for your greater comfort, -that you will find it even easy to compound your quarrel with your -conscience, and to make a truckling peace with God. I came but now from -such a death-bed, and the room was full of sincere mourners, listening -to the man’s last words: and when I looked into that face, which had -been set as a flint against mercy, I found it smiling with hope.” - -“And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?” asked Markheim. “Do you -think I have no more generous aspirations than to sin, and sin, and -sin, and, at last, sneak into heaven? My heart rises at the thought. -Is this, then, your experience of mankind? or is it because you find -me with red hands that you presume such baseness? and is this crime of -murder indeed so impious as to dry up the very springs of good?” - -“Murder is to me no special category,” replied the other. “All sins -are murder, even as all life is war. I behold your race, like starving -mariners on a raft, plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and -feeding on each other’s lives. I follow sins beyond the moment of their -acting; I find in all that the last consequence is death; and to my -eyes, the pretty maid who thwarts her mother with such taking graces on -a question of a ball, drips no less visibly with human gore than such -a murderer as yourself. Do I say that I follow sins? I follow virtues -also; they differ not by the thickness of a nail, they are both scythes -for the reaping angel of Death. Evil, for which I live, consists not -in action but in character. The bad man is dear to me; not the bad act, -whose fruits, if we could follow them far enough down the hurtling -cataract of the ages, might yet be found more blessed than those of the -rarest virtues. And it is not because you have killed a dealer, but -because you are Markheim, that I offered to forward your escape.” - -“I will lay my heart open to you,” answered Markheim. “This crime on -which you find me is my last. On my way to it I have learned many -lessons; itself is a lesson, a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have been -driven with revolt to what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty, -driven and scourged. There are robust virtues that can stand in these -temptations; mine was not so: I had a thirst of pleasure. But to-day, -and out of this deed, I pluck both warning and riches—both the power -and a fresh resolve to be myself. I become in all things a free actor -in the world; I begin to see myself all changed, these hands the agents -of good, this heart at peace. Something comes over me out of the past; -something of what I have dreamed on Sabbath evenings to the sound of -the church organ, of what I forecast when I shed tears over noble -books, or talked, an innocent child, with my mother. There lies my -life; I have wandered a few years, but now I see once more my city of -destination.” - -“You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I think?” remarked -the visitor; “and there, if I mistake not, you have already lost some -thousands?” - -“Ah,” said Markheim, “but this time I have a sure thing.” - -“This time, again, you will lose,” replied the visitor quietly. - -“Ah, but I keep back the half!” cried Markheim. - -“That also you will lose,” said the other. - -The sweat started upon Markheim’s brow. “Well, then, what matter?” he -exclaimed. “Say it be lost, say I am plunged again in poverty, shall -one part of me, and that the worst, continue until the end to override -the better? Evil and good run strong in me, haling me both ways. I -do not love the one thing, I love all. I can conceive great deeds, -renunciations, martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime as -murder, pity is no stranger to my thoughts. I pity the poor; who knows -their trials better than myself? I pity and help them; I prize love, I -love honest laughter; there is no good thing nor true thing on earth -but I love it from my heart. And are my vices only to direct my life, -and my virtues to lie without effect, like some passive lumber of the -mind? Not so; good, also, is a spring of acts.” - -But the visitant raised his finger. “For six-and-thirty years that you -have been in this world,” said he, “through many changes of fortune and -varieties of humor, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years -ago you would have started at a theft. Three years back you would -have blenched at the name of murder. Is there any crime, is there any -cruelty or meanness, from which you still recoil?—five years from now -I shall detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, lies your way; nor -can anything but death avail to stop you.” - -“It is true,” Markheim said huskily, “I have in some degree complied -with evil. But it is so with all: the very saints, in the mere -exercise of living, grow less dainty, and take on the tone of their -surroundings.” - -“I will propound to you one simple question,” said the other; “and as -you answer, I shall read to you your moral horoscope. You have grown -in many things more lax; possibly you do right to be so; and at any -account, it is the same with all men. But granting that, are you in -any one particular, however trifling, more difficult to please with -your own conduct, or do you go in all things with a looser rein?” - -“In any one?” repeated Markheim, with an anguish of consideration. -“No,” he added, with despair, “in none! I have gone down in all.” - -“Then,” said the visitor, “content yourself with what you are, for -you will never change; and the words of your part on this stage are -irrevocably written down.” - -Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed it was the visitor -who first broke the silence. “That being so,” he said, “shall I show -you the money?” - -“And grace?” cried Markheim. - -“Have you not tried it?” returned the other. “Two or three years ago, -did I not see you on the platform of revival meetings, and was not your -voice the loudest in the hymn?” - -“It is true,” said Markheim; “and I see clearly what remains for me by -way of duty. I thank you for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are -opened, and I behold myself at last for what I am.” - -At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang through the house; -and the visitant, as though this were some concerted signal for which -he had been waiting, changed at once in his demeanor. - -“The maid!” he cried. “She has returned, as I forewarned you, and there -is now before you one more difficult passage. Her master, you must -say, is ill; you must let her in, with an assured but rather serious -countenance—no smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success! Once -the girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity that has -already rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last danger in -your path. Thenceforward you have the whole evening—the whole night, -if needful—to ransack the treasures of the house and to make good your -safety. This is help that comes to you with the mask of danger. Up!” he -cried: “up, friend; your life hangs trembling in the scales: up, and -act!” - -Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. “If I be condemned to evil -acts,” he said, “there is still one door of freedom open—I can cease -from action. If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I -be, as you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, -by one decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all. My love -of good is damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be! But I have -still my hatred of evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, -you shall see that I can draw both energy and courage.” - -The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful and lovely -change: they brightened and softened with a tender triumph; and, even -as they brightened, faded and dislimned. But Markheim did not pause to -watch or understand the transformation. He opened the door and went -downstairs very slowly, thinking to himself. His past went soberly -before him; he beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, -random as chance-medley—a scene of defeat. Life, as he thus reviewed -it, tempted him no longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet -haven for his bark. He paused in the passage, and looked into the -shop, where the candle still burned by the dead body. It was strangely -silent. Thoughts of the dealer swarmed into his mind, as he stood -gazing. And then the bell once more broke out into impatient clamor. - -He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile. - -“You had better go for the police,” said he: “I have killed your -master.” - - - - - FOOTNOTES: - -[1] G. Stanley Hall, _Adolescence_, vol. II. - -[2] _Ibid._ - -[3] From “The First Christmas Tree,” by Henry Van Dyke. Copyright, -1897, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[4] From “Evening Tales,” by Joel Chandler Harris. Copyright, 1893, by -Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[5] From “Sonny, a Christmas Guest,” by Ruth McEnery Stuart. Copyright, -1896, by The Century Co. Reprinted by special permission. - -[6] De Quincey, “Letters to a Young Man.” - -[7] From “Christmas Eve on Lonesome,” by John Fox, Jr. Copyright, 1904, -by Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[8] From Volume VI of the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of -James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of -the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company. - -[9] From “Under the Deodars,” by Rudyard Kipling. Copyright, 1899, by -Rudyard Kipling. Reprinted by special permission of Doubleday, Page and -Company. - -[10] From “The Works of Edgar Allan Poe,” published by Charles -Scribner’s Sons. - -[11] From “Whirligigs,” by O. Henry. Copyright, 1910, by Doubleday, -Page & Company. Reprinted by special permission of Doubleday, Page & -Company. - -[12] From “College Years,” by Ralph D. Paine. Copyright, 1909, by -Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[13] From “Gallegher and Other Stories,” by Richard Harding Davis. -Copyright, 1891, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[14] Pronounced Cal-e-_va_-ras. - -[15] From “The Jumping Frog and Other Sketches,” by Mark Twain. -Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Bros. - -[16] From “The Lady or the Tiger?” by Frank R. Stockton. Copyright, -1886, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. Copyright, 1914, by Marie Louise and -Frances A. Stockton. - -[17] From “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” by Francis Bret Harte. Copyright, -1906, by Houghton Mifflin Company. Reprinted by special arrangement -with Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized publishers of Bret -Harte’s works. - -[18] From “A New England Nun and Other Stories,” by Mary E. Wilkins -Freeman. Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Bros. Reprinted by special -permission. - -[19] From “In Ole Virginia,” by Thomas Nelson Page. Copyright, 1887, by -Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[20] From “Old Creole Days,” by George W. Cable. Copyright, 1890, by -Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[21] From “Love in Old Cloathes and Other Stories,” by H. C. Bunner. -Copyright, 1896, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[22] From “The Inn of Tranquillity,” by John Galsworthy. Copyright, -1912, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[23] From _Scribner’s Magazine_. August, 1914. - -[24] From “The Militants,” by Mary R. S. Andrews. Copyright, 1907, by -Charles Scribner’s Sons. - -[25] From “The Merry Men and Other Tales and Fables,” by Robert Louis -Stevenson, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: - -—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Short Stories for High Schools, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS *** - -***** This file should be named 50543-0.txt or 50543-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/5/4/50543/ - -Produced by Giovanni Fini, Andrew Sly, Al Haines and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- font-weight: normal;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - - -.figcenter {margin: auto; - text-align: center;} - -.footnotes {border: dashed 1px; - padding: 1em;} - -.label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} - -.fnanchor {vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: none; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal;} - -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Short Stories for High Schools, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Short Stories for High Schools - -Author: Various - -Editor: Rosa M. R. Mikels - -Release Date: November 23, 2015 [EBook #50543] -Last Updated: July 26, 2022 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS *** - - - - -Produced by Giovanni Fini, Andrew Sly, Al Haines and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="limit"> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="350" height="564" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p> - -<h1 class="p4">SHORT STORIES<br /> -FOR HIGH SCHOOLS</h1> - -<p class="pc4 mid">EDITED</p> - -<p class="pc1 lmid">WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES</p> - -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> - -<p class="pc1 large">ROSA M. R. MIKELS</p> - -<p class="pc1 reduct">SHORTRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL, INDIANAPOLIS, IND.</p> - - -<p class="pc4 large">CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</p> - -<table id="t01" summary="t01"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">NEW YORK</td> - <td class="tdc">CHICAGO</td> - <td class="tdc">BOSTON</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p> - - -<p class="pc4"><span class="smcap small">Copyright, 1915, by</span><br /> -CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/logo.jpg" width="150" height="460" - alt="" - title="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table id="toc" summary="cont"> - - <tr> - <td colspan="3" class="tdrl"><span class="small">PAGE</span></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="tdt"><span class="smcap">Preface</span></td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_vii">vii</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="tdt"><span class="smcap">Introduction</span></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="tdtx"><span class="smcap">Requirements of the Short Story</span></td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_xi">xi</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td colspan="2" class="tdtx"><span class="smcap">How This Book May Be Used</span></td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_xviii">xviii</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">The First Christmas-Tree</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Henry van Dyke</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">A French Tar-Baby</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Joel Chandler Harris</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_27">27</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">Sonny’s Christenin’</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Ruth McEnery Stuart</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">Christmas Night with Satan</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">John Fox, Jr.</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">A Nest-Egg</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">James Whitcomb Riley</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">Wee Willie Winkle</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Rudyard Kipling</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">The Gold Bug</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Edgar Allan Poe</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">The Ransom of Red Chief</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">O. Henry</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">The Freshman Full-Back</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Ralph D. Paine</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">Gallegher</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Richard Harding Davis</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_181">181</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">The Jumping Frog</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Mark Twain</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">The Lady or the Tiger?</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Frank R. Stockton</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_231">231</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">The Outcasts of Poker Flat</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Francis Bret Harte</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">The Revolt of Mother</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Mary E. Wilkins Freeman</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">Marse Chan</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Thomas Nelson Page</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_283">283</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">“Posson Jone’”</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">George W. Cable</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_315">315</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">Our Aromatic Uncle</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Henry Cuyler Bunner</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_341">341</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">Quality</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">John Galsworthy</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_361">361</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">The Triumph of Night</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Edith Wharton</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_373">373</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">A Messenger</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_407">407</a></td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdtw"><span class="smcap">Markheim</span></td> - <td class="tdtw">Robert Louis Stevenson</td> - <td class="tdrl"><a href="#Page_431">431</a></td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span></p> -<p> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">PREFACE</h2> - -<p class="p2"><span class="smcap">Why</span> must we confine the reading of our children to -the older literary classics? This is the question asked -by an ever-increasing number of thoughtful teachers. -They have no wish to displace or to discredit the classics. -On the contrary, they love and revere them. But -they do wish to give their pupils something additional, -something that pulses with present life, that is characteristic -of to-day. The children, too, wonder that, with -the great literary outpouring going on about them, they -must always fill their cups from the cisterns of the past.</p> - -<p>The short story is especially adapted to supplement -our high-school reading. It is of a piece with our varied, -hurried, efficient American life, wherein figure the business -man’s lunch, the dictagraph, the telegraph, the -telephone, the automobile, and the railway “limited.” -It has achieved high art, yet conforms to the modern -demand that our literature—since it must be read with -despatch, if read at all—be compact and compelling. -Moreover, the short story is with us in almost overwhelming -numbers, and is probably here to stay. Indeed, -our boys and girls are somewhat appalled at the -quantity of material from which they must select their -reading, and welcome any instruction that enables them -to know the good from the bad. It is certain, therefore, -that, whatever else they may throw into the educational -discard when they leave the high school, they will keep -and use anything they may have learned about this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span> -form of literature which has become so powerful a factor -in our daily life.</p> - -<p>This book does not attempt to select the greatest -stories of the time. What tribunal would dare make -such a choice? Nor does it attempt to trace the evolution -of the short story or to point out natural types and -differences. These topics are better suited to college -classes. Its object is threefold: to supply interesting -reading belonging to the student’s own time, to help -him to see that there is no divorce between classic and -modern literature, and, by offering him material structurally -good and typical of the qualities represented, to -assist him in discriminating between the artistic and the -inartistic. The stories have been carefully selected, because -in the period of adolescence “nothing read fails -to leave its mark”;<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> they have also been carefully arranged -with a view to the needs of the adolescent boy -and girl. Stories of the type loved by primitive man, -and therefore easily approached and understood, have -been placed first. Those which appealed in periods of -higher development follow, roughly in the order of their -increasing difficulty. It is hoped, moreover, that this -arrangement will help the student to understand and -appreciate the development of the story. He begins -with the simple tale of adventure and the simple story -of character. As he advances he sees the story develop -in plot, in character analysis, and in setting, until he -ends with the psychological study of <i>Markheim</i>, remarkable -for its complexity of motives and its great spiritual -problem. Both the selection and the arrangement have -been made with this further purpose in view—“to keep -the heart warm, reinforcing all its good motives, preforming -choices, universalizing sympathies.”<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span></p> - -<p>It is a pleasure to acknowledge, in this connection, the -suggestions and the criticism of Mr. William N. Otto, -Head of the Department of English in Shortridge High -School, Indianapolis; and the courtesies of the publishers -who have permitted the use of their material.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span></p> -<p> </p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">INTRODUCTION</h2> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="psh">REQUIREMENTS OF THE SHORT STORY</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Critics</span> have agreed that the short story must conform -to certain conditions. First of all, the writer must strive -to make one and only one impression. His time is -too limited, his space is too confined, his risk of dividing -the attention of the reader is too great, to admit of more -than this one impression. He therefore selects some -moment of action or some phase of character or some -particular scene, and focuses attention upon that. Life -not infrequently gives such brief, clear-cut impressions. -At the railway station we see two young people hurry -to a train as if fearful of being detained, and we get the -impression of romantic adventure. We pass on the -street corner two men talking, and from a chance sentence -or two we form a strong impression of the character -of one or both. Sometimes we travel through a scene so -desolate and depressing or so lovely and uplifting that -the effect is never forgotten. Such glimpses of life and -scene are as vivid as the vignettes revealed by the searchlight, -when its arm slowly explores a mountain-side or -the shore of a lake and brings objects for a brief moment -into high light. To secure this single strong impression, -the writer must decide which of the three essentials—plot -character, or setting—is to have first place.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span></p> - -<p>As action appeals strongly to most people, and very -adequately reveals character, the short-story writer may -decide to make plot pre-eminent. He accordingly chooses -his incidents carefully. Any that do not really aid in -developing the story must be cast aside, no matter how -interesting or attractive they may be in themselves. -This does not mean that an incident which is detached -from the train of events may not be used. But such an -incident must have proper relations provided for it. Thus -the writer may wish to use incidents that belong to two -separate stories, because he knows that by relating them -he can produce a single effect. Shakespeare does this -in <i>Macbeth</i>. Finding in the lives of the historic Macbeth -and the historic King Duff incidents that he wished -to use, he combined them. But he saw to it that they -had the right relation, that they fitted into the chain -of cause and effect. The reader will insist, as the writer -knows, that the story be logical, that incident 1 shall be -the cause of incident 2, incident 2 of incident 3, and so -on to the end. The triangle used by Freytag to illustrate -the plot of a play may make this clear.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/ill-010.jpg" width="200" height="166" - alt="" - title="" /> -</div> - -<p>AC is the line of rising action along which the story climbs, -incident by incident, to the point C; C is the turning -point, the crisis, or the climax; CB is the line of falling -action along which the story descends incident by incident -to its logical resolution. Nothing may be left to -luck or chance. In life the element of chance does sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[xiii]</a></span> -seem to figure, but in the story it has no place. If -the ending is not the logical outcome of events, the reader -feels cheated. He does not want the situation to be too -obvious, for he likes the thrill of suspense. But he wants -the hints and foreshadowings to be sincere, so that he -may safely draw his conclusions from them. This does -not condemn, however, the “surprise” ending, so admirably -used by O. Henry. The reader, in this case, -admits that the writer has “played fair” throughout, and -that the ending which has so surprised and tickled his -fancy is as logical as that he had forecast.</p> - -<p>To aid in securing the element of suspense, the author -often makes use of what Carl H. Grabo, in his <i>The Art of -the Short Story</i>, calls the “negative” or “hostile” incident. -Incidents, as he points out, are of two kinds—positive -and negative. The first openly help to untangle the -situation; the second seem to delay the straightening out -of the threads or even to make the tangle worse. He -illustrates this by the story of Cinderella. The appearance -of the fairy and her use of the magic wand are positive, -or openly helpful incidents, in rescuing Cinderella -from her lonely and neglected state. But her forgetfulness -of the hour and her loss of the glass slipper are -negative or hostile incidents. Nevertheless, we see how -these are really blessings in disguise, since they cause the -prince to seek and woo her.</p> - -<p>The novelist may introduce many characters, because -he has time and space to care for them. Not so the short-story -writer: he must employ only one main character -and a few supporting characters. However, when the -plot is the main thing, the characters need not be remarkable -in any way. Indeed, as Brander Matthews has -said, the heroine may be “a woman,” the hero “a man,” -not any woman or any man in particular. Thus, in <i>The -Lady or the Tiger?</i> the author leaves the princess without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">[xiv]</a></span> -definite traits of character, because his problem is -not “what this particular woman would do, but what -a woman would do.” Sometimes, after reading a story -of thrilling plot, we find that we do not readily recall the -appearance or the names of the characters; we recall only -what happened to them. This is true of the women of -James Fenimore Cooper’s stories. They have no substantiality, -but move like veiled figures through the most -exciting adventures.</p> - -<p>Setting may or may not be an important factor in the -story of incident. What is meant by setting? It is an -inclusive term. Time, place, local conditions, and sometimes -descriptions of nature and of people are parts of -it. When these are well cared for, we get an effect called -“atmosphere.” We know the effect the atmosphere has -upon objects. Any one who has observed distant mountains -knows that, while they remain practically unchanged, -they never look the same on two successive -days. Sometimes they stand out hard and clear, sometimes -they are soft and alluring, sometimes they look -unreal and almost melt into the sky behind them. So -the atmosphere of a story may envelop people and events -and produce a subtle effect upon the reader. Sometimes -the plot material is such as to require little setting. The -incidents might have happened anywhere. We hardly -notice the absence of setting in our hurry to see what -happens. This is true of many of the stories we enjoyed -when we were children. For instance, in <i>The Three Bears</i> -the incidents took place, of course, in the woods, but our -imagination really supplied the setting. Most stories, -however, whatever their character, use setting as carefully -and as effectively as possible. Time and place are -often given with exactness. Thus Bret Harte says: -“As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the -main street of Poker Flat on the morning of the twentythird<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[xv]</a></span> -of November, 1850, he was conscious of a change -in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night.” This -definite mention of time and place gives an air of reality -to the story. As to descriptions, the writer sifts them in, -for he knows that few will bother to read whole paragraphs -of description. He often uses local color, by -which we mean the employment of epithets, phrases, -and other expressions that impart a “feeling” for the -place. This use of local color must not be confused with -that intended to produce what is called an “impressionistic” -effect. In the latter case the writer subordinates -everything to this effect of scene. This use of -local color is discussed elsewhere.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the writer wishes to make character the -dominant element. Then he subordinates plot and setting -to this purpose and makes them contribute to it. -In selecting the character he wishes to reveal he has -wide choice. “Human nature is the same, wherever -you find it,” we are fond of saying. So he may choose -a character that is quite common, some one he knows; -and, having made much of some one trait and ignored -or subordinated others, bring him before us at some -moment of decision or in some strange, perhaps hostile, -environment. Or the author may take some character -quite out of the ordinary: the village miser, the recluse, -or a person with a peculiar mental or moral twist. But, -whatever his choice, it is not enough that the character -be actually drawn from real life. Indeed, such fidelity -to what literally exists may be a hinderance to the writer. -The original character may have done strange things -and suffered strange things that cannot be accounted -for. But, in the story, inconsistencies must be removed, -and the conduct of the characters must be logical. Life -seems inconsistent to all of us at times, but it is probably -less so than it seems. People puzzle us by their apparent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[xvi]</a></span> -inconsistencies, when to themselves their actions seem -perfectly logical. But, as Mr. Grabo points out, “In -life we expect inconsistencies; in a story we depend -upon their elimination.” The law of cause and effect, -which we found so indispensable in the story of plot, we -find of equal importance in the story of character. There -must be no sudden and unaccountable changes in the behavior -or sentiments of the people in the story. On the -contrary, there must be reason in all they say and do.</p> - -<p>Another demand of the character story is that the characters -be lifelike. In the plot story, or in the impressionistic -story, we may accept the flat figures on the -canvas; our interest is elsewhere. But in the character -story we must have real people whose motives and conduct -we discuss pro and con with as much interest as if -we knew them in the flesh. A character of this convincing -type is Hamlet. About him controversy has always -raged. It is impossible to think of him as other than a -real man. Whenever the writer finds that the characters -in his story have caused the reader to wax eloquent over -their conduct, he may rest easy: he has made his people -lifelike.</p> - -<p>Setting in the character story is important, for it is in -this that the chief actor moves and has his being. His -environment is continually causing him to speak and -act. The incidents selected, even though some of them -may seem trivial in themselves, must reveal depth after -depth in his soul. Whatever the means by which the -author reveals the character—whether by setting, conduct, -analysis, dialogue, or soliloquy—his task is a hard one. -In <i>Markheim</i> we have practically all of these used, with -the result that the character is unmistakable and convincing.</p> - -<p>Stories of scenes are neither so numerous nor so easy -to produce successfully as those of plot and character.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii">[xvii]</a></span> -But sometimes a place so profoundly impresses a writer -that its demands may not be disregarded. Robert Louis -Stevenson strongly felt the influence of certain places. -“Certain dank gardens cry aloud for murder; certain -old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are -set apart for shipwreck. Other spots seem to abide -their destiny, suggestive and impenetrable.” Perhaps all -of us have seen some place of which we have exclaimed: -“It is like a story!” When, then, scene is to furnish the -dominant interest, plot and character become relatively -insignificant and shadowy. “The pressure of the atmosphere,” -says Brander Matthews, holds our attention. -<i>The Fall of the House of Usher</i>, by Edgar Allan -Poe, is a story of this kind. It is the scene that affects -us with dread and horror; we have no peace until we -see the house swallowed up by the tarn, and have fled -out of sight of the tarn itself. The plot is extremely -slight, and the Lady Madeline and her unhappy brother -hardly more than shadows.</p> - -<p>It must not be supposed from the foregoing explanation -that the three essentials of the short story are ever -really divorced. They are happily blended in many of -our finest stories. Nevertheless, analysis of any one of -these will show that in the mind of the writer one purpose -was pre-eminent. On this point Robert Louis Stevenson -thus speaks: “There are, so far as I know, three ways -and three only of writing a story. You may take a plot -and fit characters to it, or you may take a character and -choose incidents and situations to develop it, or, lastly, -you may take a certain atmosphere and get actions and -persons to express and realize it.” When to this clear -conception of his limitations and privileges the author -adds an imagination that clearly visualizes events and -the “verbal magic” by which good style is secured, he -produces the short story that is a masterpiece.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xviii" id="Page_xviii">[xviii]</a></span></p> - - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p class="psh">HOW THIS BOOK MAY BE USED</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> book may be used in four ways. First, it may -serve as an appetizer. Even the casual reading of good -literature has a tendency to create a demand for more. -Second, it may be made the basis for discussion and -comparison. By using these stories, the works of recognized -authors, as standards, the student may determine -the value of such stories as come into his home. Third, -these selections may be studied in a regular short-story -course, such as many high schools have, to illustrate -the requirements and the types of this form of narration. -The chapter on “The Requirements of the Short Story” -will be found useful both in this connection and in the -comparative study of stories. Fourth, the student will -better appreciate and understand the short story if he -attempts to tell or to write one. This does not mean -that we intend to train him for the literary market. Our -object is entirely different. No form of literature brings -more real joy to the child than the story. Not only does -he like to hear stories; he likes to tell them. And where -the short-story course is rightly used, he likes to write -them. He finds that the pleasure of exercising creative -power more than offsets the drudgery inevitable in composition. -A plan that has been satisfactorily carried out -in the classroom is here briefly outlined.</p> - -<p>The teacher reads with the class a story in which plot -furnishes the main interest. This type is chosen because -it is more easily analyzed by beginners. The class -discusses this, applying the tests of the short story given -elsewhere in this book. Then a number of short stories -of different types are read and compared. Next, each<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xix" id="Page_xix">[xix]</a></span> -member of the class selects from some recent book or -magazine a short story he enjoys. This he outlines and -reports to the class. If this report is not satisfactory, -the class insists that either the author or the reporter -be exonerated. The story is accordingly read to the class, -or is read and reported on by another member. The -class is then usually able to decide whether the story -is faulty or the first report inadequate.</p> - -<p>Next the class gives orally incidents that might or -might not be expanded into short stories. The students -soon discover that some of these require the lengthy -treatment of a novel, that others are good as simple incidents -but nothing more, and that still others might -develop into satisfactory short stories. The class is now -asked to develop original plots. Since plots cannot be -produced on demand, but require time for the mind to -act subconsciously, the class practises, during the “period -of incubation,” the writing of dialogue. For these the -teacher suggests a list of topics, although any student -is free to substitute one of his own. Among the topics -that have been used are: “Johnny goes with his mother -to church for the first time,” “Mrs. Hennessy is annoyed -by the chickens of Mrs. Jones,” “Albert applies for a -summer job.” Sometimes the teacher relates an incident, -and has the class reproduce it in dialogue. By -comparing their work with dialogue by recognized writers -the youthful authors soon learn how to punctuate and -paragraph conversation, and where to place necessary -comment and explanation. They also discover that -dialogue must either reveal character or advance the -story; and that it must be in keeping with the theme -and maintain the tone used at the beginning. A commonplace -dialogue must not suddenly become romantic -in tone, and dialect must not lapse into ordinary -English.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xx" id="Page_xx">[xx]</a></span></p> - -<p>The original plots the class offers later may have been -suggested in many ways. Newspaper accounts, court -reports, historical incidents, family traditions—all may -contribute. Sometimes the student proudly declares -of his plot, “I made it out of my own head.” These -plots are arranged in outline form to show how incident -1 developed incident 2, that incident 3, and so on to the -conclusion. The class points out the weak places in these -plots and offers helpful suggestions. This co-operation -often produces surprisingly good results. A solution that -the troubled originator of the plot never thought of may -come almost as an inspiration from the class. Criticism -throughout is largely constructive. After the student -has developed several plots in outline, he usually finds -among them one that he wishes to use for his story. -This is worked out in some detail, submitted to the -class, and later in a revised form to the teacher. The -story when complete is corrected and sometimes rewritten.</p> - -<p>Most of the class prefer to write stories of plot, but -some insist upon trying stories of character or of setting. -These pupils are shown the difficulties in their -way, but are allowed to try their hand if they insist. -Sometimes the results are good; more often the writer, -after an honest effort, admits that he cannot handle his -subject well and substitutes a story of plot.</p> - -<p>In any case the final draft is sure to leave much to be -desired; but even so, the gain has been great. The -pupil writer has constantly been measuring his work by -standards of recognized excellence in form and in creative -power; as a result he has learned to appreciate the short -story from the art side. Moreover, he has had a large -freedom in his work that has relieved it of drudgery. -And, best of all, he has been doing original work with -plastic material; and to work with plastic material is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxi" id="Page_xxi">[xxi]</a></span> -always a source of joy, whether it be the mud that the -child makes into pies, the clay that the artist moulds -into forms of beauty, or the facts of life that the creative -imagination of the writer shapes into literature.</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxii" id="Page_xxii">[xxii]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE</h2> - -<p class="pc1 mid">A STORY OF THE FOREST</p> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Henry Van Dyke</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This story is placed first because it is of the type that -first delighted man. It is the story of high adventure, of -a struggle with the forces of nature, barbarous men, and -heathen gods. The hero is “a hunter of demons, a subduer -of the wilderness, a woodman of the faith.” He -seeks hardships and conquers them. The setting is the -illimitable forest in the remote past. The forest, like -the sea, makes an irresistible appeal to the imagination. -Either may be the scene of the marvellous and the thrilling. -Quite unlike the earliest tales, this story is enriched -with description and exposition; nevertheless, it has their -simplicity and dignity. It reminds us of certain of the -great Biblical narratives, such as the contest between -Elijah and the prophets of Baal and the victory of -Daniel over the jealous presidents and princes of Darius. -In “The First Christmas Tree,” as in many others of -these stories, a third person is the narrator. But the hero -may tell his own adventures. “I did this. I did that. -Thus I felt at the conclusion.” Instances are Defoe’s -“Robinson Crusoe” and Stevenson’s “Kidnapped.” -But whether in the first or third person, the story holds -us by the magic of adventure.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[3]</span></a></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="psh">THE CALL OF THE WOODSMAN</p> - -<p>The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722.</p> - -<p>Broad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks -of the river Moselle; pallid hill-sides blooming with -mystic roses where the glow of the setting sun still -lingered upon them; an arch of clearest, faintest azure -bending overhead; in the centre of the aerial landscape -the massive walls of the cloister of Pfalzel, gray to the -east, purple to the west; silence over all,—a gentle, eager, -conscious stillness, diffused through the air like perfume, -as if earth and sky were hushing themselves to hear -the voice of the river faintly murmuring down the -valley.</p> - -<p>In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset -hour. All day long there had been a strange and joyful -stir among the nuns. A breeze of curiosity and excitement -had swept along the corridors and through every -quiet cell.</p> - -<p>The elder sisters,—the provost, the deaconess, the -stewardess, the portress with her huge bunch of keys -jingling at her girdle,—had been hurrying to and fro, -busied with household cares. In the huge kitchen there -was a bustle of hospitable preparation. The little bandy-legged -dogs that kept the spits turning before the fires -had been trotting steadily for many an hour, until their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span> -tongues hung out for want of breath. The big black -pots swinging from the cranes had bubbled and gurgled -and shaken and sent out puffs of appetizing -steam.</p> - -<p>St. Martha was in her element. It was a field-day for -her virtues.</p> - -<p>The younger sisters, the pupils of the convent, had forsaken -their Latin books and their embroidery-frames, -their manuscripts and their miniatures, and fluttered -through the halls in little flocks like merry snow-birds, -all in black and white, chattering and whispering together. -This was no day for tedious task-work, no day -for grammar or arithmetic, no day for picking out illuminated -letters in red and gold on stiff parchment, or patiently -chasing intricate patterns over thick cloth with -the slow needle. It was a holiday. A famous visitor had -come to the convent.</p> - -<p>It was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman -tongue was Boniface, and whom men called the -Apostle of Germany. A great preacher; a wonderful -scholar; he had written a Latin grammar himself,—think -of it,—and he could hardly sleep without a book -under his pillow; but, more than all, a great and daring -traveller, a venturesome pilgrim, a high-priest of romance.</p> - -<p>He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; -he would not stay in the rich monastery of Nutescelle, -even though they had chosen him as the abbot; he had -refused a bishopric at the court of King Karl. Nothing -would content him but to go out into the wild woods -and preach to the heathen.</p> - -<p>Up and down through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, -and along the borders of Saxony, he had wandered -for years, with a handful of companions, sleeping -under the trees, crossing mountains and marshes, now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> -here, now there, never satisfied with ease and comfort, -always in love with hardship and danger.</p> - -<p>What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight -as a spear and strong as an oaken staff. His face was -still young; the smooth skin was bronzed by wind and -sun. His gray eyes, clear and kind, flashed like fire when -he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil deeds of the -false priests with whom he contended.</p> - -<p>What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles -wrought by sacred relics; not of courts and councils and -splendid cathedrals; though he knew much of these -things, and had been at Rome and received the Pope’s -blessing. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings -by sea and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves -and bears and fierce snowstorms and black nights in the -lonely forest; of dark altars of heathen gods, and weird, -bloody sacrifices, and narrow escapes from murderous -bands of wandering savages.</p> - -<p>The little novices had gathered around him, and their -faces had grown pale and their eyes bright as they listened -with parted lips, entranced in admiration, twining -their arms about one another’s shoulders and holding -closely together, half in fear, half in delight. The older -nuns had turned from their tasks and paused, in passing -by, to hear the pilgrim’s story. Too well they knew -the truth of what he spoke. Many a one among them -had seen the smoke rising from the ruins of her father’s -roof. Many a one had a brother far away in the wild -country to whom her heart went out night and day, -wondering if he were still among the living.</p> - -<p>But now the excitements of that wonderful day -were over; the hour of the evening meal had come; -the inmates of the cloister were assembled in the -refectory.</p> - -<p>On the daïs sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> -of King Dagobert, looking a princess indeed, in her -violet tunic, with the hood and cuffs of her long white -robe trimmed with fur, and a snowy veil resting like a -crown on her snowy hair. At her right hand was the -honored guest, and at her left hand her grandson, the -young Prince Gregor, a big, manly boy, just returned -from the high school.</p> - -<p>The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown rafters -and beams; the double rows of nuns, with their pure -veils and fair faces; the ruddy glow of the slanting sunbeams -striking upwards through the tops of the windows -and painting a pink glow high up on the walls,—it was -all as beautiful as a picture, and as silent. For this was -the rule of the cloister, that at the table all should sit in -stillness for a little while, and then one should read -aloud, while the rest listened.</p> - -<p>“It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day,” said -the abbess to Winfried; “we shall see how much he has -learned in the school. Read, Gregor; the place in the -book is marked.”</p> - -<p>The tall lad rose from his seat and turned the pages -of the manuscript. It was a copy of Jerome’s version -of the Scriptures in Latin, and the marked place was -in the letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians,—the passage -where he describes the preparation of the Christian as -the arming of a warrior for glorious battle. The young -voice rang out clearly, rolling the sonorous words, without -slip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter.</p> - -<p>Winfried listened smiling. “My son,” said he, as -the reader paused, “that was bravely read. Understandest -thou what thou readest?”</p> - -<p>“Surely, father,” answered the boy; “it was taught -me by the masters at Treves; and we have read this -epistle clear through, from beginning to end, so that I -almost know it by heart.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then he began again to repeat the passage, turning -away from the page as if to show his skill.</p> - -<p>But Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of -the hand.</p> - -<p>“Not so, my son; that was not my meaning. When -we pray, we speak to God; when we read, it is God who -speaks to us. I ask whether thou hast heard what He -has said to thee, in thine own words, in the common -speech. Come, give us again the message of the warrior -and his armor and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so -that all can understand it.”</p> - -<p>The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came -around to Winfried’s seat, bringing the book. “Take -the book, my father,” he cried, “and read it for me. -I cannot see the meaning plain, though I love the sound -of the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines of -our faith, and the life of priests and nuns in the cloister, -for which my grandmother designs me, though it likes -me little. And fighting I know, and the life of warriors -and heroes, for I have read of it in Virgil and the ancients, -and heard a bit from the soldiers at Treves; and -I would fain taste more of it, for it likes me much. -But how the two lives fit together, or what need there -is of armor for a clerk in holy orders, I can never see. -Tell me the meaning, for if there is a man in all the -world that knows it, I am sure it is none other than -thou.”</p> - -<p>So Winfried took the book and closed it, clasping -the boy’s hand with his own.</p> - -<p>“Let us first dismiss the others to their vespers,” -said he, “lest they should be weary.”</p> - -<p>A sign from the abbess; a chanted benediction; a murmuring -of sweet voices and a soft rustling of many feet -over the rushes on the floor; the gentle tide of noise -flowed out through the doors and ebbed away down the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> -corridors; the three at the head of the table were left -alone in the darkening room.</p> - -<p>Then Winfried began to translate the parable of the -soldier into the realities of life.</p> - -<p>At every turn he knew how to flash a new light into -the picture out of his own experience. He spoke of the -combat with self, and of the wrestling with dark spirits -in solitude. He spoke of the demons that men had worshipped -for centuries in the wilderness, and whose malice -they invoked against the stranger who ventured into the -gloomy forest. Gods, they called them, and told strange -tales of their dwelling among the impenetrable branches -of the oldest trees and in the caverns of the shaggy -hills; of their riding on the wind-horses and hurling -spears of lightning against their foes. Gods they were -not, but foul spirits of the air, rulers of the darkness. -Was there not glory and honor in fighting with them, -in daring their anger under the shield of faith, in putting -them to flight with the sword of truth? What -better adventure could a brave man ask than to go forth -against them, and wrestle with them, and conquer them?</p> - -<p>“Look you, my friends,” said Winfried, “how sweet -and peaceful is this convent to-night, on the eve of the -nativity of the Prince of Peace! It is a garden full of -flowers in the heart of winter; a nest among the branches -of a great tree shaken by the winds; a still haven on the -edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what religion -means for those who are chosen and called to quietude -and prayer and meditation.</p> - -<p>“But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what -storms are raving to-night in the hearts of men, though -all the woods are still? who knows what haunts of wrath -and cruelty and fear are closed to-night against the -advent of the Prince of Peace? And shall I tell you -what religion means to those who are called and chosen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span> -to dare and to fight, and to conquer the world for Christ? -It means to launch out into the deep. It means to go -against the strongholds of the adversary. It means to -struggle to win an entrance for their Master everywhere. -What helmet is strong enough for this strife save the -helmet of salvation? What breastplate can guard a -man against these fiery darts but the breastplate of -righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of these -journeys but the preparation of the gospel of peace?”</p> - -<p>“Shoes?” he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden -thought had struck him. He thrust out his foot, covered -with a heavy cowhide boot, laced high about his leg with -thongs of skin.</p> - -<p>“See here,—how a fighting man of the cross is shod! -I have seen the boots of the Bishop of Tours,—white kid, -broidered with silk; a day in the bogs would tear them to -shreds. I have seen the sandals that the monks use on -the highroads,—yes, and worn them; ten pair of them -have I worn out and thrown away in a single journey. -Now I shoe my feet with the toughest hides, hard as -iron; no rock can cut them, no branches can tear them. -Yet more than one pair of these have I outworn, and -many more shall I outwear ere my journeys are ended. -And I think, if God is gracious to me, that I shall die -wearing them. Better so than in a soft bed with silken -coverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, a woodsman,—these -are my preparation of the gospel of peace.”</p> - -<p>“Come, Gregor,” he said, laying his brown hand on -the youth’s shoulder, “come, wear the forester’s boots -with me. This is the life to which we are called. Be -strong in the Lord, a hunter of the demons, a subduer -of the wilderness, a woodsman of the faith. Come!”</p> - -<p>The boy’s eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother. -She shook her head vigorously.</p> - -<p>“Nay, father,” she said, “draw not the lad away<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> -from my side with these wild words. I need him to help -me with my labors, to cheer my old age.”</p> - -<p>“Do you need him more than the Master does?” -asked Winfried; “and will you take the wood that is -fit for a bow to make a distaff?”</p> - -<p>“But I fear for the child. Thy life is too hard for -him. He will perish with hunger in the woods.”</p> - -<p>“Once,” said Winfried, smiling, “we were camped -by the bank of the river Ohru. The table was spread -for the morning meal, but my comrades cried that it -was empty; the provisions were exhausted; we must go -without breakfast, and perhaps starve before we could -escape from the wilderness. While they complained, a -fish-hawk flew up from the river with flapping wings, -and let fall a great pike in the midst of the camp. There -was food enough and to spare. Never have I seen the -righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.”</p> - -<p>“But the fierce pagans of the forest,” cried the -abbess,—“they may pierce the boy with their arrows, -or dash out his brains with their axes. He is but a child, -too young for the dangers of strife.”</p> - -<p>“A child in years,” replied Winfried, “but a man in -spirit. And if the hero must fall early in the battle, he -wears the brighter crown, not a leaf withered, not a -flower fallen.”</p> - -<p>The aged princess trembled a little. She drew Gregor -close to her side, and laid her hand gently on his brown -hair.</p> - -<p>“I am not sure that he wants to leave me yet. Besides, -there is no horse in the stable to give him, now, -and he cannot go as befits the grandson of a king.”</p> - -<p>Gregor looked straight into her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Grandmother,” said he, “dear grandmother, if thou -wilt not give me a horse to ride with this man of God, -I will go with him afoot.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span></p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p class="psh">THE TRAIL THROUGH THE FOREST</p> - -<p>Two years had passed, to a day, almost to an hour, -since that Christmas eve in the cloister of Pfalzel. A -little company of pilgrims, less than a score of men, -were creeping slowly northward through the wide forest -that rolled over the hills of central Germany.</p> - -<p>At the head of the band marched Winfried, clad in a -tunic of fur, with his long black robe girt high about -his waist, so that it might not hinder his stride. His -hunter’s boots were crusted with snow. Drops of ice -sparkled like jewels along the thongs that bound his legs. -There was no other ornament to his dress except the -bishop’s cross hanging on his breast, and the broad -silver clasp that fastened his cloak about his neck. He -carried a strong, tall staff in his hand, fashioned at the -top into the form of a cross.</p> - -<p>Close beside him, keeping step like a familiar comrade, -was the young Prince Gregor. Long marches through -the wilderness had stretched his limbs and broadened his -back, and made a man of him in stature as well as in -spirit. His jacket and cap were of wolf-skin, and on his -shoulder he carried an axe, with broad, shining blade. -He was a mighty woodsman now, and could make a spray -of chips fly around him as he hewed his way through -the trunk of spruce-tree.</p> - -<p>Behind these leaders followed a pair of teamsters, -guiding a rude sledge, loaded with food and the equipage -of the camp, and drawn by two big, shaggy horses, -blowing thick clouds of steam from their frosty nostrils. -Tiny icicles hung from the hairs on their lips. Their -flanks were smoking. They sank above the fetlocks at -every step in the soft snow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> - -<p>Last of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and -javelins. It was no child’s play, in those days, to cross -Europe afoot.</p> - -<p>The weird woodland, sombre and illimitable, covered -hill and vale, tableland and mountain-peak. There were -wide moors where the wolves hunted in packs as if the -devil drove them, and tangled thickets where the lynx -and the boar made their lairs. Fierce bears lurked -among the rocky passes, and had not yet learned to fear -the face of man. The gloomy recesses of the forest gave -shelter to inhabitants who were still more cruel and -dangerous than beasts of prey,—outlaws and sturdy robbers -and mad were-wolves and bands of wandering pillagers.</p> - -<p>The pilgrim who would pass from the mouth of the -Tiber to the mouth of the Rhine must travel with a little -army of retainers, or else trust in God and keep his -arrows loose in the quiver.</p> - -<p>The travellers were surrounded by an ocean of trees, -so vast, so full of endless billows, that it seemed to be -pressing on every side to overwhelm them. Gnarled -oaks, with branches twisted and knotted as if in rage, -rose in groves like tidal waves. Smooth forests of beech-trees, -round and gray, swept over the knolls and slopes -of land in a mighty ground-swell. But most of all, the -multitude of pines and firs, innumerable and monotonous, -with straight, stark trunks, and branches woven -together in an unbroken flood of darkest green, crowded -through the valleys and over the hills, rising on the -highest ridges into ragged crests, like the foaming edge -of breakers.</p> - -<p>Through this sea of shadows ran a narrow stream of -shining whiteness,—an ancient Roman road, covered -with snow. It was as if some great ship had ploughed -through the green ocean long ago, and left behind it a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -thick, smooth wake of foam. Along this open track the -travellers held their way,—heavily, for the drifts were -deep; warily, for the hard winter had driven many -packs of wolves down from the moors.</p> - -<p>The steps of the pilgrims were noiseless; but the -sledges creaked over the dry snow, and the panting of -the horses throbbed through the still, cold air. The -pale-blue shadows on the western side of the road grew -longer. The sun, declining through its shallow arch, -dropped behind the tree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly, -as if it had been a bird of prey waiting for this sign -to swoop down upon the world.</p> - -<p>“Father,” said Gregor to the leader, “surely this -day’s march is done. It is time to rest, and eat, and -sleep. If we press onward now, we cannot see our steps; -and will not that be against the word of the psalmist -David, who bids us not to put confidence in the legs -of a man?”</p> - -<p>Winfried laughed. “Nay, my son Gregor,” said he, -“thou hast tripped, even now, upon thy text. For -David said only, ’I take no pleasure in the legs of a -man.’ And so say I, for I am not minded to spare thy -legs or mine, until we come farther on our way, and -do what must be done this night. Draw the belt tighter, -my son, and hew me out this tree that is fallen across -the road, for our camp-ground is not here.”</p> - -<p>The youth obeyed; two of the foresters sprang to help -him; and while the soft fir-wood yielded to the stroke -of the axes, and the snow flew from the bending branches, -Winfried turned and spoke to his followers in a cheerful -voice, that refreshed them like wine.</p> - -<p>“Courage, brothers, and forward yet a little! The -moon will light us presently, and the path is plain. Well -know I that the journey is weary; and my own heart -wearies also for the home in England, where those I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -love are keeping feast this Christmas eve. But we have -work to do before we feast to-night. For this is the -Yuletide, and the heathen people of the forest have -gathered at the thunder-oak of Geismar to worship their -god, Thor. Strange things will be seen there, and deeds -which make the soul black. But we are sent to lighten -their darkness; and we will teach our kinsmen to keep a -Christmas with us such as the woodland has never known. -Forward, then, and let us stiffen up our feeble knees!”</p> - -<p>A murmur of assent came from the men. Even the -horses seemed to take fresh heart. They flattened their -backs to draw the heavy loads, and blew the frost from -their nostrils as they pushed ahead.</p> - -<p>The night grew broader and less oppressive. A gate -of brightness was opened secretly somewhere in the -sky; higher and higher swelled the clear moon-flood, until -it poured over the eastern wall of forest into the -road. A drove of wolves howled faintly in the distance, -but they were receding, and the sound soon died away. -The stars sparkled merrily through the stringent air; -the small, round moon shone like silver; little breaths of -the dreaming wind wandered whispering across the -pointed fir-tops, as the pilgrims toiled bravely onward, -following their clue of light through a labyrinth of -darkness.</p> - -<p>After a while the road began to open out a little. -There were spaces of meadow-land, fringed with alders, -behind which a boisterous river ran, clashing through -spears of ice.</p> - -<p>Rude houses of hewn logs appeared in the openings, -each one casting a patch of inky blackness upon the -snow. Then the travellers passed a larger group of -dwellings, all silent and unlighted; and beyond, they -saw a great house, with many out-buildings and enclosed -courtyards, from which the hounds bayed furiously, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> -a noise of stamping horses came from the stalls. But -there was no other sound of life. The fields around lay -bare to the moon. They saw no man, except that once, -on a path that skirted the farther edge of a meadow, -three dark figures passed by, running very swiftly.</p> - -<p>Then the road plunged again into a dense thicket, -traversed it, and climbing to the left, emerged suddenly -upon a glade, round and level except at the northern -side, where a swelling hillock was crowned with a huge -oak-tree. It towered above the heath, a giant with contorted -arms, beckoning to the host of lesser trees. -“Here,” cried Winfried, as his eyes flashed and his -hand lifted his heavy staff, “here is the thunder-oak; -and here the cross of Christ shall break the hammer of -the false god Thor.”</p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p class="psh">THE SHADOW OF THE THUNDER-OAK</p> - -<p>Withered leaves still clung to the branches of the oak: -torn and faded banners of the departed summer. The -bright crimson of autumn had long since disappeared, -bleached away by the storms and the cold. But to-night -these tattered remnants of glory were red again: ancient -blood-stains against the dark-blue sky. For an -immense fire had been kindled in front of the tree. -Tongues of ruddy flame, fountains of ruby sparks, ascended -through the spreading limbs and flung a fierce -illumination upward and around. The pale, pure moonlight -that bathed the surrounding forests was quenched -and eclipsed here. Not a beam of it sifted downward -through the branches of the oak. It stood like a pillar -of cloud between the still light of heaven and the crackling, -flashing fire of earth.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span></p> - -<p>But the fire itself was invisible to Winfried and his -companions. A great throng of people were gathered -around it in a half-circle, their backs to the open glade, -their faces towards the oak. Seen against that glowing -background, it was but the silhouette of a crowd, vague, -black, formless, mysterious.</p> - -<p>The travellers paused for a moment at the edge of -the thicket, and took counsel together.</p> - -<p>“It is the assembly of the tribe,” said one of the -foresters, “the great night of the council. I heard of it -three days ago, as we passed through one of the villages. -All who swear by the old gods have been summoned. -They will sacrifice a steed to the god of war, and drink -blood, and eat horse-flesh to make them strong. It will -be at the peril of our lives if we approach them. At -least we must hide the cross, if we would escape death.”</p> - -<p>“Hide me no cross,” cried Winfried, lifting his staff, -“for I have come to show it, and to make these blind -folk see its power. There is more to be done here to-night -than the slaying of a steed, and a greater evil -to be stayed than the shameful eating of meat sacrificed -to idols. I have seen it in a dream. Here the cross must -stand and be our rede.”</p> - -<p>At his command the sledge was left in the border of -the wood, with two of the men to guard it, and the rest -of the company moved forward across the open ground. -They approached unnoticed, for all the multitude were -looking intently towards the fire at the foot of the oak.</p> - -<p>Then Winfried’s voice rang out, “Hail, ye sons of the -forest! A stranger claims the warmth of your fire in -the winter night.”</p> - -<p>Swiftly, and as with a single motion, a thousand eyes -were bent upon the speaker. The semicircle opened -silently in the middle; Winfried entered with his followers; -it closed again behind them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then, as they looked round the curving ranks, they -saw that the hue of the assemblage was not black, but -white,—dazzling, radiant, solemn. White, the robes of -the women clustered together at the points of the wide -crescent; white, the glittering byrnies of the warriors -standing in close ranks; white, the fur mantles of the -aged men who held the central place in the circle; white, -with the shimmer of silver ornaments and the purity of -lamb’s-wool, the raiment of a little group of children -who stood close by the fire; white, with awe and fear, the -faces of all who looked at them; and over all the flickering, -dancing radiance of the flames played and glimmered -like a faint, vanishing tinge of blood on snow.</p> - -<p>The only figure untouched by the glow was the old -priest, Hunrad, with his long, spectral robe, flowing -hair and beard, and dead-pale face, who stood with his -back to the fire and advanced slowly to meet the -strangers.</p> - -<p>“Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek -you here?” His voice was heavy and toneless as a -muffled bell.</p> - -<p>“Your kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood,” -answered Winfried, “and from England, beyond the -sea, have I come to bring you a greeting from that land, -and a message from the All-Father, whose servant I am.”</p> - -<p>“Welcome, then,” said Hunrad, “welcome, kinsman, -and be silent; for what passes here is too high to wait, -and must be done before the moon crosses the middle -heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some sign or token from -the gods. Canst thou work miracles?”</p> - -<p>The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of -hope had flashed through the tangle of the old priest’s -mind. But Winfried’s voice sank lower and a cloud of -disappointment passed over his face as he replied: -“Nay, miracles have I never wrought, though I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -heard of many; but the All-Father has given no power -to my hands save such as belongs to common man.”</p> - -<p>“Stand still, then, thou common man,” said Hunrad, -scornfully, “and behold what the gods have called us -hither to do. This night is the death-night of the sun-god, -Baldur the Beautiful, beloved of gods and men. -This night is the hour of darkness and the power of -winter, of sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the -great Thor, the god of thunder and war, to whom this -oak is sacred, is grieved for the death of Baldur, and -angry with this people because they have forsaken his -worship. Long is it since an offering has been laid upon -his altar, long since the roots of his holy tree have been -fed with blood. Therefore its leaves have withered before -the time, and its boughs are heavy with death. -Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in -battle. Therefore the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes -have ravaged the folds, and the strength has -departed from the bow, and the wood of the spear has -broken, and the wild boar has slain the huntsman. -Therefore the plague has fallen on our dwellings, and -the dead are more than the living in all our villages. -Answer me, ye people, are not these things true?”</p> - -<p>A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A -chant, in which the voices of the men and women -blended, like the shrill wind in the pine-trees above the -rumbling thunder of a waterfall, rose and fell in rude -cadences.</p> - -<p class="ppq6 p1"> -“O Thor, the Thunderer,<br /> -Mighty and merciless,<br /> -Spare us from smiting!<br /> -Heave not thy hammer,<br /> -Angry, against us;<br /> -Plague not thy people.<br /> -Take from our treasure<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>Richest of ransom.<br /> -Silver we send thee,<br /> -Jewels and javelins,<br /> -Goodliest garments,<br /> -All our possessions,<br /> -Priceless, we proffer.<br /> -Sheep will we slaughter,<br /> -Steeds will we sacrifice;<br /> -Bright blood shall bathe thee,<br /> -O tree of Thunder,<br /> -Life-floods shall lave thee,<br /> -Strong wood of wonder.<br /> -Mighty, have mercy,<br /> -Smite us no more,<br /> -Spare us and save us,<br /> -Spare us, Thor! Thor!”</p> - -<p class="p1">With two great shouts the song ended, and a stillness -followed so intense that the crackling of the fire was -heard distinctly. The old priest stood silent for a moment. -His shaggy brows swept down over his eyes like -ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face and -spoke.</p> - -<p>“None of these things will please the god. More -costly is the offering that shall cleanse your sin, more -precious the crimson dew that shall send new life into -this holy tree of blood. Thor claims your dearest and -your noblest gift.”</p> - -<p>Hunrad moved nearer to the handful of children who -stood watching the red mines in the fire and the swarms -of spark-serpents darting upward. They had heeded -none of the priest’s words, and did not notice now that -he approached them, so eager were they to see which -fiery snake would go highest among the oak branches. -Foremost among them, and most intent on the pretty -game, was a boy like a sunbeam, slender and quick, with -blithe brown eyes and laughing lips. The priest’s hand -was laid upon his shoulder. The boy turned and looked -up in his face.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Here,” said the old man, with his voice vibrating as -when a thick rope is strained by a ship swinging from -her moorings, “here is the chosen one, the eldest son -of the Chief, the darling of the people. Hearken, Bernhard, -wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the heroes dwell -with the gods, to bear a message to Thor?”</p> - -<p>The boy answered, swift and clear:</p> - -<p>“Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me. Is it -far away? Shall I run quickly? Must I take my bow -and arrows for the wolves?”</p> - -<p>The boy’s father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing -among his bearded warriors, drew his breath deep, and -leaned so heavily on the handle of his spear that the -wood cracked. And his wife, Irma, bending forward -from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair from -her forehead with one hand. The other dragged at the -silver chain about her neck until the rough links pierced -her flesh, and the red drops fell unheeded on the snow -of her breast.</p> - -<p>A sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur -of the forest before the storm breaks. Yet no one spoke -save Hunrad:</p> - -<p>“Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou -have, for the way is long, and thou art a brave huntsman. -But in darkness thou must journey for a little -space, and with eyes blindfolded. Fearest thou?”</p> - -<p>“Naught fear I,” said the boy, “neither darkness, -nor the great bear, nor the were-wolf. For I am Gundhar’s -son, and the defender of my folk.”</p> - -<p>Then the priest led the child in his raiment of lamb’s-wool -to a broad stone in front of the fire. He gave him -his little bow tipped with silver, and his spear with -shining head of steel. He bound the child’s eyes with -a white cloth, and bade him kneel beside the stone with -his face to the east. Unconsciously the wide arc of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -spectators drew inward toward the centre, as the ends -of the bow draw together when the cord is stretched. -Winfried moved noiselessly until he stood close behind -the priest.</p> - -<p>The old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone -from the ground,—the sacred hammer of the god Thor. -Summoning all the strength of his withered arms, he -swung it high in the air. It poised for an instant above -the child’s fair head—then turned to fall.</p> - -<p>One keen cry shrilled out from where the women -stood: “Me! take me! not Bernhard!”</p> - -<p>The flight of the mother towards her child was swift -as the falcon’s swoop. But swifter still was the hand of -the deliverer.</p> - -<p>Winfried’s heavy staff thrust mightily against the -hammer’s handle as it fell. Sideways it glanced from -the old man’s grasp, and the black stone, striking on the -altar’s edge, split in twain. A shout of awe and joy -rolled along the living circle. The branches of the oak -shivered. The flames leaped higher. As the shout died -away the people saw the lady Irma, with her arms -clasped round her child, and above them, on the altar-stone, -Winfried, his face shining like the face of an -angel.</p> - - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p class="psh">THE FELLING OF THE TREE</p> - -<p>A swift mountain-flood rolling down its channel; a -huge rock tumbling from the hill-side and falling in -mid-stream; the baffled waters broken and confused, -pausing in their flow, dash high against the rock, foaming -and murmuring, with divided impulse, uncertain -whether to turn to the right or the left.</p> - -<p>Even so Winfried’s bold deed fell into the midst of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> -the thoughts and passions of the council. They were at -a standstill. Anger and wonder, reverence and joy and -confusion surged through the crowd. They knew not -which way to move: to resent the intrusion of the -stranger as an insult to their gods, or to welcome him -as the rescuer of their darling prince.</p> - -<p>The old priest crouched by the altar, silent. Conflicting -counsels troubled the air. Let the sacrifice go -forward; the gods must be appeased. Nay, the boy -must not die; bring the chieftain’s best horse and slay -it in his stead; it will be enough; the holy tree loves the -blood of horses. Not so, there is a better counsel yet; -seize the stranger whom the gods have led hither as a -victim and make his life pay the forfeit of his daring.</p> - -<p>The withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered -overhead. The fire flared and sank again. The -angry voices clashed against each other and fell like -opposing waves. Then the chieftain Gundhar struck the -earth with his spear and gave his decision.</p> - -<p>“All have spoken, but none are agreed. There is -no voice of the council. Keep silence now, and let the -stranger speak. His words shall give us judgment, -whether he is to live or to die.”</p> - -<p>Winfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a -roll of parchment from his bosom, and began to read.</p> - -<p>“A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits -on a golden throne, to the people of the forest, Hessians -and Thuringians, Franks and Saxons. <i>In nomine -Domini, sanctae et individuae trinitatis, amen!</i>”</p> - -<p>A murmur of awe ran through the crowd. “It is the -sacred tongue of the Romans: the tongue that is heard -and understood by the wise men of every land. There -is magic in it. Listen!”</p> - -<p>Winfried went on to read the letter, translating it -into the speech of the people.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and -appointed him your bishop, that he may teach you the -only true faith, and baptize you, and lead you back -from the ways of error to the path of salvation. -Hearken to him in all things like a father. Bow your -hearts to his teaching. He comes not for earthly gain, -but for the gain of your souls. Depart from evil works. -Worship not the false gods, for they are devils. Offer -no more bloody sacrifices, nor eat the flesh of horses, -but do as our Brother Boniface commands you. Build -a house for him that he may dwell among you, and a -church where you may offer your prayers to the only -living God, the Almighty King of Heaven.’”</p> - -<p>It was a splendid message: proud, strong, peaceful, -loving. The dignity of the words imposed mightily upon -the hearts of the people. They were quieted, as men who -have listened to a lofty strain of music.</p> - -<p>“Tell us, then,” said Gundhar, “what is the word -that thou bringest to us from the Almighty. What is -thy counsel for the tribes of the woodland on this night -of sacrifice?”</p> - -<p>“This is the word, and this is the counsel,” answered -Winfried. “Not a drop of blood shall fall to-night, -save that which pity has drawn from the breast of your -princess, in love for her child. Not a life shall be blotted -out in the darkness to-night; but the great shadow of the -tree which hides you from the light of heaven shall be -swept away. For this is the birth-night of the white -Christ, son of the All-Father, and Saviour of mankind. -Fairer is He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater -than Odin the Wise, kinder than Freya the Good. Since -He has come to earth the bloody sacrifices must cease. -The dark Thor, on whom you vainly call, is dead. Deep -in the shades of Niffelheim he is lost forever. His power -in the world is broken. Will you serve a helpless god?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -See, my brothers, you call this tree his oak. Does he -dwell here? Does he protect it?”</p> - -<p>A troubled voice of assent rose from the throng. The -people stirred uneasily. Women covered their eyes. -Hunrad lifted his head and muttered hoarsely, “Thor! -take vengeance! Thor!”</p> - -<p>Winfried beckoned to Gregor. “Bring the axes, thine -and one for me. Now, young woodsman, show thy craft! -The king-tree of the forest must fall, and swiftly, or all -is lost!”</p> - -<p>The two men took their places facing each other, one -on each side of the oak. Their cloaks were flung aside, -their heads bare. Carefully they felt the ground with -their feet, seeking a firm grip of the earth. Firmly they -grasped the axe-helves and swung the shining blades.</p> - -<p>“Tree-god!” cried Winfried, “art thou angry? -Thus we smite thee!”</p> - -<p>“Tree-god!” answered Gregor, “art thou mighty? -Thus we fight thee!”</p> - -<p>Clang! clang! the alternate strokes beat time upon the -hard, ringing wood. The axe-heads glittered in their -rhythmic flight, like fierce eagles circling about their -quarry.</p> - -<p>The broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening -gashes in the sides of the oak. The huge trunk quivered. -There was a shuddering in the branches. Then the great -wonder of Winfried’s life came to pass.</p> - -<p>Out of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing -noise sounded overhead.</p> - -<p>Was it the ancient gods on their white battle-steeds, -with their black hounds of wrath and their arrows of -lightning, sweeping through the air to destroy their -foes?</p> - -<p>A strong, whirling wind passed over the tree-tops. -It gripped the oak by its branches and tore it from its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -roots. Backward it fell, like a ruined tower, groaning -and crashing as it split asunder in four great pieces.</p> - -<p>Winfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a -moment in the presence of almighty power.</p> - -<p>Then he turned to the people, “Here is the timber,” -he cried, “already felled and split for your new building. -On this spot shall rise a chapel to the true God -and his servant St. Peter.”</p> - -<p>“And here,” said he, as his eyes fell on a young -fir-tree, standing straight and green, with its top pointing -towards the stars, amid the divided ruins of the -fallen oak, “here is the living tree, with no stain of -blood upon it, that shall be the sign of your new worship. -See how it points to the sky. Let us call it the -tree of the Christ-child. Take it up and carry it to the -chieftain’s hall. You shall go no more into the shadows -of the forest to keep your feasts with secret rites of -shame. You shall keep them at home, with laughter -and song and rites of love. The thunder-oak has fallen, -and I think the day is coming when there shall not be -a home in all Germany where the children are not -gathered around the green fir-tree to rejoice in the -birth-night of Christ.”</p> - -<p>So they took the little fir from its place, and carried -it in joyous procession to the edge of the glade, and -laid it on the sledge. The horses tossed their heads -and drew their load bravely, as if the new burden had -made it lighter.</p> - -<p>When they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade -them throw open the doors of the hall and set the tree -in the midst of it. They kindled lights among the -branches until it seemed to be tangled full of fire-flies. -The children encircled it, wondering, and the sweet odor -of the balsam filled the house.</p> - -<p>Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> -the daïs at the end of the hall, and told the story of -Bethlehem; of the babe in the manger, of the shepherds -on the hills, of the host of angels and their midnight song. -All the people listened, charmed into stillness.</p> - -<p>But the boy Bernhard, on Irma’s knee, folded by her -soft arm, grew restless as the story lengthened, and began -to prattle softly at his mother’s ear.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” whispered the child, “why did you cry -out so loud, when the priest was going to send me to -Valhalla?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, my child,” answered the mother, and -pressed him closer to her side.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” whispered the boy again, laying his finger -on the stains upon her breast, “see, your dress is red! -What are these stains? Did some one hurt you?”</p> - -<p>The mother closed his mouth with a kiss. “Dear, -be still, and listen!”</p> - -<p>The boy obeyed. His eyes were heavy with sleep. -But he heard the last words of Winfried as he spoke -of the angelic messengers, flying over the hills of Judea -and singing as they flew. The child wondered and -dreamed and listened. Suddenly his face grew bright. -He put his lips close to Irma’s cheek again.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother!” he whispered very low, “do not -speak. Do you hear them? Those angels have come -back again. They are singing now behind the tree.”</p> - -<p>And some say that it was true; but others say that it -was only Gregor and his companions at the lower end of -the hall, chanting their Christmas hymn:</p> - -<p class="ppqs6 p1"> -“‘All glory be to God on high,<br /> -And to the earth be peace!<br /> -Good-will, henceforth, from heaven to men<br /> -Begin, and never cease.’”</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">A FRENCH TAR-BABY</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Joel Chandler Harris</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">The fable was one of the first tributaries to the stream -of story-telling. Primitive man with a kind of fine -democracy claimed kinship with the animals about him. -So Hiawatha learned the language and the secrets of -birds and beasts,</p> - -<p class="ppq6 p1">“Talked with them whene’er he met them,<br /> -Called them Hiawatha’s Brothers.”</p> - -<p class="p1">Out of this intimacy and understanding grew the fable, -wherein animals thought, acted, and talked in the terms -of human life. This kind of story is illustrated by the -“Fables” of Æsop, the animal stories of Ernest -Thompson-Seton, the “Jungle Books” of Rudyard Kipling, -and the “Uncle Remus” stories of Joel Chandler -Harris. The fable is a tale rather than a true short-story.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">A FRENCH TAR-BABY<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[4]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">In the time when there were hobgoblins and fairies, -Brother Goat and Brother Rabbit lived in the same -neighborhood, not far from each other.</p> - -<p>Proud of his long beard and sharp horns, Brother Goat -looked on Brother Rabbit with disdain. He would -hardly speak to Brother Rabbit when he met him, and -his greatest pleasure was to make his little neighbor the -victim of his tricks and practical jokes. For instance, -he would say:</p> - -<p>“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Fox,” and this would -cause Brother Rabbit to run away as hard as he could. -Again he would say:</p> - -<p>“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Wolf,” and poor -Brother Rabbit would shake and tremble with fear. -Sometimes he would cry out:</p> - -<p>“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Tiger,” and then -Brother Rabbit would shudder and think that his last -hour had come.</p> - -<p>Tired of this miserable existence, Brother Rabbit tried -to think of some means by which he could change his -powerful and terrible neighbor into a friend. After a -time he thought he had discovered a way to make -Brother Goat his friend, and so he invited him to dinner.</p> - -<p>Brother Goat was quick to accept the invitation. The -dinner was a fine affair, and there was an abundance of -good eating. A great many different dishes were served. -Brother Goat licked his mouth and shook his long beard -with satisfaction. He had never before been present at -such a feast.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, my friend,” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, when -the dessert was brought in, “how do you like your -dinner?”</p> - -<p>“I could certainly wish for nothing better,” replied -Brother Goat, rubbing the tips of his horns against the -back of his chair; “but my throat is very dry and a -little water would hurt neither the dinner nor me.”</p> - -<p>“Gracious!” said Brother Rabbit, “I have neither -wine-cellar nor water. I am not in the habit of drinking -while I am eating.”</p> - -<p>“Neither have I any water, Brother Rabbit,” said -Brother Goat. “But I have an idea! If you will go -with me over yonder by the big poplar, we will dig a -well.”</p> - -<p>“No, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit, who hoped -to revenge himself—“no, I do not care to dig a well. -At daybreak I drink the dew from the cups of the -flowers, and in the heat of the day I milk the cows and -drink the cream.”</p> - -<p>“Well and good,” said Brother Goat. “Alone I -will dig the well, and alone I will drink out of it.”</p> - -<p>“Success to you, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit.</p> - -<p>“Thank you kindly, Brother Rabbit.”</p> - -<p>Brother Goat then went to the foot of the big poplar -and began to dig his well. He dug with his forefeet and -with his horns, and the well got deeper and deeper. -Soon the water began to bubble up and the well was -finished, and then Brother Goat made haste to quench -his thirst. He was in such a hurry that his beard got -in the water, but he drank and drank until he had his -fill.</p> - -<p>Brother Rabbit, who had followed him at a little distance, -hid himself behind a bush and laughed heartily. -He said to himself: “What an innocent creature you -are!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span></p> - -<p>The next day, when Brother Goat, with his big beard -and sharp horns, returned to his well to get some water, -he saw the tracks of Brother Rabbit in the soft earth. -This put him to thinking. He sat down, pulled his -beard, scratched his head, and tapped himself on the -forehead.</p> - -<p>“My friend,” he exclaimed after a while, “I will -catch you yet.”</p> - -<p>Then he ran and got his tools (for Brother Goat was -something of a carpenter in those days) and made a -large doll out of laurel wood. When the doll was finished, -he spread tar on it here and there, on the right -and on the left, and up and down. He smeared it all -over with the sticky stuff, until it was as black as a -Guinea negro.</p> - -<p>This finished, Brother Goat waited quietly until -evening. At sunset he placed the tarred doll near the -well, and ran and hid himself behind the trees and -bushes. The moon had just risen, and the heavens -twinkled with millions of little star-torches.</p> - -<p>Brother Rabbit, who was waiting in his house, believed -that the time had come for him to get some water, -so he took his bucket and went to Brother Goat’s well. -On the way he was very much afraid that something -would catch him. He trembled when the wind shook -the leaves of the trees. He would go a little distance -and then stop and listen; he hid here behind a stone, -and there behind a tuft of grass.</p> - -<p>At last he arrived at the well, and there he saw the -little negro. He stopped and looked at it with astonishment. -Then he drew back a little way, advanced -again, drew back, advanced a little, and stopped once -more.</p> - -<p>“What can that be?” he said to himself. He listened, -with his long ears pointed forward, but the trees<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> -could not talk, and the bushes were dumb. He winked -his eyes and lowered his head:</p> - -<p>“Hey, friend! who are you?” he asked.</p> - -<p>The tar-doll didn’t move. Brother Rabbit went up a -little closer, and asked again:</p> - -<p>“Who are you?”</p> - -<p>The tar-doll said nothing. Brother Rabbit breathed -more at ease. Then he went to the brink of the well, -but when he looked in the water the tar-doll seemed to -look in too. He could see her reflection in the water. -This made Brother Rabbit so mad that he grew red in -the face.</p> - -<p>“See here!” he exclaimed, “if you look in this well -I’ll give you a rap on the nose!”</p> - -<p>Brother Rabbit leaned over the brink of the well, and -saw the tar-doll smiling at him in the water. He raised -his right hand and hit her—bam! His hand stuck.</p> - -<p>“What’s this?” exclaimed Brother Rabbit. “Turn -me loose, imp of Satan! If you do not, I will rap you on -the eye with my other hand.”</p> - -<p>Then he hit her—bim! The left hand stuck also. -Then Brother Rabbit raised his right foot, saying:</p> - -<p>“Mark me well, little Congo! Do you see this foot? -I will kick you in the stomach if you do not turn me -loose this instant.”</p> - -<p>No sooner said than done. Brother Rabbit let fly his -right foot—vip! The foot stuck, and he raised the other.</p> - -<p>“Do you see this foot?” he exclaimed. “If I hit -you with it, you will think a thunderbolt has struck -you.”</p> - -<p>Then he kicked her with the left foot, and it also -stuck like the other, and Brother Rabbit held fast his -Guinea negro.</p> - -<p>“Watch out, now!” he cried. “I’ve already butted -a great many people with my head. If I butt you in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> -your ugly face I’ll knock it into a jelly. Turn me loose! -Oho! you don’t answer?” Bap!</p> - -<p>“Guinea girl!” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, “are you -dead? Gracious goodness! how my head does stick!”</p> - -<p>When the sun rose, Brother Goat went to his well to -find out something about Brother Rabbit. The result -was beyond his expectations.</p> - -<p>“Hey, little rogue, big rogue!” exclaimed Brother -Goat. “Hey, Brother Rabbit! what are you doing -there? I thought you drank the dew from the cups of -the flowers, or milk from the cows. Aha, Brother Rabbit! -I will punish you for stealing my water.”</p> - -<p>“I am your friend,” said Brother Rabbit; “don’t -kill me.”</p> - -<p>“Thief, thief!” cried Brother Goat, and then he ran -quickly into the woods, gathered up a pile of dry limbs, -and made a great fire. He took Brother Rabbit from the -tar-doll, and prepared to burn him alive. As he was -passing a thicket of brambles with Brother Rabbit on -his shoulders, Brother Goat met his daughter Bélédie, -who was walking about in the fields.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going, papa, muffled up with such a -burden? Come and eat the fresh grass with me, and -throw wicked Brother Rabbit in the brambles.”</p> - -<p>Cunning Brother Rabbit raised his long ears and pretended -to be very much frightened.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, Brother Goat!” he cried. “Don’t throw -me in the brambles. They will tear my flesh, put out -my eyes, and pierce my heart. Oh, I pray you, rather -throw me in the fire.”</p> - -<p>“Aha, little rogue, big rogue! Aha, Brother Rabbit!” -exclaimed Brother Goat, exultingly, “you don’t -like the brambles? Well, then, go and laugh in them,” -and he threw Brother Rabbit in without a feeling of -pity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> - -<p>Brother Rabbit fell in the brambles, leaped to his -feet, and began to laugh.</p> - -<p>“Ha-ha-ha! Brother Goat, what a simpleton you -are!—ha-ha-ha! A better bed I never had! In these -brambles I was born!”</p> - -<p>Brother Goat was in despair, but he could not help -himself. Brother Rabbit was safe.</p> - -<p>A long beard is not always a sign of intelligence.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’</h2> - -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> - -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Ruth McEnery Stuart</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This is the story of character, in the form of dramatic -monologue. There is only one speaker, but we know by -his words that another is present and can infer his part -in the conversation. This story has the additional values -of humor and local color.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[5]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">Yas, sir, wife an’ me, we’ve turned ’Piscopals—all on -account o’ Sonny. He seemed to prefer that religion, -an’ of co’se we wouldn’t have the family divided, so -we’re a-goin’ to be ez good ’Piscopals ez we can.</p> - -<p>I reckon it’ll come a little bit awkward at first. Seem -like I never will git so thet I can sass back in church -’thout feelin’ sort o’ impident—but I reckon I’ll chirp -up an’ come to it, in time.</p> - -<p>I never was much of a hand to sound the amens, -even in our own Methodist meetin’s.</p> - -<p>Sir? How old is he? Oh, Sonny’s purty nigh six—but -he showed a pref’ence for the ’Piscopal Church long -fo’ he could talk.</p> - -<p>When he wasn’t no mo’ ’n three year old we commenced -a-takin’ him round to church wherever they held -meetin’s,—’Piscopals, Methodists or Presbyterians,—so’s -he could see an’ hear for hisself. I ca’yed him to a -baptizin’ over to Chinquepin Crik, once-t, when he was -three. I thought I’d let him see it done an’ maybe it -might make a good impression; but no, sir! The Baptists -didn’t suit him! Cried ever’ time one was douced, an’ -I had to fetch him away. In our Methodist meetin’s he -seemed to git worked up an’ pervoked, some way. An’ -the Presbyterians, he didn’t take no stock in them at all. -Ricollect, one Sunday the preacher, he preached a -mighty powerful disco’se on the doctrine o’ lost infants -not ’lected to salvation—an’ Sonny? Why, he slep’ -right thoo it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p> - -<p>The first any way lively interest he ever seemed to take -in religious services was at the ’Piscopals, Easter Sunday. -When he seen the lilies an’ the candles he thess -clapped his little hands, an’ time the folks commenced -answerin’ back he was tickled all but to death, an’ -started answerin’ hisself—on’y, of co’se he’d answer -sort o’ hit an’ miss.</p> - -<p>I see then thet Sonny was a natu’al-born ‘Piscopal, an’ -we might ez well make up our minds to it—an’ I told <i>her</i> -so, too. They say some is born so. But we thought -we’d let him alone an’ let nature take its co’se for -a while—not pressin’ him one way or another. He never -had showed no disposition to be christened, an’ ever -sence the doctor tried to vaccinate him he seemed to git -the notion that christenin’ an’ vaccination was mo’ or -less the same thing; an’ sence that time, he’s been mo’ -opposed to it than ever.</p> - -<p>Sir? Oh no, sir. He didn’t vaccinate him; he thess -tried to do it; but Sonny, he wouldn’t begin to allow it. -We all tried to indoose ’im. I offered him everything -on the farm ef he’d thess roll up his little sleeve an’ let -the doctor look at his arm—promised him thet he -wouldn’t tech a needle to it tell he said the word. But -he wouldn’t. He ’lowed thet me an’ his mamma could -git vaccinated ef we wanted to, but he wouldn’t.</p> - -<p>Then we showed him our marks where we had been -vaccinated when we was little, an’ told him how it had -kep’ us clair o’ havin’ the smallpock all our lives.</p> - -<p>Well, sir, it didn’t make no diff’ence whether we’d -been did befo’ or not, he ’lowed thet he wanted to see -us vaccinated ag’in.</p> - -<p>An’ so, of co’se, thinkin’ it might encour’ge him, we -thess had it did over—tryin’ to coax him to consent -after each one, an’ makin’ pertend like we enjoyed it.</p> - -<p>Then, nothin’ would do but the nigger, Dicey, had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> -to be did, an’ then he ’lowed thet he wanted the cat -did, an’ I tried to strike a bargain with him thet if -Kitty got vaccinated he would. But he wouldn’t comp’omise. -He thess let on thet Kit had to be did whe’r -or no. So I ast the doctor ef it would likely kill the cat, -an’ he said he reckoned not, though it might sicken her -a little. So I told him to go ahead. Well, sir, befo’ -Sonny got thoo, he had had that cat an’ both dogs vaccinated—but -let it tech hisself he would not.</p> - -<p>I was mighty sorry not to have it did, ’cause they was -a nigger thet had the smallpock down to Cedar Branch, -fifteen mile away, an’ he didn’t die, neither. He got -well. An’ they say when they git well they’re more -fatal to a neighborhood ‘n when they die.</p> - -<p>That was fo’ months ago now, but to this day ever’ -time the wind blows from sou’west I feel oneasy, an’ -try to entice Sonny to play on the far side o’ the house.</p> - -<p>Well, sir, in about ten days after that we was the -down-in-the-mouthest crowd on that farm, man an’ beast, -thet you ever see. Ever’ last one o’ them vaccinations -took, sir, an’ took severe, from the cat up.</p> - -<p>But I reckon we’re all safe-t guarded now. They ain’t -nothin’ on the place thet can fetch it to Sonny, an’ I -trust, with care, he may never be exposed.</p> - -<p>But I set out to tell you about Sonny’s christenin’ an’ -us turnin’ ‘Piscopal. Ez I said, he never seemed to want -baptism, though he had heard us discuss all his life -both it an’ vaccination ez the two ordeels to be gone thoo -with some time, an’ we’d speculate ez to whether vaccination -would take or not, an’ all sech ez that, an’ then, -ez I said, after he see what the vaccination was, why he -was even mo’ prejudyced agin’ baptism ‘n ever, an’ we -’lowed to let it run on tell sech a time ez he’d decide -what name he’d want to take an’ what denomination -he’d want to bestow it on him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p> - -<p>Wife, she’s got some ‘Piscopal relations thet she sort o’ -looks up to,—though she don’t own it,—but she was -raised Methodist an’ I was raised a true-blue Presbyterian. -But when we professed after Sonny come we -went up together at Methodist meetin’. What we was -after was righteous livin’, an’ we didn’t keer much -which denomination helped us to it.</p> - -<p>An’ so, feelin’ friendly all roun’ that-a-way, we -thought we’d leave Sonny to pick his church when he got -ready, an’ then they wouldn’t be nothin’ to undo or do -over in case he went over to the ‘Piscopals, which has -the name of revisin’ over any other church’s performances—though -sence we’ve turned ‘Piscopals we’ve -found out that ain’t so.</p> - -<p>Of co’se the preachers, they used to talk to us about -it once-t in a while,—seemed to think it ought to be did,—’ceptin’, -of co’se, the Baptists.</p> - -<p>Well, sir, it went along so till last week. Sonny ain’t -but, ez I said, thess not quite six year old, an’ they -seemed to be time enough. But last week he had been -playin’ out o’ doors bare-feeted, thess same ez he always -does, an’ he tramped on a pine splinter some way. Of -co’se, pine, it’s the safe-t-est splinter a person can run -into a foot, on account of its carryin’ its own turpentine -in with it to heal up things; but any splinter thet dast to -push itself up into a little pink foot is a messenger of -trouble, an’ we know it. An’ so, when we see this one, -we tried ever’ way to coax him to let us take it out, -but he wouldn’t, of co’se. He never will, an’ somehow -the Lord seems to give ’em ambition to work their own -way out mos’ gen’ally.</p> - -<p>But, sir, this splinter didn’t seem to have no energy in -it. It thess lodged there, an’ his little foot it commenced -to swell, an’ it swole an’ swole tell his little toes stuck out -so thet the little pig thet went to market looked like ez<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -ef it wasn’t on speakin’ terms with the little pig thet -stayed home, an’ wife an’ me we watched it, an’ I reckon -she prayed over it consider’ble, an’ I read a extry psalm -at night befo’ I went to bed, all on account o’ that little -foot. An’ night befo’ las’ it was lookin’ mighty angry -an’ swole, an’ he had limped an’ “ouched!” consider’ble -all day, an’ he was mighty fretful bed-time. So, -after he went to sleep, wife she come out on the po’ch -where I was settin’, and she says to me, says she, her face -all drawed up an’ workin’, says she: “Honey,” says she, -“I reckon we better sen’ for him an’ have it did.” -Thess so, she said it. “Sen’ for who, wife?” says I, -“an’ have what did?” “Why, sen’ for him, the ‘Piscopal -preacher,” says she, “an’ have Sonny christened. -Them little toes o’ hisn is ez red ez cherry tomatoes. -They burnt my lips thess now like a coal o’ fire an’—an’ -lockjaw is goin’ roun’ tur’ble.</p> - -<p>“Seems to me,” says she, “when he started to git -sleepy, he didn’t gap ez wide ez he gen’ly does—an’ I’m -’feered he’s a-gittin’ it now.” An’, sir, with that, she -thess gathered up her apron an’ mopped her face in it -an’ give way. An’ ez for me, I didn’t seem to have no -mo’ backbone down my spinal colume ‘n a feather bolster -has, I was that weak.</p> - -<p>I never ast her why she didn’t sen’ for our own -preacher. I knowed then ez well ez ef she’d ’a’ told me -why she done it—all on account o’ Sonny bein’ so tickled -over the ‘Piscopals’ meetin’s.</p> - -<p>It was mos’ nine o’clock then, an’ a dark night, an’ -rainin’, but I never said a word—they wasn’t no room -round the edges o’ the lump in my throat for words to -come out ef they’d ’a’ been one surgin’ up there to -say, which they wasn’t—but I thess went out an’ saddled -my horse an’ I rid into town. Stopped first at the doctor’s -an’ sent him out, though I knowed ’twouldn’t do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> -no good; Sonny wouldn’t ’low him to tech it; but I sent -him out anyway, to look at it, an’, ef possible, console -wife a little. Then I rid on to the rector’s an’ ast him to -come out immejate an’ baptize Sonny. But nex’ day -was his turn to preach down at Sandy Crik, an’ he -couldn’t come that night, but he promised to come right -after services nex’ mornin’—which he done—rid the -whole fo’teen mile from Sandy Crik here in the rain, too, -which I think is a evidence o’ Christianity, though no -sech acts is put down in my book o’ “evidences” where -they ought rightfully to be.</p> - -<p>Well, sir, when I got home that night, I found wife -a heap cheerfuler. The doctor had give Sonny a big -apple to eat an’ pernounced him free from all symptoms -o’ lockjaw. But when I come the little feller had -crawled ’back under the bed an’ lay there, eatin’ -his apple, an’ they couldn’t git him out. Soon ez the -doctor had teched a poultice to his foot he had woke up -an’ put a stop to it, an’ then he had went off by hisself -where nothin’ couldn’t pester him, to enjoy his apple in -peace. An’ we never got him out tell he heered us tellin’ -the doctor good-night.</p> - -<p>I tried ever’ way to git him out—even took up a coal -o’ fire an’ poked it under at him; but he thess laughed at -that an’ helt his apple agin’ it an’ made it sizz. Well, -sir, he seemed so tickled that I helt that coal o’ fire for -him tell he cooked a good big spot on one side o’ the -apple, an’ et it, an’ then, when I took it out, he called -for another, but I didn’t give it to him. I don’t see no -use in over-indulgin’ a child. An’ when he knowed the -doctor was gone, he come out an’ finished roastin’ his -apple by the fire—thess what was left of it ’round the -co’e.</p> - -<p>Well, sir, we was mightily comforted by the doctor’s -visit, but nex’ mornin’ things looked purty gloomy ag’in.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> -That little foot seemed a heap worse, an’ he was sort o’ -flushed an’ feverish, an’ wife she thought she heard a -owl hoot, an’ Rover made a mighty funny gurgly sound -in his th’oat like ez ef he had bad news to tell us, but -didn’t have the courage to speak it.</p> - -<p>An’ then, on top o’ that, the nigger Dicey, she come in -an’ ’lowed she had dreamed that night about eatin’ -spare-ribs, which everybody knows to dream about fresh -pork out o’ season, which this is July, is considered a -shore sign o’ death. Of co’se, wife an’ me, we don’t -b’lieve in no sech ez that, but ef you ever come to see -yo’ little feller’s toes stand out the way Sonny’s done -day befo’ yesterday, why, sir, you’ll be ready to b’lieve -anything. It’s so much better now, you can’t judge of -its looks day befo’ yesterday. We never had even so -much ez considered it necessary thet little children -should be christened to have ’em saved, but when things -got on the ticklish edge, like they was then, why, we felt -thet the safest side is the wise side, an’, of co’se, we -want Sonny to have the best of everything. So, we was -mighty thankful when we see the rector comin’. But, -sir, when I went out to open the gate for him, what on -top o’ this round hemisp’ere do you reckon Sonny done? -Why, sir, he thess took one look at the gate an’ then he -cut an’ run hard ez he could—limped acrost the yard -thess like a flash o’ zig-zag lightnin’—an’ ’fore anybody -could stop him, he had clumb to the tip top o’ the butter-bean -arbor—clumb it thess like a cat—an’ there he set, -a-swingin’ his feet under him, an’ laughin’, the rain -thess a-streakin’ his hair all over his face.</p> - -<p>That bean arbor is a favoryte place for him to escape -to, ’cause it’s too high to reach, an’ it ain’t strong -enough to bear no grown-up person’s weight.</p> - -<p>Well, sir, the rector, he come in an’ opened his valise -an’ ’rayed hisself in his robes an’ opened his book, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>’ -while he was turnin’ the leaves, he faced ’round an’ -says he, lookin’ at me <i>di</i>rec’, says he:</p> - -<p>“Let the child be brought forward for baptism,” says -he, thess that-a-way.</p> - -<p>Well, sir, I looked at wife, an’ wife, she looked at me, -an’ then we both thess looked out at the butter-bean -arbor.</p> - -<p>I knowed then thet Sonny wasn’t never comin’ down -while the rector was there, an’ rector, he seemed sort -o’ fretted for a minute when he see how things was, an’ -he did try to do a little settin’ fo’th of opinions. He -’lowed, speakin’ in a mighty pompious manner, thet holy -things wasn’t to be trifled with, an’ thet he had come to -baptize the child accordin’ to the rites o’ the church.</p> - -<p>Well, that sort o’ talk, it thess rubbed me the wrong -way, an’ I up an’ told him thet that might be so, but -thet the rites o’ the church didn’t count for nothin’, on -our farm, to the rights o’ the boy!</p> - -<p>I reckon it was mighty disrespec’ful o’ me to face him -that-a-way, an’ him adorned in all his robes, too, but I’m -thess a plain up-an’-down man an’ I hadn’t went for -him to come an’ baptize Sonny to uphold the granjer of -no church. I was ready to do that when the time come, -but right now we was workin’ in Sonny’s interests, -an’ I intended to have it understood that way. An’ it -was.</p> - -<p>Rector, he’s a mighty good, kind-hearted man, git -down to the man inside the preacher, an’ when he see -thess how things stood, why, he come ’round friendly, -an’ he went out on the po’ch an’ united with us in -tryin’ to help coax Sonny down. First started by -promisin’ him speritual benefits, but he soon see that -wasn’t no go, and he tried worldly persuasion; but no, -sir, stid o’ him comin’ down, Sonny started orderin’ -the rest of us christened thess the way he done about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> -the vaccination. But, of co’se, we had been baptized -befo’, an’ we nachelly helt out agin’ that for some time. -But d’rec’ly rector, he seemed to have a sudden idee, -an’ says he, facin’ ’round, church-like, to wife an’ me, -says he:</p> - -<p>“Have you both been baptized accordin’ to the rites -o’ the church?”</p> - -<p>An’ me, thinkin’ of co’se he meant the ‘Piscopal -Church, says: “No, sir,” says I, thess so. And then we -see that the way was open for us to be did over ag’in ef -we wanted to. So, sir, wife an’ me we was took into the -church, then an’ there. We wouldn’t ’a’ yielded to him, -thoo an’ thoo, that-a-way ag’in ef his little foot hadn’t -’a’’ been so swole, an’ he maybe takin’ his death o’ cold -settin’ out in the po’in’-down rain; but things bein’ as -they was, we went thoo it with all due respects.</p> - -<p>Then he commenced callin’ for Dicey, an’ the dog, an’ -the cat, to be did, same ez he done befo’; but, of co’se, -they’s some liberties thet even a innocent child can’t -take with the waters o’ baptism, an’ the rector he got -sort o’ wo’e-out and disgusted an’ ’lowed thet ’less’n -we could get the child ready for baptism he’d haf to go -home.</p> - -<p>Well, sir, I knowed we wouldn’t never git ’im down, -an’ I had went for the rector to baptize him, an’ I intended -to have it did, ef possible. So, says I, turnin’ -’round an’ facin’ him square, says I: “Rector,” says I, -“why not baptize him where he is? I mean it. The -waters o’ Heaven are descendin’ upon him where he sets, -an’ seems to me ef he’s favo’bly situated for anything -it is for baptism.” Well, parson, he thess looked at me -up an’ down for a minute, like ez ef he s’picioned I was -wanderin’ in my mind, but he didn’t faze me. I thess -kep’ up my argiment. Says I: “Parson,” says I, -speakin’ thess ez ca’m ez I am this minute—“Parson,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>” -says I, “his little foot is mighty swole, an’ so’e, an’ that -splinter—thess s’pose he was to take the lockjaw an’ -die—don’t you reckon you might do it where he sets—from -where you stand?”</p> - -<p>Wife, she was cryin’ by this time, an’ parson, he -claired his th’oat an’ coughed, an’ then he commenced -walkin’ up an’ down, an’ treckly he stopped, an’ says -he, speakin’ mighty reverential an’ serious:</p> - -<p>“Lookin’ at this case speritually, an’ as a minister -o’ the Gospel,” says he, “it seems to me thet the question -ain’t so much a question of <i>doin’</i> ez it is a question -of <i>withholdin’</i>. I don’t know,” says he, “ez I’ve -got a right to withhold the sacrament of baptism from -a child under these circumstances or to deny sech comfort -to his parents ez lies in my power to bestow.”</p> - -<p>An’, sir, with that he stepped out to the end o’ the -po’ch, opened his book ag’in, an’ holdin’ up his right -hand to’ards Sonny, settin’ on top o’ the bean-arbor -in the rain, he commenced to read the service o’ baptism, -an’ we stood proxies—which is a sort o’ a dummy -substitutes—for whatever godfather an’ mother Sonny -see fit to choose in after life.</p> - -<p>Parson, he looked half like ez ef he’d laugh once-t. -When he had thess opened his book and started to speak, -a sudden streak o’ sunshine shot out an’ the rain started -to ease up, an’ it looked for a minute ez ef he was goin’ -to lose the baptismal waters. But d’rec’ly it come down -stiddy ag’in an’ he went thoo the programme entire.</p> - -<p>An’ Sonny, he behaved mighty purty; set up perfec’ly -ca’m an’ composed thoo it all, an’ took everything -in good part, though he didn’t p’intedly know who was -bein’ baptized, ’cause, of co’se, he couldn’t hear the -words with the rain in his ears.</p> - -<p>He didn’t rightly sense the situation tell it come -to the part where it says: “Name this child,” and, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> -co’se, I called out to Sonny to name hisself, which it -had always been our intention to let him do.</p> - -<p>“Name yo’self, right quick, like a good boy,” says I.</p> - -<p>Of co’se Sonny had all his life heered me say thet -I was Deuteronomy Jones, Senior, an’ thet I hoped -some day when he got christened he’d be the junior. -He knowed that by heart, an’ would agree to it or -dispute it, ’cordin’ to how the notion took him, and I -sort o’ ca’culated thet he’d out with it now. But no, -sir! Not a word! He thess sot up on thet bean-arbor -an’ grinned.</p> - -<p>An’ so, feelin’ put to it, with the services suspended -over my head, I spoke up, an’ I says: “Parson,” says -I, “I reckon ef he was to speak his little heart, he’d -say Deuteronomy Jones, Junior.” An’ with thet what -does Sonny do but conterdic’ me flat! “No, not Junior! -I want to be named Deuteronomy Jones, Senior!” says -he, thess so. An’ parson, he looked to’ards me, an’ I -bowed my head an’ he pronounced thess one single name, -“Deuteronomy,” an’ I see he wasn’t goin’ to say no -more an’ so I spoke up quick, an’ says I: “Parson,” -says I, “he has spoke his heart’s desire. He has named -hisself after me entire—Deuteronomy Jones, Senior.”</p> - -<p>An’ so he was obligated to say it, an’ so it is writ -in the family record colume in the big Bible, though I -spelt his Senior with a little s, an’ writ him down ez -the only son of the Senior with the big S, which it seems -to me fixes it about right for the time bein’.</p> - -<p>Well, when the rector had got thoo an’ he had wropped -up his robes an’ put ’em in his wallet, an’ had told us -to prepare for conformation, he pernounced a blessin’ -upon us an’ went.</p> - -<p>Then Sonny seein’ it was all over, why, <i>he come down</i>. -He was wet ez a drownded rat, but wife rubbed him -off an’ give him some hot tea an’ he come a-snuggin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>’ -up in my lap, thess ez sweet a child ez you ever see in -yo’ life, an’ I talked to him ez fatherly ez I could, told -him we was all ‘Piscopals now, an’ soon ez his little -foot got well I was goin’ to take him out to Sunday-school -to tote a banner—all his little ‘Piscopal friends -totes banners—an’ thet he could pick out some purty -candles for the altar, an’ he ’lowed immejate thet he’d -buy pink ones. Sonny always was death on pink—showed -it from the time he could snatch a pink rose—an’ -wife she ain’t never dressed him in nothin’ else. -Ever’ pair o’ little breeches he’s got is either pink or -pink-trimmed.</p> - -<p>Well, I talked along to him till I worked ’round to -shamin’ him a little for havin’ to be christened settin’ -up on top a bean-arbor, same ez a crow-bird, which I -told him the parson he wouldn’t ’a’’ done ef he’d ’a’’ -felt free to ’ve left it undone. ’Twasn’t to indulge him -he done it, but to bless him an’ to comfort our hearts. -Well, after I had reasoned with him severe that-a-way -a while, he says, says he, thess ez sweet an’ mild, says he, -“Daddy, nex’ time y’all gits christened, I’ll come down -an’ be christened right—like a good boy.”</p> - -<p>Th’ ain’t a sweeter child in’ardly ‘n what Sonny is, -nowheres, git him to feel right comf’table, and I know it, -an’ that’s why I have patience with his little out’ard -ways.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir,” says he; “nex’ time I’ll be christened -like a good boy.”</p> - -<p>Then, of co’se, I explained to him thet it couldn’t -never be did no mo’, ’cause it had been did, an’ did -‘Piscopal, which is secure. An’ then what you reckon -the little feller said?</p> - -<p>Says he, “Yes, daddy, but <i>s’pos’in’ mine don’t take</i>. -How ’bout that?”</p> - -<p>An’ I didn’t try to explain no further. What was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -the use? Wife, she had drawed a stool close-t up to my -knee, an’ set there sortin’ out the little yaller rings ez -they’d dry out on his head, an’ when he said that I -thess looked at her an’ we both looked at him, an’ says -I, “Wife,” says I, “ef they’s anything in heavenly -looks an’ behavior, I b’lieve that christenin’ is started to -take on him a’ready.”</p> - -<p>An’ I b’lieve it had.</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a><br /><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">John Fox, Jr.</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">“All that is literature seeks to communicate power.”<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> -Here the power communicated is that of sympathizing -with God’s “lesser children.” The humanitarian story -is a long step in advance of the fable. It recognizes -the true relations of the animal world to man, and insists -that it be dealt with righteously and sympathetically.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[7]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">No night was this in Hades with solemn-eyed Dante, -for Satan was only a woolly little black dog, and surely -no dog was ever more absurdly misnamed. When Uncle -Carey first heard that name, he asked gravely:</p> - -<p>“Why, Dinnie, where in h——,” Uncle Carey gulped -slightly, “did you get him?” And Dinnie laughed merrily, -for she saw the fun of the question, and shook her -black curls.</p> - -<p>“He didn’t come f’um <i>that place</i>.”</p> - -<p>Distinctly Satan had not come from that place. On -the contrary, he might by a miracle have dropped -straight from some Happy Hunting-Ground, for all the -signs he gave of having touched pitch in this or another -sphere. Nothing human was ever born that was -gentler, merrier, more trusting or more lovable than -Satan. That was why Uncle Carey said again gravely -that he could hardly tell Satan and his little mistress -apart. He rarely saw them apart, and as both had black -tangled hair and bright black eyes; as one awoke every -morning with a happy smile and the other with a jolly -bark; as they played all day like wind-shaken shadows -and each won every heart at first sight—the likeness -was really rather curious. I have always believed that -Satan made the spirit of Dinnie’s house, orthodox and -severe though it was, almost kindly toward his great -namesake. I know I have never been able, since I knew -little Satan, to think old Satan as bad as I once painted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -him, though I am sure the little dog had many pretty -tricks that the “old boy” doubtless has never used in -order to amuse his friends.</p> - -<p>“Shut the door, Saty, please,” Dinnie would say, precisely -as she would say it to Uncle Billy, the butler, and -straightway Satan would launch himself at it—bang! -He never would learn to close it softly, for Satan liked -that—bang!</p> - -<p>If you kept tossing a coin or marble in the air, Satan -would keep catching it and putting it back in your -hand for another throw, till you got tired. Then he -would drop it on a piece of rag carpet, snatch the carpet -with his teeth, throw the coin across the room, and -rush for it like mad, until he got tired. If you put a -penny on his nose, he would wait until you counted, -one—two—<i>three</i>! Then he would toss it up himself -and catch it. Thus, perhaps, Satan grew to love Mammon -right well, but for another and better reason than -that he liked simply to throw it around—as shall now -be made plain.</p> - -<p>A rubber ball with a hole in it was his favorite plaything, -and he would take it in his mouth and rush around -the house like a child, squeezing it to make it whistle. -When he got a new ball, he would hide his old one -away until the new one was the worse worn of the two, -and then he would bring out the old one again. If -Dinnie gave him a nickel or a dime, when they went -down-town, Satan would rush into a store, rear up -on the counter where the rubber balls were kept, drop -the coin, and get a ball for himself. Thus, Satan learned -finance. He began to hoard his pennies, and one day -Uncle Carey found a pile of seventeen under a corner -of the carpet. Usually he carried to Dinnie all coins -that he found in the street, but he showed one day -that he was going into the ball-business for himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> -Uncle Carey had given Dinnie a nickel for some candy, -and, as usual, Satan trotted down the street behind her. -As usual, Satan stopped before the knick-knack shop.</p> - -<p>“Tum on, Saty,” said Dinnie. Satan reared against -the door as he always did, and Dinnie said again:</p> - -<p>“Tum on, Saty.” As usual, Satan dropped to his -haunches, but what was unusual, he failed to bark. -Now Dinnie had got a new ball for Satan only that -morning, so Dinnie stamped her foot.</p> - -<p>“I tell you to tum on, Saty.” Satan never moved. -He looked at Dinnie as much as to say:</p> - -<p>“I have never disobeyed you before, little mistress, -but this time I have an excellent reason for what must -seem to you very bad manners——” and being a gentleman -withal, Satan rose on his haunches and begged.</p> - -<p>“You’re des a pig, Saty,” said Dinnie, but with a -sigh for the candy that was not to be, Dinnie opened -the door, and Satan, to her wonder, rushed to the -counter, put his forepaws on it, and dropped from his -mouth a dime. Satan had found that coin on the street. -He didn’t bark for change, nor beg for two balls, but -he had got it in his woolly little head, somehow, that -in that store a coin meant a ball, though never before -nor afterward did he try to get a ball for a penny.</p> - -<p>Satan slept in Uncle Carey’s room, for of all people, -after Dinnie, Satan loved Uncle Carey best. Every day -at noon he would go to an upstairs window and watch -the cars come around the corner, until a very tall, -square-shouldered young man swung to the ground, and -down Satan would scamper—yelping—to meet him at -the gate. If Uncle Carey, after supper and when Dinnie -was in bed, started out of the house, still in his -business clothes, Satan would leap out before him, knowing -that he too might be allowed to go; but if Uncle -Carey had put on black clothes that showed a big, dazzling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -shirt-front, and picked up his high hat, Satan -would sit perfectly still and look disconsolate; for as -there were no parties or theatres for Dinnie, so there -were none for him. But no matter how late it was -when Uncle Carey came home, he always saw Satan’s -little black nose against the window-pane and heard -his bark of welcome.</p> - -<p>After intelligence, Satan’s chief trait was lovableness—nobody -ever knew him to fight, to snap at anything, -or to get angry; after lovableness, it was politeness. -If he wanted something to eat, if he wanted Dinnie -to go to bed, if he wanted to get out of the door, -he would beg—beg prettily on his haunches, his little -red tongue out and his funny little paws hanging loosely. -Indeed, it was just because Satan was so little less -than human, I suppose, that old Satan began to be afraid -he might have a soul. So the wicked old namesake with -the Hoofs and Horns laid a trap for little Satan, -and, as he is apt to do, he began laying it early—long, -indeed, before Christmas.</p> - -<p>When Dinnie started to kindergarten that autumn, -Satan found that there was one place where he could -never go. Like the lamb, he could not go to school; -so while Dinnie was away, Satan began to make friends. -He would bark, “Howdy-do?” to every dog that passed -his gate. Many stopped to rub noses with him through -the fence—even Hugo the mastiff, and nearly all, indeed, -except one strange-looking dog that appeared every -morning at precisely nine o’clock and took his stand on -the corner. There he would lie patiently until a funeral -came along, and then Satan would see him take his place -at the head of the procession; and thus he would march -out to the cemetery and back again. Nobody knew where -he came from nor where he went, and Uncle Carey called -him the “funeral dog” and said he was doubtless looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> -for his dead master. Satan even made friends with -a scrawny little yellow dog that followed an old drunkard -around—a dog that, when his master fell in the -gutter, would go and catch a policeman by the coat-tail, -lead the officer to his helpless master, and spend the night -with him in jail.</p> - -<p>By and by Satan began to slip out of the house at -night, and Uncle Billy said he reckoned Satan had -“jined de club”; and late one night, when he had -not come in, Uncle Billy told Uncle Carey that it was -“powerful slippery and he reckoned they’d better send -de kerridge after him”—an innocent remark that made -Uncle Carey send a boot after the old butler, who fled -chuckling down the stairs, and left Uncle Carey -chuckling in his room.</p> - -<p>Satan had “jined de club”—the big club—and no -dog was too lowly in Satan’s eyes for admission; for no -priest ever preached the brotherhood of man better than -Satan lived it—both with man and dog. And thus he -lived it that Christmas night—to his sorrow.</p> - -<p>Christmas Eve had been gloomy—the gloomiest of -Satan’s life. Uncle Carey had gone to a neighboring -town at noon. Satan had followed him down to the -station, and when the train started, Uncle Carey had -ordered him to go home. Satan took his time about -going home, not knowing it was Christmas Eve. He -found strange things happening to dogs that day. The -truth was, that policemen were shooting all dogs found -that were without a collar and a license, and every now -and then a bang and a howl somewhere would stop -Satan in his tracks. At a little yellow house on the -edge of town he saw half a dozen strange dogs in a -kennel, and every now and then a negro would lead -a new one up to the house and deliver him to a big -man at the door, who, in return, would drop something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> -into the negro’s hand. While Satan waited, the -old drunkard came along with his little dog at his heels, -paused before the door, looked a moment at his faithful -follower, and went slowly on. Satan little knew the -old drunkard’s temptation, for in that yellow house -kind-hearted people had offered fifteen cents for each -dog brought to them, without a license, that they might -mercifully put it to death, and fifteen cents was the -precise price for a drink of good whiskey. Just then -there was another bang and another howl somewhere, -and Satan trotted home to meet a calamity. Dinnie -was gone. Her mother had taken her out in the country -to Grandmother Dean’s to spend Christmas, as was the -family custom, and Mrs. Dean would not wait any longer -for Satan; so she told Uncle Billy to bring him out -after supper.</p> - -<p>“Ain’t you ’shamed o’ yo’self—suh—?” said the old -butler, “keeping me from ketchin’ Christmas gifts dis -day?”</p> - -<p>Uncle Billy was indignant, for the negroes begin at -four o’clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve to slip -around corners and jump from hiding-places to shout -“Christmas Gif’—Christmas Gif’”; and the one who -shouts first gets a gift. No wonder it was gloomy for -Satan—Uncle Carey, Dinnie, and all gone, and not a -soul but Uncle Billy in the big house. Every few minutes -he would trot on his little black legs upstairs and -downstairs, looking for his mistress. As dusk came on, -he would every now and then howl plaintively. After -begging his supper, and while Uncle Billy was hitching -up a horse in the stable, Satan went out in the yard -and lay with his nose between the close panels of the -fence—quite heart-broken. When he saw his old friend, -Hugo the mastiff, trotting into the gas-light, he began -to bark his delight frantically. The big mastiff stopped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> -and nosed his sympathy through the fence for a moment -and walked slowly on, Satan frisking and barking -along inside. At the gate Hugo stopped, and raising -one huge paw, playfully struck it. The gate flew open, -and with a happy yelp Satan leaped into the street. -The noble mastiff hesitated as though this were not quite -regular. He did not belong to the club, and he didn’t -know that Satan had ever been away from home after -dark in his life. For a moment he seemed to wait for -Dinnie to call him back as she always did, but this time -there was no sound, and Hugo walked majestically on, -with absurd little Satan running in a circle about him. -On the way they met the “funeral dog,” who glanced -inquiringly at Satan, shied from the mastiff, and trotted -on. On the next block the old drunkard’s yellow -cur ran across the street, and after interchanging the -compliments of the season, ran back after his staggering -master. As they approached the railroad track -a strange dog joined them, to whom Hugo paid no attention. -At the crossing another new acquaintance bounded -toward them. This one—a half-breed shepherd—was -quite friendly, and he received Satan’s advances with -affable condescension. Then another came and another, -and little Satan’s head got quite confused. They were -a queer-looking lot of curs and half-breeds from the -negro settlement at the edge of the woods, and though -Satan had little experience, his instincts told him that -all was not as it should be, and had he been human -he would have wondered very much how they had escaped -the carnage that day. Uneasy, he looked around -for Hugo; but Hugo had disappeared. Once or twice -Hugo had looked around for Satan, and Satan paying -no attention, the mastiff trotted on home in disgust. -Just then a powerful yellow cur sprang out of the darkness -over the railroad track, and Satan sprang to meet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -him, and so nearly had the life scared out of him by -the snarl and flashing fangs of the new-comer that he -hardly had the strength to shrink back behind his new -friend, the half-breed shepherd.</p> - -<p>A strange thing then happened. The other dogs -became suddenly quiet, and every eye was on the yellow -cur. He sniffed the air once or twice, gave two -or three peculiar low growls, and all those dogs except -Satan lost the civilization of centuries and went -back suddenly to the time when they were wolves and -were looking for a leader. The cur was Lobo for that -little pack, and after a short parley, he lifted his nose -high and started away without looking back, while -the other dogs silently trotted after him. With a mystified -yelp, Satan ran after them. The cur did not -take the turnpike, but jumped the fence into a field, -making his way by the rear of houses, from which now -and then another dog would slink out and silently join -the band. Every one of them Satan nosed most friendlily, -and to his great joy the funeral dog, on the edge -of town, leaped into their midst. Ten minutes later -the cur stopped in the midst of some woods, as though -he would inspect his followers. Plainly, he disapproved -of Satan, and Satan kept out of his way. Then he -sprang into the turnpike and the band trotted down -it, under flying black clouds and shifting bands of brilliant -moonlight. Once, a buggy swept past them. A -familiar odor struck Satan’s nose, and he stopped for -a moment to smell the horse’s tracks; and right he was, -too, for out at her grandmother’s Dinnie refused to be -comforted, and in that buggy was Uncle Billy going -back to town after him.</p> - -<p>Snow was falling. It was a great lark for Satan. -Once or twice, as he trotted along, he had to bark his joy -aloud, and each time the big cur gave him such a fierce<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> -growl that he feared thereafter to open his jaws. But -he was happy for all that, to be running out into the -night with such a lot of funny friends and not to know -or care where he was going. He got pretty tired presently, -for over hill and down hill they went, at that -unceasing trot, trot, trot! Satan’s tongue began to -hang out. Once he stopped to rest, but the loneliness -frightened him and he ran on after them with his heart -almost bursting. He was about to lie right down and -die, when the cur stopped, sniffed the air once or twice, -and with those same low growls, led the marauders -through a rail fence into the woods, and lay quietly -down. How Satan loved that soft, thick grass, all snowy -that it was! It was almost as good as his own bed at -home. And there they lay—how long, Satan never knew, -for he went to sleep and dreamed that he was after a -rat in the barn at home; and he yelped in his sleep, -which made the cur lift his big yellow head and show -his fangs. The moving of the half-breed shepherd and -the funeral dog waked him at last, and Satan got up. -Half crouching, the cur was leading the way toward -the dark, still woods on top of the hill, over which -the Star of Bethlehem was lowly sinking, and under -which lay a flock of the gentle creatures that seemed to -have been almost sacred to the Lord of that Star. They -were in sore need of a watchful shepherd now. Satan -was stiff and chilled, but he was rested and had had -his sleep, and he was just as ready for fun as he always -was. He didn’t understand that sneaking. Why they -didn’t all jump and race and bark as he wanted to, he -couldn’t see; but he was too polite to do otherwise than -as they did, and so he sneaked after them; and one -would have thought he knew, as well as the rest, the -hellish mission on which they were bent.</p> - -<p>Out of the woods they went, across a little branch,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -and there the big cur lay flat again in the grass. A faint -bleat came from the hill-side beyond, where Satan could -see another woods—and then another bleat, and another. -And the cur began to creep again, like a snake -in the grass; and the others crept too, and little Satan -crept, though it was all a sad mystery to him. Again -the cur lay still, but only long enough for Satan to see -curious, fat, white shapes above him—and then, with a -blood-curdling growl, the big brute dashed forward. Oh, -there was fun in them after all! Satan barked joyfully. -Those were some new playmates—those fat, white, hairy -things up there; and Satan was amazed when, with -frightened snorts, they fled in every direction. But this -was a new game, perhaps, of which he knew nothing, -and as did the rest, so did Satan. He picked out one -of the white things and fled barking after it. It was -a little fellow that he was after, but little as he was, -Satan might never have caught up, had not the sheep -got tangled in some brush. Satan danced about him -in mad glee, giving him a playful nip at his wool and -springing back to give him another nip, and then away -again. Plainly, he was not going to bite back, and when -the sheep struggled itself tired and sank down in a -heap, Satan came close and licked him, and as he was -very warm and woolly, he lay down and snuggled up -against him for a while, listening to the turmoil that -was going on around him. And as he listened, he got -frightened.</p> - -<p>If this was a new game it was certainly a very peculiar -one—the wild rush, the bleats of terror, gasps of -agony, and the fiendish growls of attack and the sounds -of ravenous gluttony. With every hair bristling, Satan -rose and sprang from the woods—and stopped with a -fierce tingling of the nerves that brought him horror -and fascination. One of the white shapes lay still before<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> -him. There was a great steaming red splotch on -the snow, and a strange odor in the air that made him -dizzy; but only for a moment. Another white shape -rushed by. A tawny streak followed, and then, in a -patch of moonlight, Satan saw the yellow cur with his -teeth fastened in the throat of his moaning playmate. -Like lightning Satan sprang at the cur, who tossed him -ten feet away and went back to his awful work. Again -Satan leaped, but just then a shout rose behind him, -and the cur leaped too as though a bolt of lightning -had crashed over him, and, no longer noticing Satan or -sheep, began to quiver with fright and slink away. Another -shout rose from another direction—another from -another.</p> - -<p>“Drive ’em into the barn-yard!” was the cry.</p> - -<p>Now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl -of death-agony, as some dog tried to break through the -encircling men, who yelled and cursed as they closed -in on the trembling brutes that slunk together and -crept on; for it is said, every sheep-killing dog knows his -fate if caught, and will make little effort to escape. -With them went Satan, through the barn-yard gate, -where they huddled in a corner—a shamed and terrified -group. A tall overseer stood at the gate.</p> - -<p>“Ten of ’em!” he said grimly.</p> - -<p>He had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy, -for there had recently been a sheep-killing raid on several -farms in that neighborhood, and for several nights -he had had a lantern hung out on the edge of the woods -to scare the dogs away; but a drunken farm-hand had -neglected his duty that Christmas Eve.</p> - -<p>“Yassuh, an’ dey’s jus’ sebenteen dead sheep out -dar,” said a negro.</p> - -<p>“Look at the little one,” said a tall boy who looked -like the overseer; and Satan knew that he spoke of him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Go back to the house, son,” said the overseer, “and -tell your mother to give you a Christmas present I got -for you yesterday.” With a glad whoop the boy dashed -away, and in a moment dashed back with a brand-new -.32 Winchester in his hand.</p> - -<p>The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on -Christmas Day. It was the hour when Satan usually -rushed upstairs to see if his little mistress was asleep. -If he were only at home now, and if he only had known -how his little mistress was weeping for him amid her -playthings and his—two new balls and a brass-studded -collar with a silver plate on which was his name, Satan -Dean; and if Dinnie could have seen him now, her heart -would have broken; for the tall boy raised his gun. -There was a jet of smoke, a sharp, clean crack, and the -funeral dog started on the right way at last toward his -dead master. Another crack, and the yellow cur leaped -from the ground and fell kicking. Another crack and -another, and with each crack a dog tumbled, until little -Satan sat on his haunches amid the writhing pack, alone. -His time was now come. As the rifle was raised, he -heard up at the big house the cries of children; the -popping of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and whistles -and loud shouts of “Christmas Gif’, Christmas Gif’!” -His little heart beat furiously. Perhaps he knew just -what he was doing; perhaps it was the accident of habit; -most likely Satan simply wanted to go home—but when -that gun rose, Satan rose too, on his haunches, his tongue -out, his black eyes steady and his funny little paws -hanging loosely—and begged! The boy lowered the gun.</p> - -<p>“Down, sir!” Satan dropped obediently, but when -the gun was lifted again, Satan rose again, and again -he begged.</p> - -<p>“Down, I tell you!” This time Satan would not -down, but sat begging for his life. The boy turned.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Papa, I can’t shoot that dog.” Perhaps Satan had -reached the stern old overseer’s heart. Perhaps he remembered -suddenly that it was Christmas. At any -rate, he said gruffly:</p> - -<p>“Well, let him go.”</p> - -<p>“Come here, sir!” Satan bounded toward the tall -boy, frisking and trustful and begged again.</p> - -<p>“Go home, sir!”</p> - -<p>Satan needed no second command. Without a sound -he fled out the barn-yard, and, as he swept under the -front gate, a little girl ran out of the front door of the -big house and dashed down the steps, shrieking:</p> - -<p>“Saty! Saty! Oh, Saty!” But Satan never heard. -On he fled, across the crisp fields, leaped the fence and -struck the road, lickety-split! for home, while Dinnie -dropped sobbing in the snow.</p> - -<p>“Hitch up a horse, quick,” said Uncle Carey, rushing -after Dinnie and taking her up in his arms. Ten -minutes later, Uncle Carey and Dinnie, both warmly -bundled up, were after flying Satan. They never caught -him until they reached the hill on the outskirts of -town, where was the kennel of the kind-hearted people -who were giving painless death to Satan’s four-footed -kind, and where they saw him stop and turn from the -road. There was divine providence in Satan’s flight for -one little dog that Christmas morning; for Uncle Carey -saw the old drunkard staggering down the road without -his little companion, and a moment later, both he and -Dinnie saw Satan nosing a little yellow cur between the -palings. Uncle Carey knew the little cur, and while Dinnie -was shrieking for Satan, he was saying under his -breath:</p> - -<p>“Well, I swear!—I swear!—I swear!” And while -the big man who came to the door was putting Satan -into Dinnie’s arms, he said sharply:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Who brought that yellow dog here?” The man -pointed to the old drunkard’s figure turning a corner -at the foot of the hill.</p> - -<p>“I thought so; I thought so. He sold him to you -for—for a drink of whiskey.”</p> - -<p>The man whistled.</p> - -<p>“Bring him out. I’ll pay his license.”</p> - -<p>So back went Satan and the little cur to Grandmother -Dean’s—and Dinnie cried when Uncle Carey told -her why he was taking the little cur along. With her -own hands she put Satan’s old collar on the little brute, -took him to the kitchen, and fed him first of all. Then -she went into the breakfast-room.</p> - -<p>“Uncle Billy,” she said severely, “didn’t I tell you -not to let Saty out?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Dinnie,” said the old butler.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t I tell you I was goin’ to whoop you if you -let Saty out?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Dinnie.”</p> - -<p>Miss Dinnie pulled forth from her Christmas treasures -a toy riding-whip and the old darky’s eyes began to -roll in mock terror.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, Uncle Billy, but I des got to whoop you -a little.”</p> - -<p>“Let Uncle Billy off, Dinnie,” said Uncle Carey, -“this is Christmas.”</p> - -<p>“All wite,” said Dinnie, and she turned to Satan.</p> - -<p>In his shining new collar and innocent as a cherub, -Satan sat on the hearth begging for his breakfast.</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>A NEST-EGG</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 mid"><span class="smcap">James Whitcomb Riley</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This is the simple character sketch in which there is -romance treated with a fine reserve. It employs the local -color so characteristic of Mr. Riley’s poems of Indiana.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">A NEST-EGG<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[8]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">But a few miles from the city here, and on the sloping -banks of the stream noted more for its plenitude of -“chubs” and “shiners” than the gamier two- and -four-pound bass for which, in season, so many credulous -anglers flock and lie in wait, stands a country residence, -so convenient to the stream, and so inviting in its pleasant -exterior and comfortable surroundings—barn, dairy, -and spring-house—that the weary, sunburnt, and disheartened -fisherman, out from the dusty town for a -day of recreation, is often wont to seek its hospitality. -The house in style of architecture is something of a departure -from the typical farmhouse, being designed -and fashioned with no regard to symmetry or proportion, -but rather, as is suggested, built to conform to the -matter-of-fact and most sensible ideas of its owner, who, -if it pleased him, would have small windows where large -ones ought to be, and vice versa, whether they balanced -properly to the eye or not. And chimneys—he would -have as many as he wanted, and no two alike, in either -height or size. And if he wanted the front of the house -turned from all possible view, as though abashed at any -chance of public scrutiny, why, that was his affair and -not the public’s; and, with like perverseness, if he chose -to thrust his kitchen under the public’s very nose, what -should the generally fagged-out, half-famished representative -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>of that dignified public do but reel in his dead -minnow, shoulder his fishing-rod, clamber over the back -fence of the old farmhouse and inquire within, or jog -back to the city, inwardly anathematizing that very particular -locality or the whole rural district in general. -That is just the way that farmhouse looked to the writer -of this sketch one week ago—so individual it seemed—so -liberal, and yet so independent. It wasn’t even -weather-boarded, but, instead, was covered smoothly with -some cement, as though the plasterers had come while -the folks were visiting, and so, unable to get at the -interior, had just plastered the outside.</p> - -<p>I am more than glad that I was hungry enough, and -weary enough, and wise enough to take the house at -its first suggestion; for, putting away my fishing-tackle -for the morning, at least, I went up the sloping bank, -crossed the dusty road, and confidently clambered over -the fence.</p> - -<p>Not even a growling dog to intimate that I was trespassing. -All was open—gracious-looking—pastoral. The -sward beneath my feet was velvet-like in elasticity, and -the scarce visible path I followed through it led promptly -to the open kitchen door. From within I heard a woman -singing some old ballad in an undertone, while at the -threshold a trim, white-spurred rooster stood poised on -one foot, curving his glossy neck and cocking his wattled -head as though to catch the meaning of the words. -I paused. It was a scene I felt restrained from breaking -in upon, nor would I, but for the sound of a strong -male voice coming around the corner of the house:</p> - -<p>“Sir. Howdy!”</p> - -<p>Turning, I saw a rough-looking but kindly featured -man of sixty-five, the evident owner of the place.</p> - -<p>I returned his salutation with some confusion and much -deference. “I must really beg your pardon for this -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>intrusion,” I began, “but I have been tiring myself -out fishing, and your home here looked so pleasant—and -I felt so thirsty—and——”</p> - -<p>“Want a drink, I reckon,” said the old man, turning -abruptly toward the kitchen door, then pausing as -suddenly, with a backward motion of his thumb—“jest -foller the path here down to the little brick—that’s the -spring—and you’ll find ’at you’ve come to the right place -fer drinkin’-worter! Hold on a minute tel I git you a -tumbler—there’re nothin’ down there but a tin.”</p> - -<p>“Then don’t trouble yourself any further,” I said, -heartily, “for I’d rather drink from a tin cup than a -goblet of pure gold.”</p> - -<p>“And so’d I,” said the old man, reflectively, turning -mechanically, and following me down the path. -“‘Druther drink out of a tin—er jest a fruit-can with -the top knocked off—er—er—er a gourd,” he added -in a zestful, reminiscent tone of voice, that so heightened -my impatient thirst that I reached the spring-house -fairly in a run.</p> - -<p>“Well-sir!” exclaimed my host, in evident delight, -as I stood dipping my nose in the second cupful of the -cool, revivifying liquid, and peering in a congratulatory -kind of way at the blurred and rubicund reflection of my -features in the bottom of the cup, “well-sir, blame-don! -ef it don’t do a feller good to see you enjoyin’ of it that-a-way! -But don’t you drink too much o’ the worter!—’cause -there’re some sweet milk over there in one o’ them -crocks, maybe; and ef you’ll jest, kindo’ keerful-like, -lift off the led of that third one, say, over there to yer -left, and dip you out a tinful er two o’ that, w’y, it’ll -do you good to drink it, and it’ll do me good to see you -at it——But hold up!—hold up!” he called, abruptly, -as, nowise loath, I bent above the vessel designated. -“Hold yer hosses fer a second! Here’s Marthy; let her -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>git it fer ye.”</p> - -<p>If I was at first surprised and confused, meeting the -master of the house, I was wholly startled and chagrined -in my present position before its mistress. But as I -arose, and stammered, in my confusion, some incoherent -apology, I was again reassured and put at greater ease -by the comprehensive and forgiving smile the woman -gave me, as I yielded her my place, and, with lifted hat, -awaited her further kindness.</p> - -<p>“I came just in time, sir,” she said, half laughingly, -as with strong, bare arms she reached across the gurgling -trough and replaced the lid that I had partially removed.—“I -came just in time, I see, to prevent father -from having you dip into the ’morning’s-milk,’ which, of -course, has scarcely a veil of cream over the face of it -as yet. But men, as you are doubtless willing to admit,” -she went on jocularly, “don’t know about these things. -You must pardon father, as much for his well-meaning -ignorance of such matters, as for this cup of cream, -which I am sure you will better relish.”</p> - -<p>She arose, still smiling, with her eyes turned frankly -on my own. And I must be excused when I confess -that as I bowed my thanks, taking the proffered cup -and lifting it to my lips, I stared with an uncommon -interest and pleasure at the donor’s face.</p> - -<p>She was a woman of certainly not less than forty years -of age. But the figure, and the rounded grace and fulness -of it, together with the features and the eyes, completed -as fine a specimen of physical and mental health -as ever it has been my fortune to meet; there was something -so full of purpose and resolve—something so wholesome, -too, about the character—something so womanly—I -might almost say manly, and would, but for the petty -prejudice maybe occasioned by the trivial fact of a -locket having dropped from her bosom as she knelt; and -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>that trinket still dangles in my memory even as it then -dangled and dropped back to its concealment in her -breast as she arose. But her face, by no means handsome -in the common meaning, was marked with a breadth -and strength of outline and expression that approached -the heroic—a face that once seen is forever fixed in -memory—a personage once met one must know more of. -And so it was, that an hour later, as I strolled with the -old man about his farm, looking, to all intents, with the -profoundest interest at his Devonshires, Shorthorns, Jerseys, -and the like, I lured from him something of an -outline of his daughter’s history.</p> - -<p>“There’re no better girl ‘n Marthy!” he said, mechanically -answering some ingenious allusion to her worth. -“And yit,” he went on reflectively, stooping from his -seat in the barn door and with his open jack-knife picking -up a little chip with the point of the blade—“and -yit—you wouldn’t believe it—but Marthy was the oldest -o’ three daughters, and hed—I may say—hed more advantages -o’ marryin’—and yit, as I was jest goin’ to say, -she’s the very one ’at didn’t marry. Hed every advantage—Marthy -did. W’y, we even hed her educated—her -mother was a-livin’ then—and we was well enough -fixed to afford the educatin’ of her, mother allus contended—and -we was—besides, it was Marthy’s notion, -too, and you know how women is thataway when they git -their head set. So we sent Marthy down to Indianop’lus, -and got her books and putt her in school there, and paid -fer her keepin’ and ever’thing; and she jest—well, you -may say, lived there stiddy fer better’n four year. O’ -course she’d git back ever’ once-an-a-while, but her visits -was allus, some-way-another, onsatisfactory-like, ’cause, -you see, Marthy was allus my favorite, and I’d allus -laughed and told her ’at the other girls could git married -if they wanted, but <i>she</i> was goin’ to be the ‘nest-egg’ -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>of our family, and ’slong as I lived I wanted her at home -with me. And she’d laugh and contend ’a’t she’d as lif -be an old maid as not, and never expected to marry, -ner didn’t want to. But she had me sceart onc’t, -though! Come out from the city one time, durin’ the -army, with a peart-lookin’ young feller in blue clothes -and gilt straps on his shoulders. Young lieutenant he -was—name o’ Morris. Was layin’ in camp there in the -city somers. I disremember which camp it was now adzackly—but -anyway, it ’peared like he had plenty o’ -time to go and come, fer from that time on he kep’ -on a-comin’—ever’ time Marthy ’ud come home, he’d -come, too; and I got to noticin’ ’a’t Marthy come home -a good ’eal more’n she used to afore Morris first brought -her. And blame ef the thing didn’t git to worryin’ me! -And onc’t I spoke to mother about it, and told her ef -I thought the feller wanted to marry Marthy I’d jest -stop his comin’ right then and there. But mother she -sorto’ smiled and said somepin’ ’bout men a-never seein’ -through nothin’; and when I ast her what she meant, -w’y, she ups and tells me ’a’t Morris didn’t keer nothin’ -fer Marthy, ner Marthy fer Morris, and then went on -to tell me that Morris was kindo’ aidgin’ up to’rds Annie—she -was next to Marthy, you know, in pint of years -and experience, but ever’body allus said ’a’t Annie was -the purtiest one o’ the whole three of ’em. And so when -mother told me ’a’t the signs pinted to’rds Annie, w’y, of -course, I hedn’t no particular objections to that, ’cause -Morris was of good fambly enough it turned out, and, -in fact, was as stirrin’ a young feller as ever I’d want -fer a son-in-law, and so I hed nothin’ more to say—ner -they wasn’t no occasion to say nothin’, ’cause right along -about then I begin to notice ’a’t Marthy quit comin’ -home so much, and Morris kep’ a-comin’ more. Tel -finally, one time he was out here all by hisself, ’long -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>about dusk, come out here where I was feedin’, and ast -me, all at onc’t, and in a straightfor’ard way, ef he -couldn’t marry Annie; and, some-way-another, blame ef -it didn’t make me as happy as him when I told him -yes! You see that thing proved, pine-blank, ’a’t he -wasn’t a-fishin’ round fer Marthy. Well-sir, as luck -would hev it, Marthy got home about a half-hour later, -and I’ll give you my word I was never so glad to see -the girl in my life! It was foolish in me, I reckon, but -when I see her drivin’ up the lane—it was purt’ nigh -dark then, but I could see her through the open winder -from where I was settin’ at the supper-table, and so I -jest quietly excused myself, p’lite-like, as a feller will, -you know, when they’s comp’ny round, and I slipped off -and met her jest as she was about to git out to open -the barn gate. ’Hold up, Marthy,’ says I; ’set right -where you air; I’ll open the gate fer you, and I’ll do -anything else fer you in the world ’a’t you want me -to!’</p> - -<p>“‘W’y, what’s pleased <i>you</i> so?’ she says, laughin’, -as she druv through slow-like and a-ticklin’ my nose with -the cracker of the buggy-whip.—’What’s pleased <i>you</i>?’</p> - -<p>“‘Guess,’ says I, jerkin’ the gate to, and turnin’ to -lift her out.</p> - -<p>“‘The new peanner’s come?’ says she, eager-like.</p> - -<p>“‘Yer new peanner’s come,’ says I; ’but that’s not -it.’</p> - -<p>“‘Strawberries fer supper?’ says she.</p> - -<p>“‘Strawberries fer supper,’ says I; ’but that ain’t -it.’</p> - -<p>“Jest then Morris’s hoss whinnied in the barn, and -she glanced up quick and smilin’ and says, ’Somebody -come to see somebody?’</p> - -<p>“‘You’re a-gittin’ warm,’ says I.</p> - -<p>“‘Somebody come to see <i>me</i>?’ she says, anxious-like.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>“‘No,’ says I, ’a’nd I’m glad of it—fer this one ’a’t’s -come wants to git married, and o’ course I wouldn’t -harber in my house no young feller ’a’t was a-layin’ round -fer a chance to steal away the “Nest-egg,’” says I, -laughin’.</p> - -<p>“Marthy had riz up in the buggy by this time, but -as I helt up my hands to her, she sorto’ drawed back -a minute, and says, all serious-like and kindo’ whisperin’:</p> - -<p>“‘Is it <i>Annie</i>?’</p> - -<p>“I nodded. ’Yes,’ says I, ’a’nd what’s more, I’ve -give my consent, and mother’s give hern—the thing’s -all settled. Come, jump out and run in and be happy -with the rest of us!’ and I helt out my hands ag’in, but -she didn’t ’pear to take no heed. She was kindo’ pale, -too, I thought, and swallered a time er two like as ef she -couldn’t speak plain.</p> - -<p>“‘Who is the man?’ she ast.</p> - -<p>“‘Who—who’s the man?’ I says, a-gittin’ kindo’ out -o’ patience with the girl.—’W’y, you know who it is, -o’ course.—It’s Morris,’ says I. ’Come, jump down! -Don’t you see I’m waitin’ fer ye?’</p> - -<p>“‘Then take me,’ she says; and blame-don! ef the girl -didn’t keel right over in my arms as limber as a rag! -Clean fainted away! Honest! Jest the excitement, I -reckon, o’ breakin’ it to her so suddent-like—’cause she -liked Annie, I’ve sometimes thought, better’n even she -did her own mother. Didn’t go half so hard with -her when her other sister married. Yes-sir!” said -the old man, by way of sweeping conclusion, as he rose -to his feet—“Marthy’s the on’y one of ’em ’a’t never -married—both the others is gone—Morris went all -through the army and got back safe and sound—’s livin’ -in Idyho, and doin’ fust-rate. Sends me a letter ever’ -now and then. Got three little chunks o’ grandchildren -out there, and I’ never laid eyes on one of ’em. You -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>see, I’m a-gittin’ to be quite a middle-aged man—in fact, -a very middle-aged man, you might say. Sence mother -died, which has be’n—lem-me-see—mother’s be’n dead -somers in the neighborhood o’ ten year.—Sence mother -died I’ve be’n a-gittin’ more and more o’ <i>Marthy’s</i> notion—that -is,—you couldn’t ever hire <i>me</i> to marry -nobody! and them has allus be’n and still is the ’Nest-egg’s’ -views! Listen! That’s her a-callin’ fer us now. -You must sorto’ overlook the freedom, but I told Marthy -you’d promised to take dinner with us to-day, and it -’ud never do to disappint her now. Come on.” And, -ah! it would have made the soul of you either rapturously -glad or madly envious to see how meekly I consented.</p> - -<p>I am always thinking that I never tasted coffee till -that day; I am always thinking of the crisp and steaming -rolls, ored over with the molten gold that hinted -of the clover-fields, and the bees that had not yet permitted -the honey of the bloom and the white blood of -the stalk to be divorced; I am always thinking that the -young and tender pullet we happy three discussed was -a near and dear relative of the gay patrician rooster that -I first caught peering so inquisitively in at the kitchen -door; and I am always—always thinking of “The Nest-egg.”</p> - -</div> - -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -<hr class="chap" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">WEE WILLIE WINKIE</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Rudyard Kipling</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p> - -<p>As the sub-title, “An Officer and a Gentleman,” indicates, -this is a story of character. Mr. Kipling, like -Robert Louis Stevenson, James Whitcomb Riley, and -Eugene Field, has carried into his maturity an imperishable -youth of spirit which makes him an interpreter -of children. Here he has shown what our Anglo-Saxon -ideals—honor, obedience, and reverence for woman—mean -to a little child.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">WEE WILLIE WINKIE<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[9]</span></a></p> - -<p class="pc2 reduct">“An officer and a gentleman.”</p> - -<p class="p2">His full name was Percival William Williams, but he -picked up the other name in a nursery-book, and that -was the end of the christened titles. His mother’s <i>ayah</i> -called him Willie-<i>Baba</i>, but as he never paid the faintest -attention to anything that the <i>ayah</i> said, her wisdom -did not help matters.</p> - -<p>His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon -as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to understand -what Military Discipline meant, Colonel Williams put -him under it. There was no other way of managing -the child. When he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct -pay; and when he was bad, he was deprived of -his good-conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for India -offers many chances of going wrong to little six-year-olds.</p> - -<p>Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee -Willie Winkie was a very particular child. Once he -accepted an acquaintance, he was graciously pleased to -thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, on -sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel’s, and -Wee Willie Winkie entered strong in the possession of -a good-conduct badge won for not chasing the hens -round the compound. He regarded Brandis with gravity -for at least ten minutes, and then delivered himself of -his opinion.</p> - -<p>“I like you,” said he slowly, getting off his chair and -coming over to Brandis. “I like you. I shall call you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -Coppy, because of your hair. Do you <i>mind</i> being called -Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you know.”</p> - -<p>Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie -Winkie’s peculiarities. He would look at a stranger -for some time, and then, without warning or explanation, -would give him a name. And the name stuck. No -regimental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie -of this habit. He lost his good-conduct badge for christening -the Commissioner’s wife “Pobs”; but nothing -that the Colonel could do made the Station forego the -nickname, and Mrs. Collen remained “Pobs” till the -end of her stay. So Brandis was christened “Coppy,” -and rose, therefore, in the estimation of the regiment.</p> - -<p>If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the -fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and the rank -and file. And in their envy lay no suspicion of self-interest. -“The Colonel’s son” was idolized on his own -merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. -His face was permanently freckled, as his legs were permanently -scratched, and in spite of his mother’s almost -tearful remonstrances he had insisted upon having his -long yellow locks cut short in the military fashion. “I -want my hair like Sergeant Tummil’s,” said Wee Willie -Winkie, and, his father abetting, the sacrifice was -accomplished.</p> - -<p>Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affections -on Lieutenant Brandis—henceforward to be called -“Coppy” for the sake of brevity—Wee Willie Winkie -was destined to behold strange things and far beyond -his comprehension.</p> - -<p>Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had -let him wear for five rapturous minutes his own big -sword—just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie. Coppy had -promised him a terrier puppy, and Coppy had permitted -him to witness the miraculous operation of shaving.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -Nay, more—Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie -Winkie, would rise in time to the ownership of a box -of shiny knives, a silver soap-box, and a silver-handled -“sputter-brush,” as Wee Willie Winkie called it. Decidedly, -there was no one except his own father, who -could give or take away good-conduct badges at pleasure, -half so wise, strong, and valiant as Coppy with -the Afghan and Egyptian medals on his breast. Why, -then, should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly weakness -of kissing—vehemently kissing—a “big girl,” Miss -Allardyce to wit? In the course of a morning ride Wee -Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, and, like the -gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and cantered -back to his groom, lest the groom should also see.</p> - -<p>Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken -to his father, but he felt instinctively that this was a -matter on which Coppy ought first to be consulted.</p> - -<p>“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up -outside that subaltern’s bungalow early one morning—“I -want to see you, Coppy!”</p> - -<p>“Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, who was -at early breakfast in the midst of his dogs. “What mischief -have you been getting into now?”</p> - -<p>Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad -for three days, and so stood on a pinnacle of virtue.</p> - -<p>“<i>I’ve</i> been doing nothing bad,” said he, curling himself -into a long chair with a studious affectation of the -Colonel’s languor after a hot parade. He buried his -freckled nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring roundly -over the rim, asked: “I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss -big girls?”</p> - -<p>“By Jove! You’re beginning early. Who do you -want to kiss?”</p> - -<p>“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me if I don’t -stop her. If it isn’t pwoper, how was you kissing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -Major Allardyce’s big girl last morning, by ve -canal?”</p> - -<p>Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had -with great craft managed to keep their engagement secret -for a fortnight. There were urgent and imperative reasons -why Major Allardyce should not know how matters -stood for at least another month, and this small marplot -had discovered a great deal too much.</p> - -<p>“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie calmly. “But -ve <i>sais</i> didn’t see. I said, ’<i>Hut jao!</i>’”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip,” -groaned poor Coppy, half amused and half angry. -“And how many people may you have told about -it?”</p> - -<p>“Only me myself. You didn’t tell when I twied to -wide ve buffalo ven my pony was lame; and I fought -you wouldn’t like.”</p> - -<p>“Winkie,” said Coppy enthusiastically, shaking the -small hand, “you’re the best of good fellows. Look -here, you can’t understand all these things. One of these -days—hang it, how can I make you see it!—I’m going -to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she’ll be Mrs. Coppy, -as you say. If your young mind is so scandalized at -the idea of kissing big girls, go and tell your father.”</p> - -<p>“What will happen?” said Wee Willie Winkie, who -firmly believed that his father was omnipotent.</p> - -<p>“I shall get into trouble,” said Coppy, playing his -trump card with an appealing look at the holder of the -ace.</p> - -<p>“Ven I won’t,” said Wee Willie Winkie briefly. -“But my faver says it’s un-man-ly to be always kissing, -and I didn’t fink <i>you’d</i> do vat, Coppy.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not always kissing, old chap. It’s only now -and then, and when you’re bigger you’ll do it too. -Your father meant it’s not good for little boys.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened. -“It’s like ve sputter-brush?”</p> - -<p>“Exactly,” said Coppy gravely.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t fink I’ll ever want to kiss big girls, nor -no one, ’cept my muvver. And I <i>must</i> do vat, you -know.”</p> - -<p>There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie -Winkie.</p> - -<p>“Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?”</p> - -<p>“Awfully!” said Coppy.</p> - -<p>“Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha—or me?”</p> - -<p>“It’s in a different way,” said Coppy. “You see, -one of these days Miss Allerdyce will belong to me, -but you’ll grow up and command the Regiment and—all -sorts of things. It’s quite different, you see.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. “If -you’re fond of ve big girl, I won’t tell any one. I must -go now.”</p> - -<p>Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, -adding—“You’re the best of little fellows, Winkie. I -tell you what. In thirty days from now you can tell if -you like—tell any one you like.”</p> - -<p>Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engagement -was dependent on a little child’s word. Coppy, who -knew Wee Willie Winkie’s idea of truth, was at ease, -for he felt that he would not break promises. Wee -Willie Winkie betrayed a special and unusual interest -in Miss Allardyce, and, slowly revolving round that embarrassed -young lady, was used to regard her gravely -with unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why -Coppy should have kissed her. She was not half so -nice as his own mother. On the other hand, she was -Coppy’s property, and would in time belong to him. -Therefore it behooved him to treat her with as much -respect as Coppy’s big sword or shiny pistol.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> - -<p>The idea that he shared a great secret in common -with Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie unusually virtuous -for three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke out, and -he made what he called a “camp-fire” at the bottom of -the garden. How could he have foreseen that the flying -sparks would have lighted the Colonel’s little hay-rick -and consumed a week’s store for the horses? Sudden -and swift was the punishment—deprivation of the good-conduct -badge and, most sorrowful of all, two days’ -confinement to barracks—the house and veranda—coupled -with the withdrawal of the light of his father’s -countenance.</p> - -<p>He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, -drew himself up with a quivering under-lip, saluted, -and, once clear of the room, ran to weep bitterly in his -nursery—called by him “my quarters.” Coppy came -in the afternoon and attempted to console the culprit.</p> - -<p>“I’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie Winkie mournfully, -“and I didn’t ought to speak to you.”</p> - -<p>Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof -of the house—that was not forbidden—and beheld Miss -Allardyce going for a ride.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going?” cried Wee Willie Winkie.</p> - -<p>“Across the river,” she answered, and trotted forward.</p> - -<p>Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was -bounded on the north by a river—dry in the winter. -From his earliest years, Wee Willie Winkie had been -forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that -even Coppy—the almost almighty Coppy—had never set -foot beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had once been read -to, out of a big blue book, the history of the Princess -and the Goblins—a most wonderful tale of a land where -the Goblins were always warring with the children of -men until they were defeated by one Curdie. Ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -since that date it seemed to him that the bare black and -purple hills across the river were inhabited by Goblins, -and, in truth, every one had said that there lived the -Bad Men. Even in his own house the lower halves of -the windows were covered with green paper on account -of the Bad Men who might, if allowed clear view, fire -into peaceful drawing-rooms and comfortable bedrooms. -Certainly, beyond the river, which was the end of all -the Earth, lived the Bad Men. And here was Major -Allardyce’s big girl, Coppy’s property, preparing to -venture into their borders! What would Coppy say if -anything happened to her? If the Goblins ran off with -her as they did with Curdie’s Princess? She must at -all hazards be turned back.</p> - -<p>The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected -for a moment on the very terrible wrath of his father; -and then—broke his arrest! It was a crime unspeakable. -The low sun threw his shadow, very large and -very black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went down -to the stables and ordered his pony. It seemed to him -in the hush of the dawn that all the big world had -been bidden to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie -guilty of mutiny. The drowsy <i>sais</i> gave him his mount, -and, since the one great sin made all others insignificant, -Wee Willie Winkie said that he was going to ride over -to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a foot-pace, stepping -on the soft mould of the flower-borders.</p> - -<p>The devastating track of the pony’s feet was the last -misdeed that cut him off from all sympathy of Humanity. -He turned into the road, leaned forward, and rode -at fast as the pony could put foot to the ground in the -direction of the river.</p> - -<p>But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little -against the long canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was -far ahead, had passed through the crops, beyond the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -Police-posts, when all the guards were asleep, and her -mount was scattering the pebbles of the river-bed as Wee -Willie Winkie left the cantonment and British India -behind him. Bowed forward and still flogging, Wee -Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could -just see Miss Allardyce a black speck flickering across -the stony plain. The reason of her wandering was -simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of too-hastily-assumed -authority, had told her over night that she must not -ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her -own spirit and teach Coppy a lesson.</p> - -<p>Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee -Willie Winkie saw the Waler blunder and come down -heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, but her ankle -had been severely twisted, and she could not stand. -Having fully shown her spirit, she wept, and was surprised -by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in -khaki, on a nearly spent pony.</p> - -<p>“Are you badly, badly hurted?” shouted Wee Willie -Winkie, as soon as he was within range. “You didn’t -ought to be here.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce ruefully, ignoring -the reproof. “Good gracious, child, what are <i>you</i> -doing here?”</p> - -<p>“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,” panted -Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself off his pony. -“And nobody—not even Coppy—must go acwoss ve -wiver, and I came after you ever so hard, but you -wouldn’t stop, and now you’ve hurted yourself, and -Coppy will be angwy wiv me, and—I’ve bwoken my -awwest! I’ve bwoken my awwest!”</p> - -<p>The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. -In spite of the pain in her ankle, the girl was moved.</p> - -<p>“Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, -little man? What for?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p> - -<p>“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!” -wailed Wee Willie Winkie disconsolately. “I saw him -kissing you, and he said he was fonder of you van Bell -or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must get up -and come back. You didn’t ought to be here. Vis is -a bad place, and I’ve bwoken my awwest.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, with a -groan. “I’ve hurt my foot. What shall I do?”</p> - -<p>She showed a readiness to weep anew, which steadied -Wee Willie Winkie, who had been brought up to believe -that tears were the depth of unmanliness. Still, when -one is as great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie, even a -man may be permitted to break down.</p> - -<p>“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when you’ve rested -a little, ride back and tell them to send out something -to carry me back in. It hurts fearfully.”</p> - -<p>The child sat still for a little time, and Miss Allardyce -closed her eyes; the pain was nearly making her -faint. She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie tying up -the reins on his pony’s neck and setting it free with -a vicious cut of his whip that made it whicker. The -little animal headed towards the cantonments.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Vere’s a man -coming—one of ve Bad Men. I must stay wiv you. -My faver says a man must <i>always</i> look after a girl. -Jack will go home, and ven vey’ll come and look for us. -Vat’s why I let him go.”</p> - -<p>Not one man, but two or three, had appeared from -behind the rocks of the hills, and the heart of Wee -Willie Winkie sank within him, for just in this manner -were the Goblins wont to steal out and vex Curdie’s -soul. Thus had they played in Curdie’s garden (he -had seen the picture), and thus had they frightened the -Princess’s nurse. He heard them talking to each other,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> -and recognized with joy the bastard Pushto that he had -picked up from one of his father’s grooms lately dismissed. -People who spoke that tongue could not be the -Bad Men. They were only natives, after all.</p> - -<p>They came up to the boulders on which Miss Allardyce’s -horse had blundered.</p> - -<p>Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child -of the Dominant Race, aged six and three-quarters, and -said briefly and emphatically, “<i>Jao!</i>” The pony had -crossed the river-bed.</p> - -<p>The man laughed, and laughter from natives was the -one thing Wee Willie Winkie could not tolerate. He -asked them what they wanted and why they did not -depart. Other men with most evil faces and crooked-stocked -guns crept out of the shadows of the hills, till, -soon, Wee Willie Winkie was face to face with an audience -some twenty strong. Miss Allardyce screamed.</p> - -<p>“Who are you?” said one of the men.</p> - -<p>“I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order is that -you go at once. You black men are frightening the -Miss Sahib. One of you must run into cantonments -and take the news that the Miss Sahib has hurt herself, -and that the Colonel’s son is here with her.”</p> - -<p>“Put our feet into the trap?” was the laughing -reply. “Hear this boy’s speech!”</p> - -<p>“Say that I sent you—I, the Colonel’s son. They -will give you money.”</p> - -<p>“What is the use of this talk? Take up the child -and the girl, and we can at least ask for the ransom. -Ours are the villages on the heights,” said a voice in -the background.</p> - -<p>These <i>were</i> the Bad Men—worse than Goblins—and it -needed all Wee Willie Winkie’s training to prevent him -from bursting into tears. But he felt that to cry before -a native, excepting only his mother’s <i>ayah</i>, would be an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> -infamy greater than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as -future Colonel of the 195th, had that grim regiment -at his back.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to carry us away?” said Wee Willie -Winkie, very blanched and uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur,” said the tallest of -the men, “and eat you afterwards.”</p> - -<p>“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Winkie. -“Men do not eat men.”</p> - -<p>A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on -firmly—“And if you do carry us away, I tell you that -all my regiment will come up in a day and kill you all -without leaving one. Who will take my message to -the Colonel Sahib?”</p> - -<p>Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie Winkie -had a colloquial acquaintance with three—was easy to -the boy who could not yet manage his “r’s” and -“th’s” aright.</p> - -<p>Another man joined the conference, crying, “O -foolish men! What this babe says is true. He is -the heart’s heart of those white troops. For the sake -of peace let them go both, for if he be taken, the regiment -will break loose and gut the valley. <i>Our</i> villages -are in the valley, and we shall not escape. That regiment -are devils. They broke Khoda Yar’s breastbone -with kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and if we -touch this child they will fire and rape and plunder for -a month till nothing remains. Better to send a man -back to take the message and get a reward. I say that -this child is their God, and that they will spare none -of us, nor our women, if we harm him.”</p> - -<p>It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the -Colonel, who made the diversion, and an angry and -heated discussion followed. Wee Willie Winkie, standing -over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -“wegiment,” his own “wegiment,” would not desert -him if they knew of his extremity.</p> - -<table id="t02" summary="t02"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, -though there had been consternation in the Colonel’s -household for an hour before. The little beast came in -through the parade-ground in front of the main barracks, -where the men were settling down to play Spoilfive -till the afternoon. Devlin, the Color-Sergeant of E -Company, glanced at the empty saddle and tumbled -through the barrack-rooms, kicking up each Room Corporal -as he passed. “Up, ye beggars! There’s something -happened to the Colonel’s son,” he shouted.</p> - -<p>“He couldn’t fall off! S’help me, ’e <i>couldn’t</i> fall -off,” blubbered a drummer-boy. “Go an’ hunt acrost -the river. He’s over there if he’s anywhere, an’ maybe -those Pathans have got ’im. For the love o’ Gawd don’t -look for ’im in the nullahs! Let’s go over the river.”</p> - -<p>“There’s sense in Mott yet,” said Devlin. “E Company, -double out to the river—sharp!”</p> - -<p>So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled -for the dear life, and in the rear toiled the perspiring -Sergeant, adjuring it to double yet faster. The cantonment -was alive with the men of the 195th hunting for -Wee Willie Winkie, and the Colonel finally overtook E -Company, far too exhausted to swear, struggling in the -pebbles of the river-bed.</p> - -<p>Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s Bad -Men were discussing the wisdom of carrying off the -child and the girl, a lookout fired two shots.</p> - -<p>“What have I said?” shouted Din Mahommed. -“There is the warning! The <i>pulton</i> are out already -and are coming across the plain! Get away! Let us -not be seen with the boy!”</p> - -<p>The men waited for an instant, and then, as another<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -shot was fired, withdrew into the hills, silently as they -had appeared.</p> - -<p>“The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Willie Winkie -confidently to Miss Allardyce, “and it’s all wight. -Don’t cwy!”</p> - -<p>He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes later, -when his father came up, he was weeping bitterly with -his head in Miss Allardyce’s lap.</p> - -<p>And the men of the 195th carried him home with -shouts and rejoicings; and Coppy, who had ridden a -horse into a lather, met him, and, to his intense disgust, -kissed him openly in the presence of the men.</p> - -<p>But there was balm for his dignity. His father assured -him that not only would the breaking of arrest -be condoned, but that the good-conduct badge would be -restored as soon as his mother could sew it on his blouse-sleeve. -Miss Allardyce had told the Colonel a story -that made him proud of his son.</p> - -<p>“She belonged to you, Coppy,” said Wee Willie -Winkie, indicating Miss Allardyce with a grimy forefinger. -“I <i>knew</i> she didn’t ought to go acwoss ve wiver, -and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if I sent -Jack home.”</p> - -<p>“You’re a hero, Winkie,” said Coppy—“a <i>pukka</i> -hero!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what vat means,” said Wee Willie -Winkie, “but you mustn’t call me Winkie any no more. -I’m Percival Will’am Will’ams.”</p> - -<p>And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into -his manhood.</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">THE GOLD BUG</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Edgar Allan Poe</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">Poe was the first American short-story writer. Others -had written stories that were short, but he was the first -to recognize the short-story as having a form and an -aim all its own. Moreover, he was willing to admit the -public to his laboratory and to explain his process, for -he discounted inspiration and emphasized craftsmanship. -In “The Philosophy of Composition” he declares -that every plot “must be elaborated to its -dénouement before anything is attempted with the pen. -It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that -we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, -or causation, by making the incidents and especially the -tone, at all points, tend to the development of the intention.” -He also tells us that he prefers beginning -with an effect. Having chosen, in the first place, an -effect that is both novel and vivid, he decides “whether -it can be best wrought by incident or tone,” and afterward -looks about “for such combinations of events, or -tone, as shall best aid ... in the construction of the -effect.”</p> - -<p>In view of such explanations, it is interesting to study -“The Gold Bug” and to see how well the plot has been -worked out and the tone established. It is doubtful -whether in this story the plot meant to the writer what it -means to the reader. The latter likes the adventure with -its ingeniously fitted parts, each so necessary to the -whole. But after the gold has been found—and that -is the point of greatest interest—the story goes on and -on to explain the cryptogram. This, no doubt, was to -Poe the most interesting thing about the story, the tracing -of the steps by which the scrap of parchment was -deciphered and reasoned upon and made to yield up its -secret. As to the time and place, the strange conduct -and character of Legrand, the fears and superstitions -of Jupiter, and the puzzled solicitude of the narrator—all -these aid materially in establishing and maintaining -the tone.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">THE GOLD BUG<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[10]</span></a></p> - -<p class="ppq6 p2"> -“What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!<br /> -He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.”</p> -<p class="pr4">—<i>All in the Wrong.</i></p> - - -<p class="p2">Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. -William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot -family, and had once been wealthy; but a series of -misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the -mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New -Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his -residence at Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, South -Carolina.</p> - -<p>This island is a very singular one. It consists of -little else than the sea sand, and is about three miles -long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of a -mile. It is separated from the mainland by a scarcely -perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness -of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen. -The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at -least dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be -seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort Moultrie -stands, and where are some miserable frame buildings, -tenanted during summer by the fugitives from Charleston -dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly -palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of -this western point, and a line of hard white beach on -the seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of -the sweet myrtle, so much prized by the horticulturists<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -of England. The shrub here often attains the height -of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable -coppice, burdening the air with its fragrance.</p> - -<p>In the utmost recesses of this coppice, not far from -the eastern or more remote end of the island, Legrand -had built himself a small hut, which he occupied when -I first, by mere accident, made his acquaintance. This -soon ripened into friendship—for there was much in -the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him -well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected -with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods -of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with -him many books, but rarely employed them. His chief -amusements were gunning and fishing, or sauntering -along the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of -shells or entomological specimens;—his collection of the -latter might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In -these excursions he was usually accompanied by an old -negro, called Jupiter, who had been manumitted before -the reverses of the family, but who could be induced, -neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon what -he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps -of his young “Massa Will.” It is not improbable that -the relatives of Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat -unsettled in intellect, had contrived to instil this obstinacy -into Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and -guardianship of the wanderer.</p> - -<p>The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are -seldom very severe, and in the fall of the year it is a -rare event indeed when a fire is considered necessary. -About the middle of October, 18—, there occurred, however, -a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset -I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut -of my friend, whom I had not visited for several weeks—my -residence being at that time in Charleston, a distance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -of nine miles from the island, while the facilities -of passage and re-passage were very far behind those -of the present day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, -as was my custom, and, getting no reply, sought for -the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked the door -and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth. -It was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. -I threw off an overcoat, took an armchair by the crackling -logs, and awaited patiently the arrival of my hosts.</p> - -<p>Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most -cordial welcome. Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, -bustled about to prepare some marsh-hens for supper. -Legrand was in one of his fits—how else shall I term -them?—of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown bivalve, -forming a new genus, and, more than this, he -had hunted down and secured, with Jupiter’s assistance, -a <i>scarabæus</i> which he believed to be totally new, but in -respect to which he wished to have my opinion on the -morrow.</p> - -<p>“And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands -over the blaze, and wishing the whole tribe of <i>scarabæi</i> -at the devil.</p> - -<p>“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said -Legrand, “but it’s so long since I saw you; and how -could I foresee that you would pay me a visit this -very night of all others? As I was coming home I met -Lieutenant G——, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I -lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to -see it until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I -will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest -thing in creation!”</p> - -<p>“What?—sunrise?”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense! no!—the bug. It is of a brilliant gold -color—about the size of a large hickory-nut—with two -jet black spots near one extremity of the back, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -another, somewhat longer, at the other. The <i>antennæ</i> -are——“</p> - -<p>“Dey aint <i>no</i> tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a-tellin’ -on you,” here interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole-bug, -solid, ebery bit of him, inside and all, sep him -wing—neber feel half so hebby a bug in my life.”</p> - -<p>“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat -more earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case -demanded, “is that any reason for your letting the -birds burn? The color”—here he turned to me—“is -really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You -never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales -emit—but of this you cannot judge till to-morrow. In -the mean time I can give you some idea of the shape.” -Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which -were a pen and ink, but no paper. He looked for some -in a drawer, but found none.</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” said he at length, “this will answer;” -and he drew from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I -took to be very dirty foolscap, and made upon it a -rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I retained -my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When -the design was complete, he handed it to me without -rising. As I received it, a low growl was heard, succeeded -by a scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, -and a large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed -in, leaped upon my shoulders, and loaded me with -caresses; for I had shown him much attention during -previous visits. When his gambols were over, I looked -at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not -a little puzzled at what my friend had depicted.</p> - -<p>“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some -minutes, “this <i>is</i> a strange <i>scarabæus</i>, I must confess; -new to me: never saw anything like it before—unless -it was a skull, or a death’s-head, which it more nearly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -resembles than anything else that has come under <i>my</i> -observation.”</p> - -<p>“A death’s-head!” echoed Legrand—“Oh—yes—well, -it has something of that appearance upon paper, -no doubt. The two upper black spots look like eyes, eh? -and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth—and then -the shape of the whole is oval.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps so,” said I; “but, Legrand, I fear you -are no artist. I must wait until I see the beetle itself, -if I am to form any idea of its personal appearance.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t know,” said he, a little nettled, “I -draw tolerably—<i>should</i> do it at least—have had good -masters, and flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead.”</p> - -<p>“But, my dear fellow, you are joking then,” said I, -“this is a very passable <i>skull</i>,—indeed, I may say that -it is a very <i>excellent</i> skull, according to the vulgar -notions about such specimens of physiology—and your -<i>scarabæus</i> must be the queerest <i>scarabæus</i> in the world -if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a very thrilling -bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you -will call the bug <i>scarabæus caput hominis</i>, or something -of that kind—there are many similar titles in the -Natural Histories. But where are the <i>antennæ</i> you -spoke of?”</p> - -<p>“The <i>antennæ</i>!” said Legrand, who seemed to be -getting unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am -sure you must see the <i>antennæ</i>. I made them as distinct -as they are in the original insect, and I presume -that is sufficient.”</p> - -<p>“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—still I -don’t see them;” and I handed him the paper without -additional remark, not wishing to ruffle his temper; -but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; -his ill humor puzzled me—and, as for the drawing of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> -the beetle, there were positively <i>no antennæ</i> visible, and -the whole <i>did</i> bear a very close resemblance to the ordinary -cuts of a death’s-head.</p> - -<p>He received the paper very peevishly, and was about -to crumple it, apparently to throw it in the fire, when a -casual glance at the design seemed suddenly to rivet -his attention. In an instant his face grew violently red—in -another as excessively pale. For some minutes he -continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he -sat. At length he arose, took a candle from the table, -and proceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the -farthest corner of the room. Here again he made an -anxious examination of the paper; turning it in all -directions. He said nothing, however, and his conduct -greatly astonished me; yet I thought it prudent not -to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by -any comment. Presently he took from his coat pocket -a wallet, placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited -both in a writing-desk, which he locked. He now grew -more composed in his demeanor; but his original air -of enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed -not so much sulky as abstracted. As the evening wore -away he became more and more absorbed in revery, -from which no sallies of mine could arouse him. It had -been my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I -had frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this -mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He did not -press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand -with even more than his usual cordiality.</p> - -<p>It was about a month after this (and during the -interval I had seen nothing of Legrand) when I received -a visit, at Charleston, from his man, Jupiter. I -had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited, and -I feared that some serious disaster had befallen my -friend.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—how -is your master?”</p> - -<p>“Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry -well as mought be.”</p> - -<p>“Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does -he complain of?”</p> - -<p>“Dar! dat’s it!—him neber plain of notin—but him -berry sick for all dat.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Very</i> sick, Jupiter!—why didn’t you say so at once? -Is he confined to bed?”</p> - -<p>“No, dat he aint!—he aint find nowhar—dat’s just -whar de shoe pinch—my mind is got to be berry hebby -bout poor Massa Will.”</p> - -<p>“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you -are talking about. You say your master is sick. Hasn’t -he told you what ails him?”</p> - -<p>“Why, massa, taint worf while for to git mad bout -de matter—Massa Will say noffin at all aint de matter -wid him—but den what make him go about looking dis -here way, wid he head down and he soldiers up, and as -white as a gose? And den he keep a syphon all de -time——”</p> - -<p>“Keeps a what, Jupiter?”</p> - -<p>“Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate—de -queerest figgurs I ebber did see. Ise gittin to be skeered, -I tell you. Hab for to keep mighty tight eye pon him -noovers. Todder day he gib me slip fore de sun up -and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a big -stick ready cut for to gib him d——d good beating when -he did come—but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn’t de heart -arter all—he look so berry poorly.”</p> - -<p>“Eh?—what?—ah yes!—upon the whole I think you -had better not be too severe with the poor fellow—don’t -flog him, Jupiter—he can’t very well stand it—but can -you form no idea of what has occasioned this illness, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> -rather this change of conduct? Has anything unpleasant -happened since I saw you?”</p> - -<p>“No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant <i>since</i> den—’twas -<i>fore</i> den I’m feared—’twas de berry day you -was dare.”</p> - -<p>“How? what do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Why, massa, I mean de bug—dare now.”</p> - -<p>“The what?”</p> - -<p>“De bug—I’m berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit -somewhere bout de head by dat goole-bug.”</p> - -<p>“And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?”</p> - -<p>“Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did -see sich a d——d bug—he kick and he bite ebery ting -what cum near him. Massa Will cotch him fuss, but -had for to let him go gin mighty quick, I tell you—den -was de time he must ha got de bite. I didn’t like -de look ob de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I wouldn’t -take hold ob him wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a -piece ob paper dat I found. I rap him up in de paper -and stuff piece ob it in he mouff—dat was de way.”</p> - -<p>“And you think, then, that your master was really -bitten by the beetle, and that the bite made him sick?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t tink noffin about it—I nose it. What -make him dream bout de goole so much, if taint cause -he bit by de goole-bug? Ise heerd bout dem goole-bugs -fore dis.”</p> - -<p>“But how do you know he dreams about gold?”</p> - -<p>“How I know? why cause he talk about it in he -sleep—dat’s how I nose.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what -fortunate circumstance am I to attribute the honor of a -visit from you to-day?”</p> - -<p>“What de matter, massa?”</p> - -<p>“Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p> - -<p>“No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;” and here -Jupiter handed me a note which ran thus:</p> - -<div class="pbq"> - -<p class="p1">“<span class="smcap">My dear</span>——, Why have I not seen you for so long a time? -I hope you have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little -<i>brusquerie</i> of mine; but no, that is improbable.</p> - -<p>“Since I saw you I have had great cause for anxiety. I have -something to tell you, yet scarcely know how to tell it, or whether -I should tell it at all.</p> - -<p>“I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old -Jup annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions. -Would you believe it?—he had prepared a huge stick, -the other day, with which to chastise me for giving him the slip, -and spending the day, <i>solus</i>, among the hills on the mainland. I -verily believe that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging.</p> - -<p>“I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.</p> - -<p>“If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with -Jupiter. <i>Do</i> come. I wish to see you <i>to-night</i>, upon business of -importance. I assure you that it is of the <i>highest</i> importance.</p> - -<p class="pr8">“Ever yours,</p> -<p class="pr2">“<span class="smcap">William Legrand</span>.”</p></div> - -<p class="p1">There was something in the tone of this note which -gave me great uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially -from that of Legrand. What could he be dreaming -of? What new crotchet possessed his excitable -brain? What “business of the highest importance” -could <i>he</i> possibly have to transact? Jupiter’s account -of him boded no good. I dreaded lest the continued -pressure of misfortune had, at length, fairly unsettled -the reason of my friend. Without a moment’s hesitation, -therefore, I prepared to accompany the negro.</p> - -<p>Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and -three spades, all apparently new, lying in the bottom -of the boat in which we were to embark.</p> - -<p>“What is the meaning of all this, Jup?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“Him syfe, massa, and spade.”</p> - -<p>“Very true; but what are they doing here?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon -my buying for him in de town, and de debbil’s own lot -of money I had to gib for ’em.”</p> - -<p>“But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is -your ’Massa Will’ going to do with scythes and -spades?”</p> - -<p>“Dat’s more dan <i>I</i> know, and debbil take me if I -don’t blieve ’tis more dan he know, too. But it’s all -cum ob de bug.”</p> - -<p>Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of -Jupiter, whose whole intellect seemed to be absorbed by -“de bug,” I now stepped into the boat and made sail. -With a fair and strong breeze we soon ran into the -little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and a walk -of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about -three in the afternoon when we arrived. Legrand had -been awaiting us in eager expectation. He grasped my -hand with a nervous <i>empressement</i>, which alarmed me -and strengthened the suspicions already entertained. -His countenance was pale even to ghastliness, and his -deep-set eyes glared with unnatural lustre. After some -inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not knowing -what better to say, if he had yet obtained the -<i>scarabæus</i> from Lieutenant G——.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it -from him the next morning. Nothing should tempt me -to part with that <i>scarabæus</i>. Do you know that Jupiter -is quite right about it?”</p> - -<p>“In what way?” I asked, with a sad foreboding at -heart.</p> - -<p>“In supposing it to be a bug of <i>real gold</i>.” He said -this with an air of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly -shocked.</p> - -<p>“This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, -with a triumphant smile, “to reinstate me in my family<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -possessions. Is it any wonder, then, that I prize it? -Since Fortune has thought fit to bestow it upon me, I -have only to use it properly and I shall arrive at the -gold of which it is the index. Jupiter, bring me that -<i>scarabæus</i>!”</p> - -<p>“What! de bug, massa? I’d rudder not go fer -trubble dat bug—you mus git him for your own self.” -Hereupon Legrand arose, with a grave and stately air, -and brought me the beetle from a glass case in which -it was enclosed. It was a beautiful <i>scarabæus</i>, and, at -that time, unknown to naturalists—of course a great -prize in a scientific point of view. There were two -round, black spots near one extremity of the back, and -a long one near the other. The scales were exceedingly -hard and glossy, with all the appearance of burnished -gold. The weight of the insect was very remarkable, -and, taking all things into consideration, I could hardly -blame Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; but what -to make of Legrand’s agreement with that opinion, I -could not, for the life of me, tell.</p> - -<p>“I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone, -when I had completed my examination of the beetle, “I -sent for you, that I might have your counsel and assistance -in furthering the views of Fate and of the bug——”</p> - -<p>“My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, “you -are certainly unwell, and had better use some little precautions. -You shall go to bed, and I will remain with -you a few days, until you get over this. You are feverish -and——”</p> - -<p>“Feel my pulse,” said he.</p> - -<p>I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest -indication of fever.</p> - -<p>“But you may be ill, and yet have no fever. Allow -me this once to prescribe for you. In the first place, -go to bed. In the next——”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p> - -<p>“You are mistaken,” he interposed, “I am as well -as I can expect to be under the excitement which I suffer. -If you really wish me well, you will relieve this excitement.”</p> - -<p>“And how is this to be done?”</p> - -<p>“Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon -an expedition into the hills, upon the mainland, and, -in this expedition, we shall need the aid of some person -in whom we can confide. You are the only one -we can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the excitement -which you now perceive in me will be equally -allayed.”</p> - -<p>“I am anxious to oblige you in any way,” I replied; -“but do you mean to say that this infernal beetle has -any connection with your expedition into the hills?”</p> - -<p>“It has.”</p> - -<p>“Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such -absurd proceeding.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry—very sorry—for we shall have to try -it by ourselves.”</p> - -<p>“Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!—but -stay—how long do you propose to be absent?”</p> - -<p>“Probably all night. We shall start immediately, -and be back, at all events, by sunrise.”</p> - -<p>“And will you promise me, upon your honor, that -when this freak of yours is over, and the bug business -(good God!) settled to your satisfaction, you will then -return home and follow my advice implicitly, as that -of your physician?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have -no time to lose.”</p> - -<p>With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We -started about four o’clock—Legrand, Jupiter, the dog, -and myself. Jupiter had with him the scythe and -spades—the whole of which he insisted upon carrying,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> -more through fear, it seemed to me, of trusting either -of the implements within reach of his master, than -from any excess of industry or complaisance. His demeanor -was dogged in the extreme, and “dat d——d -bug” were the sole words which escaped his lips during -the journey. For my own part, I had charge of a -couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented himself -with the <i>scarabæus</i>, which he carried attached to -the end of a bit of whip-cord; twirling it to and fro, with -the air of a conjurer, as he went. When I observed this -last, plain evidence of my friend’s aberration of mind, I -could scarcely refrain from tears. I thought it best, -however, to humor his fancy, at least for the present, or -until I could adopt some more energetic measures with -a chance of success. In the mean time I endeavored, -but all in vain, to sound him in regard to the object of -the expedition. Having succeeded in inducing me to -accompany him, he seemed unwilling to hold conversation -upon any topic of minor importance, and to all -my questions vouchsafed no other reply than “we shall -see!”</p> - -<p>We crossed the creek at the head of the island by -means of a skiff, and, ascending the high grounds on -the shore of the mainland, proceeded in a northwesterly -direction, through a tract of country excessively wild -and desolate, where no trace of a human footstep was to -be seen. Legrand led the way with decision; pausing -only for an instant, here and there, to consult what -appeared to be certain landmarks of his own contrivance -upon a former occasion.</p> - -<p>In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, -and the sun was just setting when we entered a region -infinitely more dreary than any yet seen. It was a -species of tableland, near the summit of an almost inaccessible -hill, densely wooded from base to pinnacle, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -interspersed with huge crags that appeared to lie -loosely upon the soil, and in many cases were prevented -from precipitating themselves into the valleys -below merely by the support of the trees against which -they reclined. Deep ravines, in various directions, gave -an air of still sterner solemnity to the scene.</p> - -<p>The natural platform to which we had clambered was -thickly overgrown with brambles, through which we soon -discovered that it would have been impossible to force -our way but for the scythe; and Jupiter, by direction -of his master, proceeded to clear for us a path to the -foot of an enormously tall tulip-tree, which stood, with -some eight or ten oaks, upon the level, and far surpassed -them all, and all other trees which I had then ever -seen, in the beauty of its foliage and form, in the wide -spread of its branches, and in the general majesty of -its appearance. When we reached this tree, Legrand -turned to Jupiter, and asked him if he thought he -could climb it. The old man seemed a little staggered -by the question, and for some moments made no reply. -At length he approached the huge trunk, walked slowly -around it, and examined it with minute attention. When -he had completed his scrutiny, he merely said:</p> - -<p>“Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in he -life.”</p> - -<p>“Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will -soon be too dark to see what we are about.”</p> - -<p>“How far mus go up, massa?” inquired Jupiter.</p> - -<p>“Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell -you which way to go—and here—stop! take this beetle -with you.”</p> - -<p>“De bug, Massa Will!—de goole-bug!” cried the -negro, drawing back in dismay—“what for mus tote de -bug way up de tree?—d——n if I do!”</p> - -<p>“If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> -to take hold of a harmless little dead beetle, why, you -can carry it up by this string—but, if you do not take -it up with you in some way, I shall be under the necessity -of breaking your head with this shovel.”</p> - -<p>“What de matter now, massa?” said Jup, evidently -shamed into compliance; “always want fur to raise fuss -wid old nigger. Was only funnin anyhow. <i>Me</i> feered -de bug! what I keer for de bug?” Here he took -cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string, and, -maintaining the insect as far from his person as circumstances -would permit, prepared to ascend the tree.</p> - -<p>In youth, the tulip-tree, or <i>Liriodendron Tulipifera</i>, -the most magnificent of American foresters, has a trunk -peculiarly smooth, and often rises to a great height -without lateral branches; but, in its riper age, the bark -becomes gnarled and uneven, while many short limbs -make their appearance on the stem. Thus the difficulty -of ascension, in the present case, lay more in semblance -than in reality. Embracing the huge cylinder, as closely -as possible, with his arms and knees, seizing with his -hands some projections, and resting his naked toes upon -others, Jupiter, after one or two narrow escapes from -falling, at length wriggled himself into the first great -fork, and seemed to consider the whole business as virtually -accomplished. The <i>risk</i> of the achievement was, -in fact, now over, although the climber was some sixty -or seventy feet from the ground.</p> - -<p>“Which way mus go now, Massa Will?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Keep up the largest branch,—the one on this side,” -said Legrand. The negro obeyed him promptly, and apparently -with but little trouble, ascending higher and -higher, until no glimpse of his squat figure could be -obtained through the dense foliage which enveloped it. -Presently his voice was heard in a sort of halloo.</p> - -<p>“How much fudder is got for go?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p> - -<p>“How high up are you?” asked Legrand.</p> - -<p>“Ebber so fur,” replied the negro; “can see de -sky fru de top ob de tree.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. -Look down the trunk and count the limbs below you -on this side. How many limbs have you passed?”</p> - -<p>“One, two, tree, four, fibe—I done pass fibe big limb, -massa, pon dis side.”</p> - -<p>“Then go one limb higher.”</p> - -<p>In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing -that the seventh limb was attained.</p> - -<p>“Now, Jup,” cried Legrand, evidently much excited, -“I want you to work your way out upon that -limb as far as you can. If you see anything strange, -let me know.”</p> - -<p>By this time what little doubt I might have entertained -of my poor friend’s insanity was put finally at -rest. I had no alternative but to conclude him stricken -with lunacy, and I became seriously anxious about getting -him home. While I was pondering upon what was -best to be done, Jupiter’s voice was again heard.</p> - -<p>“Mos feerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far—’tis -dead limb putty much all de way.”</p> - -<p>“Did you say it was a <i>dead</i> limb, Jupiter?” cried -Legrand in a quavering voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail—done up for -sartain—done departed dis here life.”</p> - -<p>“What in the name of heaven shall I do?” asked -Legrand, seemingly in the greatest distress.</p> - -<p>“Do!” said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose -a word, “why come home and go to bed. Come now!—that’s -a fine fellow. It’s getting late, and, besides, you -remember your promise.”</p> - -<p>“Jupiter,” cried he, without heeding me in the least, -“do you hear me?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain.”</p> - -<p>“Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see -if you think it <i>very</i> rotten.”</p> - -<p>“Him rotten, massa, sure nuff,” replied the negro in -a few moments, “but not so berry rotten as mought -be. Mought ventur out leetle way pon de limb by myself, -dat’s true.”</p> - -<p>“By yourself!—what do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“Why, I mean de bug. ’Tis <i>berry</i> hebby bug. -Spose I drop him down fuss, and den de limb won’t -break wid just de weight ob one nigger.”</p> - -<p>“You infernal scoundrel!” cried Legrand, apparently -much relieved, “what do you mean by telling -me such nonsense as that? As sure as you let that beetle -fall, I’ll break your neck. Look here, Jupiter! do you -hear me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, massa, needn’t hollo at poor nigger dat style.”</p> - -<p>“Well! now listen!—if you will venture out on the -limb as far as you think safe, and not let go the beetle, -I’ll make you a present of a silver dollar as soon as -you get down.”</p> - -<p>“I’m gwine, Massa Will—deed I is,” replied the -negro very promptly—“mos out to the eend now.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Out to the end!</i>” here fairly screamed Legrand, -“do you say you are out to the end of that limb?”</p> - -<p>“Soon be to de eend, massa,—o-o-o-o-oh! Lord-gol-a-marcy! -what <i>is</i> dis here pon de tree?”</p> - -<p>“Well!” cried Legrand, highly delighted, “what -is it?”</p> - -<p>“Why taint noffin but a skull—somebody bin lef -him head up de tree, and de crows done gobble ebery -bit ob de meat off.”</p> - -<p>“A skull, you say!—very well!—how is it fastened -to the limb?—what holds it on?”</p> - -<p>“Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why, dis berry curous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> -sarcumstance, pon my word—dare’s a great big nail in de -skull, what fastens ob it on to de tree.”</p> - -<p>“Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you—do you -hear?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, massa.”</p> - -<p>“Pay attention, then!—find the left eye of the skull.”</p> - -<p>“Hum! hoo! dat’s good! why, dar aint no eye lef at -all.”</p> - -<p>“Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand -from your left?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I nose dat—nose all bout dat—’tis my lef -hand what I chops de wood wid.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure! you are left-handed; and your left -eye is on the same side as your left hand. Now, I suppose, -you can find the left eye of the skull, or the place -where the left eye has been. Have you found it?”</p> - -<p>Here was a long pause. At length the negro asked,</p> - -<p>“Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef -hand of de skull, too?—cause de skull aint got not a -bit ob a hand at all—nebber mind! I got de lef eye -now—here de lef eye! what must do wid it?”</p> - -<p>“Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string -will reach—but be careful and not let go your hold of the -string.”</p> - -<p>“All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to -put de bug fru de hole—look for him dar below!”</p> - -<p>During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter’s person -could be seen; but the beetle, which he had suffered to -descend, was now visible at the end of the string, and -glistened, like a globe of burnished gold, in the last rays -of the setting sun, some of which still faintly illumined -the eminence upon which we stood. The <i>scarabæus</i> hung -quite clear of any branches, and, if allowed to fall, -would have fallen at our feet. Legrand immediately -took the scythe, and cleared with it a circular space,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> -three or four yards in diameter, just beneath the insect, -and, having accomplished this, ordered Jupiter to let -go the string and come down from the tree.</p> - -<p>Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground, -at the precise spot where the beetle fell, my friend now -produced from his pocket a tape-measure. Fastening -one end of this at that point of the trunk of the tree -which was nearest the peg, he unrolled it till it reached -the peg, and thence farther unrolled it, in the direction -already established by the two points of the tree and -the peg, for the distance of fifty feet—Jupiter clearing -away the brambles with the scythe. At the spot thus -attained a second peg was driven, and about this, as a -centre, a rude circle, about four feet in diameter, described. -Taking now a spade himself, and giving one -to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand begged us to set -about digging as quickly as possible.</p> - -<p>To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such -amusement at any time, and, at that particular moment, -would most willingly have declined it; for the night -was coming on, and I felt much fatigued with the exercise -already taken; but I saw no mode of escape, and -was fearful of disturbing my poor friend’s equanimity -by a refusal. Could I have depended, indeed, upon -Jupiter’s aid, I would have had no hesitation in attempting -to get the lunatic home by force; but I was too -well assured of the old negro’s disposition to hope that -he would assist me, under any circumstances, in a personal -contest with his master. I made no doubt that the -latter had been infected with some of the innumerable -Southern superstitions about money buried, and that -his fantasy had received confirmation by the finding of -the <i>scarabæus</i>, or, perhaps, by Jupiter’s obstinacy in -maintaining it to be “a bug of real gold.” A mind -disposed to lunacy would readily be led away by such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -suggestions, especially if chiming in with favorite preconceived -ideas; and then I called to mind the poor -fellow’s speech about the beetle’s being “the index of -his fortune.” Upon the whole, I was sadly vexed and -puzzled, but at length I concluded to make a virtue -of necessity—to dig with a good will, and thus the -sooner to convince the visionary, by ocular demonstration, -of the fallacy of the opinions he entertained.</p> - -<p>The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work -with a zeal worthy a more rational cause; and, as the -glare fell upon our persons and implements, I could -not help thinking how picturesque a group we composed, -and how strange and suspicious our labors must -have appeared to any interloper who, by chance, might -have stumbled upon our whereabouts.</p> - -<p>We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was said; -and our chief embarrassment lay in the yelpings of -the dog, who took exceeding interest in our proceedings. -He, at length, became so obstreperous that we -grew fearful of his giving the alarm to some stragglers -in the vicinity; or, rather, this was the apprehension -of Legrand; for myself, I should have rejoiced -at any interruption which might have enabled me to get -the wanderer home. The noise was, at length, very -effectually silenced by Jupiter, who, getting out of the -hole with a dogged air of deliberation, tied the brute’s -mouth up with one of his suspenders, and then returned, -with a grave chuckle, to his task.</p> - -<p>When the time mentioned had expired, we had -reached a depth of five feet, and yet no signs of any -treasure became manifest. A general pause ensued, and -I began to hope that the farce was at an end. Legrand, -however, although evidently much disconcerted, wiped -his brow thoughtfully and recommenced. We had excavated -the entire circle of four feet diameter, and now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -we slightly enlarged the limit, and went to the farther -depth of two feet. Still nothing appeared. The gold-seeker, -whom I sincerely pitied, at length clambered from -the pit, with the bitterest disappointment imprinted upon -every feature, and proceeded, slowly and reluctantly, to -put on his coat, which he had thrown off at the beginning -of his labor. In the mean time I made no remark. -Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to gather up -his tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled, -we turned in profound silence towards home.</p> - -<p>We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direction, -when, with a loud oath, Legrand strode up to -Jupiter, and seized him by the collar. The astonished -negro opened his eyes and mouth to the fullest extent, let -fall the spades, and fell upon his knees.</p> - -<p>“You scoundrel,” said Legrand, hissing out the syllables -from between his clenched teeth—“you infernal -black villain!—speak, I tell you!—answer me this instant, -without prevarication!—which—which is your left -eye?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef -eye for sartain?” roared the terrified Jupiter, placing -his hand upon his <i>right</i> organ of vision, and holding it -there with a desperate pertinacity, as if in immediate -dread of his master’s attempt at a gouge.</p> - -<p>“I thought so!—I knew it! hurrah!” vociferated -Legrand, letting the negro go, and executing a series -of curvets and caracoles, much to the astonishment of -his valet, who, arising from his knees, looked mutely -from his master to myself, and then from myself to -his master.</p> - -<p>“Come! we must go back,” said the latter, “the -game’s not up yet;” and he again led the way to the -tulip-tree.</p> - -<p>“Jupiter,” said he, when we reached its foot, “come<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> -here! was the skull nailed to the limb with the face outward, -or with the face to the limb?”</p> - -<p>“De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get -at de eyes good, widout any trouble.”</p> - -<p>“Well, then, was it this eye or that through which -you dropped the beetle?”—here Legrand touched each -of Jupiter’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“‘Twas dis eye, massa—de lef eye—jis as you tell -me,” and here it was his right eye that the negro indicated.</p> - -<p>“That will do—we must try it again.”</p> - -<p>Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw, -or fancied that I saw, certain indications of method, -removed the peg which marked the spot where the -beetle fell, to a spot about three inches to the westward -of its former position. Taking, now, the tape-measure -from the nearest point of the trunk to the -peg, as before, and continuing the extension in a straight -line to the distance of fifty feet, a spot was indicated, -removed, by several yards, from the point at which -we had been digging.</p> - -<p>Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger -than in the former instance, was now described, and we -again set to work with the spades. I was dreadfully -weary, but, scarcely understanding what had occasioned -the change in my thoughts, I felt no longer any great -aversion from the labor imposed. I had become most -unaccountably interested—nay, even excited. Perhaps -there was something, amid all the extravagant demeanor -of Legrand—some air of forethought, or of deliberation—which -impressed me. I dug eagerly, and now -and then caught myself actually looking, with something -that very much resembled expectation, for the -fancied treasure, the vision of which had demented my -unfortunate companion. At a period when such vagaries<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> -of thought most fully possessed me, and when we had -been at work perhaps an hour and a half, we were -again interrupted by the violent howlings of the dog. -His uneasiness, in the first instance, had been evidently -but the result of playfulness or caprice, but he now -assumed a bitter and serious tone. Upon Jupiter’s -again attempting to muzzle him, he made furious resistance, -and, leaping into the hole, tore up the mould -frantically with his claws. In a few seconds he had -uncovered a mass of human bones, forming two complete -skeletons, intermingled with several buttons of -metal, and what appeared to be the dust of decayed -woollen. One or two strokes of a spade upturned the -blade of a large Spanish knife, and, as we dug farther, -three or four loose pieces of gold and silver coin came -to light.</p> - -<p>At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely -be restrained, but the countenance of his master wore -an air of extreme disappointment. He urged us, however, -to continue our exertions, and the words were -hardly uttered when I stumbled and fell forward, having -caught the toe of my boot in a large ring of iron -that lay half buried in the loose earth.</p> - -<p>We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass ten -minutes of more intense excitement. During this interval -we had fairly unearthed an oblong chest of wood, -which, from its perfect preservation and wonderful -hardness, had plainly been subjected to some mineralizing -process—perhaps that of the bichloride of mercury. -This box was three feet and a half long, three feet -broad, and two and a half feet deep. It was firmly -secured by bands of wrought iron, riveted, and forming -a kind of trellis-work over the whole. On each -side of the chest, near the top, were three rings of -iron—six in all—by means of which a firm hold could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -be obtained by six persons. Our utmost united endeavors -served only to disturb the coffer very slightly -in its bed. We at once saw the impossibility of removing -so great a weight. Luckily, the sole fastenings -of the lid consisted of two sliding bolts. These -we drew back—trembling and panting with anxiety. -In an instant, a treasure of incalculable value lay gleaming -before us. As the rays of the lanterns fell within -the pit, there flashed upwards, from a confused heap -of gold and of jewels, a glow and a glare that absolutely -dazzled our eyes.</p> - -<p>I shall not pretend to describe the feelings with -which I gazed. Amazement was, of course, predominant. -Legrand appeared exhausted with excitement, -and spoke very few words. Jupiter’s countenance wore, -for some minutes, as deadly a pallor as it is possible, -in the nature of things, for any negro’s visage to assume. -He seemed stupefied—thunderstricken. Presently -he fell upon his knees in the pit, and, burying his -naked arms up to the elbows in gold, let them there remain, -as if enjoying the luxury of a bath. At length, -with a deep sigh, he exclaimed, as if in a soliloquy:</p> - -<p>“And dis all cum ob de goole-bug! de putty goole-bug! -de poor little goole-bug, what I boosed in dat -sabage kind ob style! Aint you shamed ob yourself, -nigger?—answer me dat!”</p> - -<p>It became necessary, at last, that I should arouse -both master and valet to the expediency of removing -the treasure. It was growing late, and it behooved -us to make exertion, that we might get everything -housed before daylight. It was difficult to say what -should be done, and much time was spent in deliberation—so -confused were the ideas of all. We finally -lightened the box by removing two-thirds of its contents, -when we were enabled, with some trouble, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> -raise it from the hole. The articles taken out were deposited -among the brambles, and the dog left to guard -them, with strict orders from Jupiter neither, upon any -pretence, to stir from the spot, nor to open his mouth -until our return. We then hurriedly made for home -with the chest; reaching the hut in safety, but after -excessive toil, at one o’clock in the morning. Worn out -as we were, it was not in human nature to do more -just now. We rested until two, and had supper; starting -for the hills immediately afterwards, armed with -three stout sacks, which by good luck were upon the -premises. A little before four we arrived at the pit, -divided the remainder of the booty, as equally as might -be, among us, and, leaving the holes unfilled, again set -out for the hut, at which, for the second time, we deposited -our golden burdens, just as the first streaks of -the dawn gleamed from over the tree-tops in the East.</p> - -<p>We were now thoroughly broken down; but the intense -excitement of the time denied us repose. After -an unquiet slumber of some three or four hours’ duration, -we arose, as if by pre-concert, to make examination -of our treasure.</p> - -<p>The chest had been full to the brim, and we spent -the whole day, and the greater part of the next night, -in a scrutiny of its contents. There had been nothing -like order or arrangement. Everything had been heaped -in promiscuously. Having assorted all with care, we -found ourselves possessed of even vaster wealth than -we had at first supposed. In coin there was rather more -than four hundred and fifty thousand dollars: estimating -the value of the pieces, as accurately as we -could, by the tables of the period. There was not a -particle of silver. All was gold of antique date and -of great variety: French, Spanish, and German money, -with a few English guineas, and some counters, of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> -we had never seen specimens before. There were several -very large and heavy coins, so worn that we could -make nothing of their inscriptions. There was no -American money. The value of the jewels we found -more difficulty in estimating. There were diamonds—some -of them exceedingly large and fine—a hundred and -ten in all, and not one of them small; eighteen rubies of -remarkable brilliancy; three hundred and ten emeralds, -all very beautiful; and twenty-one sapphires, with an -opal. These stones had all been broken from their -settings and thrown loose in the chest. The settings -themselves, which we picked out from among the other -gold, appeared to have been beaten up with hammers, -as if to prevent identification. Besides all this, there -was a vast quantity of solid gold ornaments: nearly two -hundred massive finger and ear rings; rich chains—thirty -of these, if I remember; eighty-three very large -and heavy crucifixes; five gold censers of great value; -a prodigious golden punch-bowl, ornamented with richly -chased vine-leaves and Bacchanalian figures; with two -sword handles exquisitely embossed, and many other -smaller articles which I cannot recollect. The weight -of these valuables exceeded three hundred and fifty -pounds avoirdupois; and in this estimate I have not -included one hundred and ninety-seven superb gold -watches; three of the number being worth each five -hundred dollars, if one. Many of them were very old, -and as time-keepers valueless, the works having suffered -more or less from corrosion; but all were richly jewelled -and in cases of great worth. We estimated the entire -contents of the chest, that night, at a million and a half -of dollars; and, upon the subsequent disposal of the -trinkets and jewels (a few being retained for our own -use), it was found that we had greatly undervalued the -treasure.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p> - -<p>When, at length, we had concluded our examination, -and the intense excitement of the time had in some -measure subsided, Legrand, who saw that I was dying -with impatience for a solution of this most extraordinary -riddle, entered into a full detail of all the circumstances -connected with it.</p> - -<p>“You remember,” said he, “the night when I handed -you the rough sketch I had made of the <i>scarabæus</i>. You -recollect also, that I became quite vexed at you for -insisting that my drawing resembled a death’s-head. -When you first made this assertion I thought you were -jesting; but afterwards I called to mind the peculiar -spots on the back of the insect, and admitted to myself -that your remark had some little foundation in fact. -Still, the sneer at my graphic powers irritated me—for -I am considered a good artist—and, therefore, when -you handed me the scrap of parchment, I was about -to crumple it up and throw it angrily into the fire.”</p> - -<p>“The scrap of paper, you mean,” said I.</p> - -<p>“No: it had much of the appearance of paper, and -at first I supposed it to be such, but when I came to -draw upon it, I discovered it, at once, to be a piece -of very thin parchment. It was quite dirty, you remember. -Well, as I was in the very act of crumpling -it up, my glance fell upon the sketch at which you had -been looking, and you may imagine my astonishment -when I perceived, in fact, the figure of a death’s-head -just where, it seemed to me, I had made the drawing -of the beetle. For a moment I was too much amazed -to think with accuracy. I knew that my design was -very different in detail from this—although there was -a certain similarity in general outline. Presently I -took a candle and, seating myself at the other end of -the room, proceeded to scrutinize the parchment more -closely. Upon turning it over, I saw my own sketch<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> -upon the reverse, just as I had made it. My first idea, -now, was mere surprise at the really remarkable similarity -of outline—at the singular coincidence involved -in the fact that, unknown to me, there should have been -a skull upon the other side of the parchment, immediately -beneath my figure of the <i>scarabæus</i>, and that this -skull, not only in outline, but in size, should so closely -resemble my drawing. I say the singularity of this -coincidence absolutely stupefied me for a time. This is -the usual effect of such coincidences. The mind struggles -to establish a connection—a sequence of cause and -effect—and, being unable to do so, suffers a species of -temporary paralysis. But, when I recovered from this -stupor, there dawned upon me gradually a conviction -which startled me even far more than the coincidence. -I began distinctly, positively, to remember that there -had been <i>no</i> drawing on the parchment when I made -my sketch of the <i>scarabæus</i>. I became perfectly certain -of this; for I recollected turning up first one side and -then the other, in search of the cleanest spot. Had the -skull been then there, of course I could not have failed -to notice it. Here was indeed a mystery which I felt -it impossible to explain; but, even at that early moment, -there seemed to glimmer, faintly, within the most -remote and secret chambers of my intellect, a glowworm-like -conception of that truth which last night’s adventure -brought to so magnificent a demonstration. I arose -at once, and, putting the parchment securely away, -dismissed all farther reflection until I should be -alone.</p> - -<p>“When you had gone, and when Jupiter was fast -asleep, I betook myself to a more methodical investigation -of the affair. In the first place I considered -the manner in which the parchment had come into my -possession. The spot where we discovered the <i>scarabæus</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -was on the coast of the mainland, about a mile eastward -of the island, and but a short distance above high-water -mark. Upon my taking hold of it, it gave me a -sharp bite, which caused me to let it drop. Jupiter, -with his accustomed caution, before seizing the insect, -which had flown towards him, looked about him for a -leaf, or something of that nature, by which to take hold -of it. It was at this moment that his eyes, and mine -also, fell upon the scrap of parchment, which I then -supposed to be paper. It was lying half buried in -the sand, a corner sticking up. Near the spot where -we found it, I observed the remnants of the hull of -what appeared to have been a ship’s long boat. The -wreck seemed to have been there for a very great while; -for the resemblance to boat timbers could scarcely be -traced.</p> - -<p>“Well, Jupiter picked up the parchment, wrapped -the beetle in it, and gave it to me. Soon afterwards -we turned to go home, and on the way met Lieutenant -G——. I showed him the insect, and he begged me to -let him take it to the fort. On my consenting, he thrust -it forthwith into his waistcoat pocket, without the parchment -in which it had been wrapped, and which I had -continued to hold in my hand during his inspection. -Perhaps he dreaded my changing my mind, and thought -it best to make sure of the prize at once—you know how -enthusiastic he is on all subjects connected with Natural -History. At the same time, without being conscious of -it, I must have deposited the parchment in my own -pocket.</p> - -<p>“You remember that when I went to the table, for -the purpose of making a sketch of the beetle, I found -no paper where it was usually kept. I looked in the -drawer, and found none there. I searched my pockets, -hoping to find an old letter, and then my hand fell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> -upon the parchment. I thus detail the precise mode -in which it came into my possession; for the circumstances -impressed me with peculiar force.</p> - -<p>“No doubt you will think me fanciful—but I had -already established a kind of <i>connection</i>. I had put -together two links of a great chain. There was a boat -lying on a seacoast, and not far from the boat was -a parchment—<i>not a paper</i>—with a skull depicted on -it. You will, of course, ask ’where is the connection?’ -I reply that the skull, or death’s-head, is the well-known -emblem of the pirate. The flag of the death’s-head -is hoisted in all engagements.</p> - -<p>“I have said that the scrap was parchment, and not -paper. Parchment is durable—almost imperishable. -Matters of little moment are rarely consigned to parchment; -since, for the mere ordinary purposes of drawing -or writing, it is not nearly so well adapted as paper. -This reflection suggested some meaning—some relevancy—in -the death’s-head. I did not fail to observe, also, -the <i>form</i> of the parchment. Although one of its corners -had been, by some accident, destroyed, it could be -seen that the original form was oblong. It was just such -a slip, indeed, as might have been chosen for a memorandum—for -a record of something to be long remembered -and carefully preserved.”</p> - -<p>“But,” I interposed, “you say that the skull was -<i>not</i> upon the parchment when you made the drawing -of the beetle. How then do you trace any connection -between the boat and the skull—since this latter, according -to your own admission, must have been designed -(God only knows how or by whom) at some period subsequent -to your sketching the <i>scarabæus</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, hereupon turns the whole mystery; although -the secret, at this point, I had comparatively little difficulty -in solving. My steps were sure, and could afford<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> -but a single result. I reasoned, for example, thus: -When I drew the <i>scarabæus</i>, there was no skull apparent -on the parchment. When I had completed the drawing -I gave it to you, and observed you narrowly until -you returned it. <i>You</i>, therefore, did not design the -skull, and no one else was present to do it. Then it was -not done by human agency. And nevertheless it was -done.</p> - -<p>“At this stage of my reflections I endeavored to -remember, and <i>did</i> remember, with entire distinctness, -every incident which occurred about the period in question. -The weather was chilly (O rare and happy accident!), -and a fire was blazing on the hearth. I was -heated with exercise and sat near the table. You, however, -had drawn a chair close to the chimney. Just -as I placed the parchment in your hand, and as you were -in the act of inspecting it, Wolf, the Newfoundland, -entered, and leaped upon your shoulders. With your -left hand you caressed him and kept him off, while your -right, holding the parchment, was permitted to fall -listlessly between your knees, and in close proximity -to the fire. At one moment I thought the blaze had -caught it, and was about to caution you, but, before -I could speak, you had withdrawn it, and were engaged -in its examination. When I considered all these particulars, -I doubted not for a moment that <i>heat</i> had been -the agent in bringing to light, on the parchment, the -skull which I saw designed on it. You are well aware -that chemical preparations exist, and have existed time -out of mind, by means of which it is possible to write -on either paper or vellum, so that the characters shall -become visible only when subjected to the action of fire. -Zaffre, digested in <i>aqua regia</i>, and diluted with four -times its weight of water, is sometimes employed; a -green tint results. The regulus of cobalt, dissolved in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> -spirit of nitre, gives a red. These colors disappear at -longer or shorter intervals after the material written -upon cools, but again become apparent upon the re-application -of heat.</p> - -<p>“I now scrutinized the death’s-head with care. Its -outer edges—the edges of the drawing nearest the edge -of the vellum—were far more <i>distinct</i> than the others. -It was clear that the action of the caloric had been -imperfect or unequal. I immediately kindled a fire, -and subjected every portion of the parchment to a glowing -heat. At first, the only effect was the strengthening -of the faint lines in the skull; but, on persevering in the -experiment, there became visible at the corner of the -slip, diagonally opposite to the spot in which the death’s-head -was delineated, the figure of what I at first supposed -to be a goat. A closer scrutiny, however, satisfied -me that it was intended for a kid.”</p> - -<p>“Ha! ha!” said I, “to be sure I have no right to -laugh at you—a million and a half of money is too -serious a matter for mirth—but you are not about to -establish a third link in your chain: you will not find -any especial connection between your pirates and a -goat; pirates, you know, have nothing to do with goats; -they appertain to the farming interest.”</p> - -<p>“But I have just said that the figure was <i>not</i> that -of a goat.”</p> - -<p>“Well, a kid, then—pretty much the same thing.”</p> - -<p>“Pretty much, but not altogether,” said Legrand. -“You may have heard of one <i>Captain</i> Kidd. I at once -looked on the figure of the animal as a kind of punning -or hieroglyphical signature. I say signature; because -its position on the vellum suggested this idea. The -death’s-head at the corner diagonally opposite had, in -the same manner, the air of a stamp, or seal. But I -was sorely put out by the absence of all else—of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> -body to my imagined instrument—of the text for my -context.”</p> - -<p>“I presume you expected to find a letter between -the stamp and the signature.”</p> - -<p>“Something of that kind. The fact is, I felt irresistibly -impressed with a presentiment of some vast good -fortune impending. I can scarcely say why. Perhaps, -after all, it was rather a desire than an actual belief;—but -do you know that Jupiter’s silly words, about the -bug being of solid gold, had a remarkable effect on my -fancy? And then the series of accidents and coincidences—these -were so <i>very</i> extraordinary. Do you observe -how mere an accident it was that these events -should have occurred on the <i>sole</i> day of all the year in -which it has been, or may be, sufficiently cool for fire, -and that without the fire, or without the intervention -of the dog at the precise moment in which he appeared, -I should never have become aware of the death’s-head, -and so never the possessor of the treasure?”</p> - -<p>“But proceed—I am all impatience.”</p> - -<p>“Well; you have heard, of course, the many stories -current—the thousand vague rumors afloat about money -buried, somewhere on the Atlantic coast, by Kidd and -his associates. These rumors must have had some foundation -in fact. And that the rumors have existed so -long and so continuously, could have resulted, it appeared -to me, only from the circumstance of the buried -treasure still <i>remaining</i> entombed. Had Kidd concealed -his plunder for a time, and afterwards reclaimed it, -the rumors would scarcely have reached us in their -present unvarying form. You will observe that the -stories told are all about money-seekers, not about money-finders. -Had the pirate recovered his money, there the -affair would have dropped. It seemed to me that some -accident—say the loss of a memorandum indicating its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -locality—had deprived him of the means of recovering -it, and that this accident had become known to his followers, -who otherwise might never have heard that -treasure had been concealed at all, and, who, busying -themselves in vain, because unguided, attempts to regain -it, had given first birth, and then universal currency, -to the reports which are now so common. Have -you ever heard of any important treasure being unearthed -along the coast?”</p> - -<p>“Never.”</p> - -<p>“But that Kidd’s accumulations were immense is -well known. I took it for granted, therefore, that the -earth still held them; and you will scarcely be surprised -when I tell you that I felt a hope, nearly amounting -to certainty, that the parchment so strangely found -involved a lost record of the place of deposit.”</p> - -<p>“But how did you proceed?”</p> - -<p>“I held the vellum again to the fire, after increasing -the heat, but nothing appeared. I now thought it -possible that the coating of dirt might have something -to do with the failure; so I carefully rinsed the parchment -by pouring warm water over it, and, having -done this, I placed it in a tin pan, with the skull downwards, -and put the pan upon a furnace of lighted charcoal. -In a few minutes, the pan having become thoroughly -heated, I removed the slip, and, to my inexpressible -joy, found it spotted, in several places, with -what appeared to be figures arranged in lines. Again -I placed it in the pan, and suffered it to remain another -minute. Upon taking it off, the whole was just as you -see it now.”</p> - -<p>Here Legrand, having reheated the parchment, submitted -it to my inspection. The following characters -were rudely traced, in a red tint, between the death’s-head -and the goat:—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> - -<p>53‡‡†305))6*;4826)4‡.)4‡);806*;48†8¶60))85;;]8*;:‡*8†83(88)5*†;46(;88*96*?;8)<br /> -*‡(;485);5*†2:*‡(;4956*2(5*—4)8¶8*;4069285);)6†8)4‡‡;1(‡9;48081;8:8‡1;48†85;4)<br /> -485†528806*81(‡9;48;(88;4(‡?34;48)4‡;161;:188;‡?;</p> - -<p>“But,” said I, returning him the slip, “I am as much -in the dark as ever. “Were all the jewels of Golconda -awaiting me on my solution of this enigma, I am quite -sure that I should be unable to earn them.”</p> - -<p>“And yet,” said Legrand, “the solution is by no -means so difficult as you might be led to imagine from -the first hasty inspection of the characters. These -characters, as any one might readily guess, form a -cipher—that is to say, they convey a meaning; but -then, from what is known of Kidd, I could not suppose -him capable of constructing any of the more abstruse -cryptographs. I made up my mind, at once, -that this was of a simple species—such, however, as -would appear, to the crude intellect of the sailor, absolutely -insoluble without the key.”</p> - -<p>“And you really solved it?”</p> - -<p>“Readily; I have solved others of an abstruseness ten -thousand times greater. Circumstances, and a certain -bias of mind, have led me to take interest in such riddles, -and it may well be doubted whether human ingenuity -can construct an enigma of the kind which -human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve. -In fact, having once established connected and -legible characters, I scarcely gave a thought to the mere -difficulty of developing their import.</p> - -<p>“In the present case—indeed in all cases of secret -writing—the first question regards the <i>language</i> of the -cipher; for the principles of solution, so far, especially, -as the more simple ciphers are concerned, depend on, -and are varied by, the genius of the particular idiom.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -In general, there is no alternative but experiment (directed -by probabilities) of every tongue known to him -who attempts the solution, until the true one be attained. -But, with the cipher now before us, all difficulty -is removed by the signature. The pun upon the -word ’Kidd’ is appreciable in no other language than -the English. But for this consideration I should have -begun my attempts with the Spanish and French, as the -tongues in which a secret of this kind would most naturally -have been written by a pirate of the Spanish main. -As it was, I assumed the cryptograph to be English.</p> - -<p>“You observe there are no divisions between the -words. Had there been divisions, the task would have -been comparatively easy. In such case I should have -commenced with a collation and analysis of the shorter -words, and, had a word of a single letter occurred, as -is most likely (<i>a</i> or <i>I</i>, for example), I should have -considered the solution as assured. But, there being no -division, my first step was to ascertain the predominant -letters, as well as the least frequent. Counting all, I -constructed a table, thus:</p> - -<table id="t03" summary="t03"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdrx">“Of the character</td> - <td class="tdry">8</td> - <td class="tdcx">there are</td> - <td class="tdry">33</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td rowspan="13"> </td> - <td class="tdr">;</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">26</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">4</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">19</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">‡)</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">16</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">*</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">13</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">5</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">12</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">6</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">11</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">†1</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">8</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">0</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">6</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">92</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">5</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">:3</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">4</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">?</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">3</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">¶</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">2</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">]—</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdr">1</td> - </tr> - -</table> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p1">“Now, in English, the letter which most frequently -occurs is <i>e</i>. Afterwards the succession runs thus: <i>a o i -d h n r s t u y c f g l m w b k p q x z</i>. <i>E</i> predominates, -however, so remarkably that an individual sentence of -any length is rarely seen, in which it is not the prevailing -character.</p> - -<p>“Here, then, we have, in the very beginning, the -groundwork for something more than a mere guess. -The general use which may be made of the table is -obvious—but, in this particular cipher, we shall only -very partially require its aid. As our predominant -character is 8, we will commence by assuming it as the -<i>e</i> of the natural alphabet. To verify the supposition, -let us observe if the 8 be seen often in couples—for <i>e</i> -is doubled with great frequency in English—in such -words, for example, as ’meet,’ ’fleet,’ ’speed,’ ’seen,’ -’been,’ ’a’gree,’ &c. In the present instance we see it -doubled no less than five times, although the cryptograph -is brief.</p> - -<p>“Let us assume 8, then, as <i>e</i>. Now, of all <i>words</i> in -the language, ‘the’ is most usual; let us see, therefore, -whether there are not repetitions of any -three characters, in the same order of collocation, the -last of them being 8. If we discover repetitions of -such letters, so arranged, they will most probably represent -the word ’the.’ On inspection, we find no less -than seven such arrangements, the characters being ;48. -We may, therefore, assume that the semicolon represents -<i>t</i>, that 4 represents <i>h</i>, and that 8 represents <i>e</i>—the last -being now well confirmed. Thus a great step has been -taken.</p> - -<p>“But, having established a single word, we are enabled -to establish a vastly important point; that is to -say, several commencements and terminations of other -words. Let us refer, for example, to the last instance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> -but one, in which the combination ;48 occurs—not far -from the end of the cipher. We know that the semicolon -immediately ensuing is the commencement of a -word, and, of the six characters succeeding this ’the,’ -we are cognizant of no less than five. Let us set these -characters down, thus, by the letters we know them -to represent, leaving a space for the unknown—</p> - -<p class="pc1">t eeth.</p> - -<p class="p1">“Here we are enabled, at once, to discard the ’<i>th</i>,’ -as forming no portion of the word commencing with -the first <i>t</i>; since, by experiment of the entire alphabet -for a letter adapted to the vacancy, we perceive that -no word can be formed of which this <i>th</i> can be a part. -We are thus narrowed into</p> - -<p class="pc1">t ee,</p> - -<p class="p1">and, going through the alphabet, if necessary, as before, -we arrive at the word ’tree’ as the sole possible -reading. We thus gain another letter, <i>r</i>, represented -by (, with the words ’the tree’ in juxtaposition.</p> - -<p>“Looking beyond these words, for a short distance, -we again see the combination ;48, and employ it by way -of <i>termination</i> to what immediately precedes. We have -thus this arrangement:</p> - -<p class="pc1">the tree ;4(‡?34 the,</p> - -<p class="p1">or, substituting the natural letters, where known, it -reads thus:</p> - -<p class="pc1">the tree thr‡?3h the.</p> - -<p class="p1">“Now, if, in place of the unknown characters, we -leave blank spaces, or substitute dots, we read thus:</p> - -<p class="pc1">the tree thr . . . h the,</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p1">when the word ’<i>through</i>’ makes itself evident at once. -But this discovery gives us three new letters, <i>o</i>, <i>u</i>, and <i>g</i>, -represented by ‡ ? and 3.</p> - -<p>“Looking now, narrowly, through the cipher for combinations -of known characters, we find, not very far -from the beginning, this arrangement,</p> - -<p class="pc1">83(88, or egree,</p> - -<p class="p1">which, plainly, is the conclusion of the word ’degree,’ -and gives us another letter, <i>d</i>, represented by †.</p> - -<p>“Four letters beyond the word ’degree,’ we perceive -the combination</p> - -<p class="pc1">;46(;88*</p> - -<p class="p1">“Translating the known characters, and representing -the unknown by dots, as before, we read thus:</p> - -<p class="pc1">th . rtee . ,</p> - -<p class="p1">an arrangement immediately suggestive of the word -’thirteen,’ and again furnishing us with two new characters, -<i>i</i> and <i>n</i>, represented by 6 and *.</p> - -<p>“Referring, now, to the beginning of the cryptograph, -we find the combination,</p> - -<p class="pc1">53‡‡†.</p> - -<p class="p1">“Translating, as before, we obtain</p> - -<p class="pc1">good,</p> - -<p class="pc1">which assures us that the first letter is <i>A</i>, and that the -first two words are ’A good.’</p> - -<p>“To avoid confusion, it is now time that we arrange -our key, as far as discovered, in a tabular form. It -will stand thus:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> - -<table id="t04" summary="t04"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">5</td> - <td class="tdcx">represents</td> - <td class="tdl">a</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">†</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdl">d</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">8</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdl">e</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">3</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdl">g</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">4</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdl">h</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">6</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdl">i</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">*</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdl">n</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">‡</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdl">o</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">(</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdl">r</td> - </tr> - - <tr> - <td class="tdr">;</td> - <td class="tdc">“</td> - <td class="tdl">t</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p class="p1">“We have, therefore, no less than ten of the most -important letters represented, and it will be unnecessary -to proceed with the details of the solution. I have -said enough to convince you that ciphers of this nature -are readily soluble, and to give you some insight into -the rationale of their development. But be assured that -the specimen before us appertains to the very simplest -species of cryptograph. It now only remains to give -you the full translation of the characters upon the parchment, -as unriddled. Here it is:</p> - -<p><i>“‘A good glass in the Bishop’s hostel in the devil’s -seat twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes north-east -and by north main branch seventh limb east side shoot -from the left eye of the death’s-head a bee-line from the -tree through the shot fifty feet out.’”</i></p> - -<p>“But,” said I, “the enigma seems still in as bad a -condition as ever. How is it possible to extort a meaning -from all this jargon about ’devil’s seats,’ ’death’s-heads,’ -and ’Bishop’s hotels’?”</p> - -<p>“I confess,” replied Legrand, “that the matter still -wears a serious aspect, when regarded with a casual -glance. My first endeavor was to divide the sentence -into the natural division intended by the cryptographist.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> - -<p>“You mean, to punctuate it?”</p> - -<p>“Something of that kind.”</p> - -<p>“But how was it possible to effect this?”</p> - -<p>“I reflected that it had been a <i>point</i> with the writer -to run his words together without division, so as to -increase the difficulty of solution. Now, a not over-acute -man, in pursuing such an object, would be nearly -certain to overdo the matter. When, in the course of -his composition, he arrived at a break in his subject -which would naturally require a pause, or a point, -he would be exceedingly apt to run his characters, -at this place, more than usually close together. If you -will observe the MS., in the present instance, you will -easily detect five such cases of unusual crowding. Acting -on this hint, I made the division thus:</p> - -<p><i>“‘A good glass in the Bishop’s hostel in the Devil’s -seat—twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes—north-east -and by north—main branch seventh limb east side—shoot -from the left eye of the death’s-head—a bee-line -from the tree through the shot fifty feet out.’”</i></p> - -<p>“Even this division,” said I, “leaves me still in the -dark.”</p> - -<p>“It left me also in the dark,” replied Legrand, “for -a few days; during which I made diligent inquiry, in -the neighborhood of Sullivan’s Island, for any building -which went by the name of the ’Bishop’s Hotel’; for, -of course, I dropped the obsolete word ’hostel.’ Gaining -no information on the subject, I was on the point of -extending my sphere of search, and proceeding in a -more systematic manner, when one morning it entered -into my head, quite suddenly, that this ’Bishop’s -Hostel’ might have some reference to an old family, -of the name of Bessop, which, time out of mind, had -held possession of an ancient manor-house, about four -miles to the northward of the island. I accordingly went<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -over to the plantation, and reinstituted my inquiries -among the older negroes of the place. At length one -of the most aged of the women said that she had heard -of such a place as <i>Bessop’s Castle</i>, and thought that she -could guide me to it, but that it was not a castle, nor -a tavern, but a high rock.</p> - -<p>“I offered to pay her well for her trouble, and, after -some demur, she consented to accompany me to the -spot. We found it without much difficulty, when, dismissing -her, I proceeded to examine the place. The -’castle’ consisted of an irregular assemblage of cliffs -and rocks—one of the latter being quite remarkable for -its height as well as for its insulated and artificial appearance. -I clambered to its apex, and then felt much -at a loss as to what should be next done.</p> - -<p>“While I was busied in reflection, my eyes fell on -a narrow ledge in the eastern face of the rock, perhaps -a yard below the summit upon which I stood. This -ledge projected about eighteen inches, and was not more -than a foot wide, while a niche in the cliff just above -it gave it a rude resemblance to one of the hollow-backed -chairs used by our ancestors. I made no doubt that here -was the ’devil’s seat’ alluded to in the MS., and now -I seemed to grasp the full secret of the riddle.</p> - -<p>“The ’good glass,’ I knew, could have reference to -nothing but a telescope; for the word ’glass’ is rarely -employed in any other sense by seamen. Now here, I -at once saw, was a telescope to be used, and a definite -point of view, <i>admitting no variation</i>, from which to use -it. Nor did I hesitate to believe that the phrases, -’twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes,’ and ‘north-east -and by north,’ were intended as directions for the -levelling of the glass. Greatly excited by these discoveries, -I hurried home, procured a telescope, and returned -to the rock.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I let myself down the ledge, and found that it was -impossible to retain a seat on it unless in one particular -position. This fact confirmed my preconceived idea. I -proceeded to use the glass. Of course, the ’twenty-one -degrees and thirteen minutes’ could allude to nothing -but elevation above the visible horizon, since the horizontal -direction was clearly indicated by the words, -‘north-east and by north.’ This latter direction I at -once established by means of a pocket-compass; then, -pointing the glass as nearly at an angle of twenty-one -degrees of elevation as I could do it by guess, I moved -it cautiously up or down, until my attention was arrested -by a circular rift or opening in the foliage of -a large tree that overtopped its fellows in the distance. -In the centre of this rift I perceived a white spot, but -could not, at first, distinguish what it was. Adjusting -the focus of the telescope, I again looked, and now -made it out to be a human skull.</p> - -<p>“On this discovery I was so sanguine as to consider -the enigma solved; for the phrase ’main branch, seventh -limb, east side,’ could refer only to the position of the -skull on the tree, while ’shoot from the left eye of the -death’s-head’ admitted, also, of but one interpretation, -in regard to a search for buried treasure. I perceived -that the design was to drop a bullet from the left eye -of the skull, and that a bee-line, or, in other words, a -straight line, drawn from the nearest point of the trunk -through ’the shotì (or the spot where the bullet fell), -and thence extended to a distance of fifty feet, would -indicate a definite point—and beneath this point I -thought it at least <i>possible</i> that a deposit of value lay -concealed.”</p> - -<p>“All this,” I said, “is exceedingly clear, and, although -ingenious, still simple and explicit. When you -left the Bishop’s Hotel, what then?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Why, having carefully taken the bearings of the -tree, I turned homewards. The instant that I left ’the -devil’s seat,’ however, the circular rift vanished; nor -could I get a glimpse of it afterwards, turn as I would. -What seems to me the chief ingenuity in this whole -business, is the fact (for repeated experiment has convinced -me it <i>is</i> a fact) that the circular opening in question -is visible from no other attainable point of view -than that afforded by the narrow ledge on the face of -the rock.</p> - -<p>“In this expedition to the ’Bishop’s Hotel’ I had -been attended by Jupiter, who had no doubt observed, -for some weeks past, the abstraction of my demeanor, -and took especial care not to leave me alone. But on -the next day, getting up very early, I contrived to give -him the slip, and went into the hills in search of the -tree. After much toil I found it. When I came home -at night my valet proposed to give me a flogging. With -the rest of the adventure I believe you are as well acquainted -as myself.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said I, “you missed the spot, in the -first attempt at digging, through Jupiter’s stupidity in -letting the bug fall through the right instead of through -the left eye of the skull.”</p> - -<p>“Precisely. This mistake made a difference of about -two inches and a half in the ’shot’—that is to say, in -the position of the peg nearest the tree; and had the -treasure been <i>beneath</i> the ’shot,’ the error would have -been of little moment; but ’the shot,’ together with the -nearest point of the tree, were merely two points for -the establishment of a line of direction; of course the -error, however trivial in the beginning, increased as we -proceeded with the line, and, by the time we had gone -fifty feet, threw us quite off the scent. But for my deep-seated -convictions that treasure was here somewhere<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> -actually buried, we might have had all our labor in -vain.”</p> - -<p>“I presume the fancy of <i>the skull</i>—of letting fall a -bullet through the skull’s eye—was suggested to Kidd -by the piratical flag. No doubt he felt a kind of poetical -consistency in recovering his money through this ominous -insignium.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps so; still, I cannot help thinking that common-sense -had quite as much to do with the matter as -poetical consistency. To be visible from the Devil’s -seat, it was necessary that the object, if small, should -be <i>white</i>; and there is nothing like your human skull for -retaining and even increasing its whiteness under exposure -to all vicissitudes of weather.”</p> - -<p>“But your grandiloquence, and your conduct in -swinging the beetle—how excessively odd! I was sure -you were mad. And why did you insist on letting fall -the bug, instead of a bullet, from the skull?”</p> - -<p>“Why, to be frank, I felt somewhat annoyed by your -evident suspicions touching my sanity, and so resolved -to punish you quietly, in my own way, by a little bit -of sober mystification. For this reason I swung the -beetle, and for this reason I let it fall from the tree. -An observation of yours about its great weight suggested -the latter idea.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I perceive; and now there is only one point -which puzzles me. What are we to make of the skeletons -found in the hole?”</p> - -<p>“That is a question I am no more able to answer -than yourself. There seems, however, only one plausible -way of accounting for them—and yet it is dreadful -to believe in such atrocity as my suggestion would imply. -It is clear that Kidd—if Kidd indeed secreted this treasure, -which I doubt not—it is clear that he must have had -assistance in the labor. But, the worst of this labor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -concluded, he may have thought it expedient to remove -all participants in his secret. Perhaps a couple of blows -with a mattock were sufficient, while his coadjutors were -busy in the pit; perhaps it required a dozen—who shall -tell?”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">O. Henry</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This is a plot-story of the kind in which the American -public delights. The reader enjoys the humor due to situation, -hyperbole, satire, and astounding verbal liberties -to which the writer is given; but he enjoys even -more the sharp surprise that awaits him in the plot. -He has prepared himself for a certain conclusion and -finds himself entirely in the wrong. Nevertheless, he -admits that the ending is not illogical nor out of harmony -with the general tone. Bill and Sam subscribe -themselves “Two Desperate Men,” but they are so characterized -as to prepare us for their surrender of the -boy on the father’s own terms.</p> - -<p>It is interesting to know that O. Henry himself put -slight value upon local color. “People say that I know -New York well!” he says. “But change Twenty-third -Street to Main Street, rub out the Flatiron Building and -put in the Town Hall. Then the story will fit just as -truly elsewhere. At least, I hope that is the case with -what I write. So long as your story is true to life, the -mere change of local color will set it in the East, West, -South, or North. The characters in ’The Arabian -Nights’ parade up and down Broadway at midday, or -Main Street in Dallas, Texas.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[11]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. -“We were down South, in Alabama—Bill Driscoll and -myself—when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as -Bill afterward expressed it, “during a moment of temporary -mental apparition”; but we didn’t find that -out till later.</p> - -<p>There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, -and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants -of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class -of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.</p> - -<p>Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred -dollars, and we needed, just two thousand dollars more -to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western -Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the -hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semirural -communities; therefore, and for other reasons, a -kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the -radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain -clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that -Summit couldn’t get after us with anything stronger -than constables and, maybe, some lackadaisical bloodhounds -and a diatribe or two in the <i>Weekly Farmers’ -Budget</i>. So, it looked good.</p> - -<p>We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent -citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable -and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright -collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a -boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the color of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand -when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured -that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two -thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you.</p> - -<p>About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, -covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation -of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions.</p> - -<p>One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past -old Dorset’s house. The kid was in the street, throwing -rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.</p> - -<p>“Hey, little boy!” says Bill, “would you like to -have a bag of candy and a nice ride?”</p> - -<p>The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of -brick.</p> - -<p>“That will cost the old man an extra five hundred -dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel.</p> - -<p>That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon -bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the -buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave, and -I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. After dark I -drove the buggy to the little village, three miles away, -where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.</p> - -<p>Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and -bruises on his features. There was a fire burning behind -the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was -watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tail-feathers -stuck in his red hair. He points a stick at me -when I come up, and says:</p> - -<p>“Ha! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp -of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?”</p> - -<p>“He’s all right now,” says Bill, rolling up his trousers -and examining some bruises on his shins. “We’re playing -Indian. We’re making Buffalo Bill’s show look<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -like magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. -I’m Old Hank, the Trapper, Red Chief’s captive, and -I’m to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid -can kick hard.”</p> - -<p>Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of his -life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made him -forget that he was a captive himself. He immediately -christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that, -when his braves returned from the warpath, I was to be -broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun.</p> - -<p>Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of -bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He -made a during-dinner speech something like this:</p> - -<p>“I like this fine. I never camped out before; but I -had a pet ’possum once, and I was nine last birthday. -I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy -Talbot’s aunt’s speckled hen’s eggs. Are there any -real Indians in these woods? I want some more gravy. -Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had -five puppies. What makes your nose so red, Hank? -My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I -whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don’t like girls. -You dassent catch toads unless with a string. Do oxen -make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you -got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has -got six toes. A parrot can talk, but a monkey or a fish -can’t. How many does it take to make twelve?”</p> - -<p>Every few minutes he would remember that he was -a pesky redskin, and pick up his stick rifle and tip-toe to -the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of the -hated paleface. Now and then he would let out a war-whoop -that made Old Hank the Trapper, shiver. That -boy had Bill terrorized from the start.</p> - -<p>“Red Chief,” says I to the kid, “would you like -to go home?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Aw, what for?” says he. “I don’t have any fun at -home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You -won’t take me back home again, Snake-eye, will you?”</p> - -<p>“Not right away,” says I. “We’ll stay here in the -cave a while.”</p> - -<p>“All right!” says he. “That’ll be fine. I never -had such fun in all my life.”</p> - -<p>We went to bed about eleven o ’clock. We spread down -some wide blankets and quilts and put Red Chief between -us. We weren’t afraid he’d run away. He kept -us awake for three hours, jumping up and reaching for -his rifle and screeching: “Hist! pard,” in mine and -Bill’s ears, as the fancied crackle of a twig or the rustle -of a leaf revealed to his young imagination the stealthy -approach of the outlaw band. At last, I fell into a -troubled sleep, and dreamed that I had been kidnapped -and chained to a tree by a ferocious pirate with red -hair.</p> - -<p>Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of awful -screams from Bill. They weren’t yells, or howls, or -shouts, or whoops, or yawps, such as you’d expect from -a manly set of vocal organs—they were simply indecent, -terrifying, humiliating screams, such as women emit -when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It’s an awful thing -to hear a strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently -in a cave at daybreak.</p> - -<p>I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief -was sitting on Bill’s chest, with one hand twined in -Bill’s hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife -we used for slicing bacon; and he was industriously -and realistically trying to take Bill’s scalp, according -to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the -evening before.</p> - -<p>I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie -down again. But, from that moment, Bill’s spirit was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> -broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he -never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy -was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along toward -sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was -to be burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. I -wasn’t nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit my pipe -and leaned against a rock.</p> - -<p>“What you getting up so soon for, Sam?” asked -Bill.</p> - -<p>“Me?” says I. “Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my -shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it.”</p> - -<p>“You’re a liar!” says Bill. “You’re afraid. You -was to be burned at sunrise, and you was afraid he’d -do it. And he would, too, if he could find a -match. Ain’t it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody -will pay out money to get a little imp like that back -home?”</p> - -<p>“Sure,” said I. “A rowdy kid like that is just the -kind that parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief get -up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of this -mountain and reconnoitre.”</p> - -<p>I went up on the peak of the little mountain and ran -my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over toward Summit -I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village -armed with scythes and pitchforks beating the countryside -for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I saw was -a peaceful landscape dotted with one man ploughing -with a dun mule. Nobody was dragging the creek; no -couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing tidings of no -news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan -attitude of somnolent sleepiness pervading that section -of the external outward surface of Alabama that lay -exposed to my view. “Perhaps,” says I to myself, -“it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have -borne away the tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -help the wolves!” says I, and I went down the mountain -to breakfast.</p> - -<p>When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up against -the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy threatening to -smash him with a rock half as big as a cocoanut.</p> - -<p>“He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back,” -explained Bill, “and then mashed it with his foot; and -I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you, -Sam?”</p> - -<p>I took the rock away from the boy and kind of patched -up the argument. “I’ll fix you,” says the kid to Bill. -“No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he -got paid for it. You better beware!”</p> - -<p>After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with -strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes -outside the cave unwinding it.</p> - -<p>“What’s he up to now?” says Bill, anxiously. “You -don’t think he’ll run away, do you, Sam?”</p> - -<p>“No fear of it,” says I. “He don’t seem to be much -of a home body. But we’ve got to fix up some plan -about the ransom. There don’t seem to be much excitement -around Summit on account of his disappearance; -but maybe they haven’t realized yet that he’s -gone. His folks may think he’s spending the night -with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbors. Anyhow, he’ll -be missed to-day. To-night we must get a message -to his father demanding the two thousand dollars for -his return.”</p> - -<p>Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, such as David -might have emitted when he knocked out the champion -Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had pulled out -of his pocket, and he was whirling it around his head.</p> - -<p>I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a -sigh from Bill, like a horse gives out when you take -his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the size of an egg had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> -caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened himself -all over and fell in the fire across the frying pan -of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged him -out and poured cold water on his head for half an -hour.</p> - -<p>By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and -says: “Sam, do you know who my favorite Biblical -character is?”</p> - -<p>“Take it easy,” says I. “You’ll come to your senses -presently.”</p> - -<p>“King Herod,” says he. “You won’t go away and -leave me here alone, will you, Sam?”</p> - -<p>I went out and caught that boy and shook him until -his freckles rattled.</p> - -<p>“If you don’t behave,” says I, “I’ll take you straight -home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?”</p> - -<p>“I was only funning,” says he sullenly. “I didn’t -mean to hurt Old Hank. But what did he hit me for? -I’ll behave, Snake-eye, if you won’t send me home, and -if you’ll let me play the Black Scout to-day.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know the game,” says I. “That’s for you -and Mr. Bill to decide. He’s your playmate for the -day. I’m going away for a while, on business. Now, -you come in and make friends with him and say -you are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at -once.”</p> - -<p>I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took -Bill aside and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, a -little village three miles from the cave, and find out -what I could about how the kidnapping had been regarded -in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a -peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding -the ransom and dictating how it should be paid.</p> - -<p>“You know, Sam,” says Bill, “I’ve stood by you -without batting an eye in earthquakes, fire, and flood—in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, train -robberies, and cyclones. I never lost my nerve yet till -we kidnapped that two-legged skyrocket of a kid. He’s -got me going. You won’t leave me long with him, will -you, Sam?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll be back some time this afternoon,” says I. -“You must keep the boy amused and quiet till I return. -And now we’ll write the letter to old Dorset.”</p> - -<p>Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the -letter while Red Chief, with a blanket wrapped around -him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the -cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make the ransom -fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. “I -ain’t attempting,” says he, “to decry the celebrated -moral aspect of parental affection, but we’re dealing -with humans, and it ain’t human for anybody to give -up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk -of freckled wildcat. I’m willing to take a chance at -fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the difference -up to me.”</p> - -<p>So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated a -letter that ran this way:</p> - -<div class="pbq"> - -<p class="p1">“<i>Ebenezer Dorset, Esq.</i>:</p> - -<p>“We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. -It is useless for you or the most skillful detectives to attempt to -find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can have him -restored to you are these: We demand fifteen hundred dollars in -large bills for his return; the money to be left at midnight to-night -at the same spot and in the same box as your reply—as hereinafter -described. If you agree to these terms, send your answer in -writing by a solitary messenger to-night at half-past eight o’clock. -After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are -three large trees about a hundred yards apart, close to the fence -of the wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the -fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small pasteboard -box.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span></p> - -<p>“The messenger will place the answer in this box and return -immediately to Summit.</p> - -<p>“If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our demand -as stated, you will never see your boy again.</p> - -<p>“If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you -safe and well within three hours. These terms are final, and if -you do not accede to them no further communication will be -attempted.</p> - -<p class="pr2">“<span class="smcap">Two Desperate Men.</span>”</p></div> - -<p class="p1">I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in my -pocket. As I was about to start, the kid comes up to -me and says:</p> - -<p>“Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black -Scout while you was gone.”</p> - -<p>“Play it, of course,” says I. “Mr. Bill will play -with you. What kind of a game is it?”</p> - -<p>“I’m the Black Scout,” says Red Chief, “and I -have to ride to the stockade to warn the settlers that -the Indians are coming. I’m tired of playing Indian -myself. I want to be the Black Scout.”</p> - -<p>“All right.” says I. “It sounds harmless to me. -I guess Mr. Bill will help you foil the pesky savages.”</p> - -<p>“What am I to do?” asks Bill, looking at the kid -suspiciously.</p> - -<p>“You are the hoss,” says Black Scout. “Get down -on your hands and knees. How can I ride to the stockade -without a hoss?”</p> - -<p>“You’d better keep him interested,” said I, “till we -get the scheme going. Loosen up.”</p> - -<p>Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in -his eye like a rabbit’s when you catch it in a trap.</p> - -<p>“How far is it to the stockade, kid?” he asks, in a -husky manner of voice.</p> - -<p>“Ninety miles,” says the Black Scout. “And you -have to hump yourself to get there on time. Whoa, -now!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Black Scout jumps on Bill’s back and digs his -heels in his side.</p> - -<p>“For Heaven’s sake,” says Bill, “hurry back, Sam, -as soon as you can. I wish we hadn’t made the ransom -more than a thousand. Say, you quit kicking me or I’ll -get up and warm you good.”</p> - -<p>I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the -post-office and store, talking with the chawbacons that -came in to trade. One whiskerando says that he hears -Summit is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset’s -boy having been lost or stolen. That was all I -wanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, referred -casually to the price of black-eyed peas, posted -my letter surreptitiously, and came away. The postmaster -said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour -to take the mail on to Summit.</p> - -<p>When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were -not to be found. I explored the vicinity of the cave, and -risked a yodel or two, but there was no response.</p> - -<p>So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank -to await developments.</p> - -<p>In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, and -Bill wabbled out into the little glade in front of the -cave. Behind him was the kid, stepping softly like a -scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill stopped, took -off his hat, and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. -The kid stopped about eight feet behind him.</p> - -<p>“Sam,” says Bill, “I suppose you’ll think I’m a -renegade, but I couldn’t help it. I’m a grown person -with masculine proclivities and habits of self-defence, -but there is a time when all systems of egotism and predominance -fail. The boy is gone. I have sent him -home. All is off. There was martyrs in old times,” goes -on Bill, “that suffered death rather than give up the -particular graft they enjoyed. None of ’em ever was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> -subjugated to such supernatural tortures as I have been. -I tried to be faithful to our articles of depredation; but -there came a limit.”</p> - -<p>“What’s the trouble, Bill?” I asks him.</p> - -<p>“I was rode,” says Bill, “the ninety miles to the -stockade, not barring an inch. Then, when the settlers -was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain’t a palatable -substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to -explain to him why there was nothin’ in holes, how a -road can run both ways, and what makes the grass -green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so -much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and drags -him down the mountain. On the way he kicks my legs -black-and-blue from the knees down; and I’ve got to -have two or three bites on my thumb and hand cauterized.</p> - -<p>“But he’s gone”—continues Bill—“gone home. I -showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about -eight feet nearer there at one kick. I’m sorry we lose -the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to -the madhouse.”</p> - -<p>Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of -ineffable peace and growing content on his rose-pink -features.</p> - -<p>“Bill,” says I, “there isn’t any heart disease in -your family, is there?”</p> - -<p>“No,” says Bill, “nothing chronic except malaria -and accidents. Why?”</p> - -<p>“Then you might turn around,” says I, “and have -a look behind you.”</p> - -<p>Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion -and sits down plump on the ground and begins to pluck -aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was -afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my -scheme was to put the whole job through immediately<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> -and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by -midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. So -Bill braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort of -a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a Japanese -war with him as soon as he felt a little better.</p> - -<p>I had a scheme for collecting that ransom without danger -of being caught by counterplots that ought to commend -itself to professional kidnappers. The tree under -which the answer was to be left—and the money later -on—was close to the road fence with big, bare fields -on all sides. If a gang of constables should be watching -for any one to come for the note, they could see -him a long way off crossing the fields or in the road. -But no, sirree! At half-past eight I was up in that tree -as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the messenger -to arrive.</p> - -<p>Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road -on a bicycle, locates the pasteboard box at the foot of the -fence-post, slips a folded piece of paper into it, and -pedals away again back toward Summit.</p> - -<p>I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was -square. I slid down the tree, got the note, slipped along -the fence till I struck the woods, and was back at the -cave in another half an hour. I opened the note, got -near the lantern, and read it to Bill. It was written with -a pen in a crabbed hand, and the sum and substance of -it was this:</p> - -<div class="pbq"> - -<p class="pn1">“<i>Two Desperate Men.</i></p> - -<p>“<i>Gentlemen</i>: I received your letter to-day by post, in regard to -the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a -little high in your demands, and I hereby make you a counter-proposition, -which I am inclined to believe you will accept. You -bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars -in cash, and I agree to take him off your hands. You had better -come at night, for the neighbors believe he is lost, and I couldn’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> -be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing -him back.</p> - -<p class="pr8">Very respectfully,</p> -<p class="pr2">“<span class="smcap">Ebenezer Dorset</span>.”</p></div> - -<p class="p1">“Great pirates of Penzance!” says I; “of all the -impudent——”</p> - -<p>But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most -appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a -dumb or a talking brute.</p> - -<p>“Sam,” says he, “what’s two hundred and fifty dollars, -after all? We’ve got the money. One more night -of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. Besides -being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a -spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You -ain’t going to let the chance go, are you?”</p> - -<p>“Tell you the truth, Bill,” says I, “this little he ewe -lamb has somewhat got on my nerves too. We’ll take -him home, pay the ransom, and make our get-away.”</p> - -<p>We took him home that night. We got him to go -by telling him that his father had bought a silver-mounted -rifle and a pair of moccasins for him, and we -were going to hunt bears the next day.</p> - -<p>It was just twelve o’clock when we knocked at Ebenezer’s -front door. Just at the moment when I should have -been abstracting the fifteen hundred dollars from the box -under the tree, according to the original proposition, -Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars -into Dorset’s hand.</p> - -<p>When the kid found out we were going to leave him -at home he started up a howl like a calliope and fastened -himself as tight as a leech to Bill’s leg. His -father peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster.</p> - -<p>“How long can you hold him?” asks Bill.</p> - -<p>“I’m not as strong as I used to be,” says old Dorset, -“but I think I can promise you ten minutes.”</p> - -<p>“Enough,” says Bill. “In ten minutes I shall cross<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> -the Central, Southern, and Middle Western States, and -be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border.”</p> - -<p>And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as -good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half -out of Summit before I could catch up with him.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">THE FRESHMAN FULL-BACK</h2> - -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> - -<p class="pc1 mid"><span class="smcap">Ralph D. Paine</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">The chief interest in “The Freshman Full-Back” is -that of character. The action has real dramatic quality -and is staged with the local color of a college contest. -But the great value of the action is ethical, for it shows -that one may “wrest victory from defeat” and that it -is a shameful thing to be a “coward and a quitter.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">THE FRESHMAN FULL-BACK<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[12]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">The boyish night city editor glanced along the copy-readers’ -table and petulantly exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“Isn’t that spread head ready yet, Mr. Seeley? It -goes on the front page and we are holding open for it. -Whew, but you are slow. You ought to be holding down -a job on a quarterly review.”</p> - -<p>A portly man of middle age dropped his pencil and -turned heavily in his chair to face the source of this -public humiliation. An angry flush overspread his face -and he chewed at a grayish mustache as if fighting -down rebellion. His comrades at the long table had -looked up from their work and were eyeing the oldest -copy-reader with sympathetic uneasiness while they -hoped that he would be able to hold himself in hand. -The night city editor felt the tension of this brief tableau -and awaited the threatened outbreak with a nervous -smile. But Seeley jerked his green eyeshade so low that -his face was partly in eclipse, and wheeled round to -resume his task with a catch of the breath and a tone -of surrender in his reply.</p> - -<p>“The head will be ready in five minutes, sir. The -last pages of the story are just coming in.”</p> - -<p>A much younger man, at the farther end of the table, -whispered to his neighbor:</p> - -<p>“That’s cheap and nasty, to call down old man -Seeley as if he were a cub reporter. He may have -lost his grip, but he deserves decent treatment for what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -he has been. Managing editor of this very sheet, London -correspondent before that, and the crack man of -the staff when most of the rest of us were in short -breeches. And now Henry Harding Seeley isn’t any -too sure of keeping his job on the copy-desk.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what the New York newspaper game can do -to you if you stick at it too long,” murmured the other. -“Back to the farm for mine.”</p> - -<p>It was long after midnight when these two put on -their coats and bade the city editor’s desk a perfunctory -“Good-night.”</p> - -<p>They left Henry Harding Seeley still slumped in his -chair, writing with dogged industry.</p> - -<p>“He’s dead tired, you can see that,” commented -one of the pair as they headed for Broadway, “but, as -usual, he is grinding out stuff for the Sunday sheet after -hours. He must need the extra coin mighty bad. I -came back for my overcoat at four the other morning, -after the poker game, and he was still pegging away -just like that.”</p> - -<p>Other belated editors and reporters of the <i>Chronicle</i> -staff drifted toward the elevator, until the gray-haired -copy-reader was left alone in the city room as if marooned. -Writing as steadily as if he were a machine -warranted to turn out so many words an hour, Seeley -urged his pencil until the last page was finished. Then -he read and corrected the “story,” slipped it through -a slit in a door marked “Sunday Editor,” and trudged -out, while the tower clock was striking three.</p> - -<p>Instead of seeking the chop-house, wherein the vivacious -and tireless youth of the staff were wont to linger -over supper, he turned into a side street and betook -himself to a small café as yet unfrequented by the night-owls -of journalism. Seeley was a beaten man, and he -preferred to nurse his wounds in a morbid isolation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -His gait and aspect were those of one who was stolidly -struggling on the defensive, as if hostile circumstances -had driven him into a corner where he was making his -last stand.</p> - -<p>Through the years of his indomitable youth as a reporter -of rare ability and resourcefulness, he had never -spared himself. Burning the candle at both ends, with -a vitality which had seemed inexhaustible, he had won -step after step of promotion until, at forty, he was made -managing editor of that huge and hard-driven organization, -the <i>New York Chronicle</i>. For five years of -racking responsibility Henry Harding Seeley had been -able to maintain the pace demanded of his position.</p> - -<p>Then came an error of judgment—a midnight decision -demanded of a fagged mind—and his O. K. was -scrawled upon the first sheet of a story of embezzlement -in Wall Street. By an incredible blunder the name -of the fugitive cashier was coupled with that of the -wrong bank. Publication of the <i>Chronicle</i> story started -a terrific run on this innocent institution, which won its -libel suit against the newspaper in the amount of one -hundred thousand dollars.</p> - -<p>The managing editor, two reporters, and the copy-reader -who had handled the fatal manuscript, were -swept out of the building by one cyclonic order from -the owner thereof. Henry Seeley accepted his indirect -responsibility for the disaster in grim, manly fashion, -and straightway sought another berth befitting his -journalistic station. But his one costly slip was more -than a nine-days’ scandal along Park Row, and other -canny proprietors were afraid that he might hit them -in the very vital regions of their pockets. Worse than -this, his confidence in himself had suffered mortal damage. -The wear and tear of his earlier years had left<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -him with little reserve power, and he went to pieces in -the face of adverse fortune.</p> - -<p>“Worked out at forty-five,” was the verdict of his -friends, and they began to pity him.</p> - -<p>The will to succeed had been broken, but Seeley -might have rallied had not his wife died during the -ebb-tide of his affairs. She had walked hand in hand -with him since his early twenties, her faith in him -had been his mainstay, and his happiness in her complete -and beautiful. Bereft of her when he stood most -in need of her, he seemed to have no more fight in him, -and, drifting from one newspaper office to another, he -finally eddied into his old “shop” as a drudging copy-reader -and an object of sympathy to a younger -generation.</p> - -<p>There was one son, strong, bright, eager, and by dint -of driving his eternally wearied brain overtime, the father -had been able to send him to Yale, his own alma -mater. More or less pious deception had led young -Ernest Seeley to believe that his father had regained -much of his old-time prestige with the <i>Chronicle</i> and -that he had a hand in guiding its editorial destinies. -The lad was a Freshman, tremendously absorbed in the -activities of the autumn term, and his father was content -that he should be so hedged about by the interests -of the campus world as to have small time or thought -for the grizzled, taciturn toiler in New York.</p> - -<p>This was the kind of man that trudged heavily into -the little German café of an early morning after his -long night’s slavery at the copy-desk. His mind, embittered -and sensitive to slights like a raw nerve, was -brooding over the open taunt of the night city editor, -who had been an office boy under him in the years gone -by. From force of habit he seated himself at a table -in the rear of the room, shunning the chance of having<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> -to face an acquaintance. Unfolding a copy of the city -edition, which had been laid on his desk damp from -the press-room, Seeley scanned the front page with -scowling uneasiness, as if fearing to find some blunder -of his own handiwork. Then he turned to the sporting -page and began to read the football news.</p> - -<p>His son Ernest had been playing as a substitute -with the university eleven, an achievement which stirred -the father’s pride without moving his enthusiasm. And -the boy, chilled by his father’s indifference, had said -little about it during his infrequent visits to New York. -But now the elder Seeley sat erect, and his stolid countenance -was almost animated as he read, under a New -Haven date line:</p> - -<p class="pbq p1">“The Yale confidence of winning the game with Princeton to-morrow -has been shattered, and gloom enshrouds the camp of -the Elis to-night. Collins, the great full-back, who has been the -key-stone of Yale’s offensive game, was taken to the infirmary -late this afternoon. He complained of feeling ill after the signal -practice yesterday; fever developed overnight, and the consulting -physicians decided that he must be operated on for appendicitis -without delay. His place in the Princeton game will be filled by -Ernest Seeley, the Freshman, who has been playing a phenomenal -game in the back-field, but who is so lacking in experience that -the coaches are all at sea to-night. The loss of Collins has swung -the betting around to even money instead of 5 to 3 on Yale.”</p> - -<p class="p1">The elder Seeley wiped his glasses as if not sure that -he had read aright.</p> - -<p>Ernest had seemed to him no more than a sturdy -infant and here he was, on the eve of a championship -football battle, picked to fight for the “old blue.” The -father’s career at Yale had been a most honorable one. -He, too, had played on the eleven and had helped to -win two desperate contests against Princeton. But all -this belonged to a part of his life which was dead and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> -done for. He had not achieved in after years what Yale -expected of him, and his record there was with his buried -memories.</p> - -<p>Supper was forgotten while Henry Seeley wondered -whether he really wanted to go to New Haven to see -his boy play. Many of his old friends and classmates -would be there and he did not wish to meet them.</p> - -<p>And it stung him to the quick as he reflected:</p> - -<p>“I should be very happy to see him win, but—but to -see him whipped! I couldn’t brace and comfort him. -And supposing it breaks his heart to be whipped as it -has broken mine? No, I won’t let myself think that. -I’m a poor Yale man and a worse father, but I couldn’t -stand going up there to-day.”</p> - -<p>Even more humiliating was the thought that he would -shrink from asking leave of the city editor. Saturday -was not his “day off,” and he so greatly hated to ask -favors at the office, that the possibility of being rebuffed -was more than he was willing to face.</p> - -<p>Into his unhappy meditations broke a boisterous hail:</p> - -<p>“Diogenes Seeley, as I live. Why, you old rascal, -I thought you were dead or something. Glad I didn’t -get foolish and go to bed. Here, waiter, get busy.”</p> - -<p>Seeley was startled, and he looked much more distressed -than rejoiced as he lumbered from his table to -grasp the outstretched hand of a classmate. The opera-hat -of this Mr. Richard Giddings was cocked at a rakish -angle, his blue eye twinkled good cheer and youthful -hilarity, and his aspect was utterly care-free.</p> - -<p>“How are you, Dick?” said Seeley, with an unusual -smile which singularly brightened his face. “You -don’t look a day older than when I last saw you. Still -cutting coupons for a living?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, money is the least of my worries,” gayly rattled -Mr. Giddings. “Been doing the heavy society act to-night,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> -and on my way home found I needed some -sauerkraut and beer to tone up my jaded system. By -Jove, Harry, you’re as gray as a badger. This newspaper -game must be bad for the nerves. Lots of fellows -have asked me about you. Never see you at the -University Club, nobody sees you anywhere. Remarkable -how a man can lose himself right here in New -York. Still running the <i>Chronicle</i>, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“I’m still in the old shop, Dick,” replied Seeley, glad -to be rid of this awkward question. “But I work -nearly all night and sleep most of the day, and am like -a cog in a big machine that never stops grinding.”</p> - -<p>“Shouldn’t do it. Wears a man out,” and Mr. Giddings -sagely nodded his head. “Course you are going -up to the game to-day. Come along with me. Special -car with a big bunch of your old pals inside. They’ll -be tickled to death to find I’ve dug you out of your hole. -Hello! Is that this morning’s paper? Let me look at -the sporting page. Great team at New Haven, they -tell me. What’s the latest odds? I put up a thousand -at five to three last week and am looking for some -more easy money.”</p> - -<p>The alert eye of the volatile Richard Giddings swept -down the New Haven dispatch like lightning.</p> - -<p>With a grievous outcry he smote the table and shouted:</p> - -<p>“Collins out of the game? Great Scott, Harry, that’s -awful news. And a green Freshman going to fill his -shoes at the last minute. I feel like weeping, honest I -do. Who the deuce is this Seeley? Any kin of yours? -I suppose not or you would have bellowed it at me -before this.”</p> - -<p>“He is my only boy, Dick,” and the father held up -his head with a shadow of his old manner. “I didn’t -know he had the ghost of a show to make the team until -I saw this dispatch.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Then, of course, you are coming up with me,” -roared Mr. Giddings. “I hope he’s a chip of the old -block. If he has your sand they can’t stop him. Jumping -Jupiter, they couldn’t have stopped you with an -axe when you were playing guard in our time, Harry. -I feel better already to know that it is your kid going -in at full-back to-day.”</p> - -<p>“No, I’m not going up, Dick,” said Seeley slowly. -“For one thing, it is too short notice for me to break -away from the office, and I—I haven’t the nerve to -watch the boy go into the game. I’m not feeling very -fit.”</p> - -<p>“Stuff and nonsense, you need a brain cure,” vociferated -Richard Giddings. “You, an old Yale guard, -with a pup on the team, and he a Freshman at that! -Throw out your chest, man; tell the office to go to the -devil—where all newspapers belong—and meet me at the -station at ten o’clock sharp. You talk and look like the -oldest living grad with one foot in the grave.”</p> - -<p>Seeley flushed and bit his lip. His dulled realization -of what Yale had been to him was quickened by this -tormenting comrade of the brave days of old, but he -could not be shaken from his attitude of morbid self-effacement.</p> - -<p>“No, Dick, it’s no use,” he returned with a tremulous -smile. “You can’t budge me. But give my love -to the crowd and tell them to cheer for that youngster -of mine until they’re blue in the face.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Richard Giddings eyed him quizzically, and surmised -that something or other was gravely wrong with -his grizzled classmate. But Seeley offered no more explanations -and the vivacious intruder fell to his task -of demolishing sauerkraut with great gusto, after which -he nimbly vanished into a cruising hansom with a sense -of having been rebuffed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p> - -<p>Seeley watched him depart at great speed and then -plodded toward his up-town lodgings. His sleep was -distressed with unhappy dreams, and during a wakeful -interval he heard a knock at his sitting-room door.</p> - -<p>An office boy from the <i>Chronicle</i> editorial rooms gave -him a note and waited for an answer.</p> - -<p>Seeley recognized the handwriting of the managing -editor and was worried, for he was always expecting -the worst to happen. He sighed with relieved surprise -as he read:</p> - -<div class="pbq"> -<p class="pn1">“<span class="smcap">My Dear Mr. Seeley</span>:</p> - -<p>“Please go to New Haven as soon as possible and do a couple -of columns of descriptive introduction of the Yale-Princeton game. -The sporting department will cover the technical story, but a big -steamboat collision has just happened in North River, two or three -hundred drowned and so on, and I need every man in the shop. -As an old Yale player I am sure I can depend on you for a good -story, and I know you used to do this kind of stuff in fine style.”</p></div> - -<p class="p1">Seeley fished his watch from under a pillow. It was -after ten o’clock and the game would begin at two. -While he hurried into his clothes he was conscious of -a distinct thrill of excited interest akin to his old-time -joy in the day’s work. Could he “do this kind of stuff -in fine style”? Why, before his brain had begun to -be always tired, when he was the star reporter of the -<i>Chronicle</i>, his football introductions had been classics -in Park Row. If there was a spark of the old -fire left in him he would try to strike it out, and for -the moment he forgot the burden of inertia which had -so long crushed him.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t want to run into Dick Giddings and -his crowd,” he muttered as he sought his hat and overcoat. -“And I’ll be up in the press-box away from the -mob of old grads. Perhaps my luck has turned.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p> - -<p>When Henry Seeley reached the Yale field the eleven -had gone to the dressing-rooms in the training house, -and he hovered on the edge of the flooding crowds, -fairly yearning for a glimpse of the Freshman full-back -and a farewell grasp of his hand. The habitual dread -lest the son find cause to be ashamed of his father had -been shoved into the background by a stronger, more -natural emotion. But he well knew that he ought not -to invade the training quarters in these last crucial moments. -Ernest must not be distraught by a feather’s -weight of any other interest than the task in hand. The -coaches would be delivering their final words of instruction -and the old Yale guard could picture to himself -the tense absorption of the scene. Like one coming -out of a dream, the past was returning to him in -vivid, heart-stirring glimpses. Reluctantly he sought -his place in the press-box high above the vast amphitheatre.</p> - -<p>The preliminary spectacle was movingly familiar: the -rippling banks of color which rose on all sides to frame -the long carpet of chalked turf; the clamorous outbursts -of cheering when an eddy of Yale or Princeton -undergraduates swirled and tossed at command of the -dancing dervish of a leader at the edge of the field below; -the bright, buoyant aspect of the multitude as -viewed en masse. Seeley leaned against the railing of his -lofty perch and gazed at this pageant until a sporting -editor, long in harness, nudged his elbow and said:</p> - -<p>“Hello! I haven’t seen you at a game in a dozen -years. Doing the story or just working the press-badge -graft? That namesake of yours will be meat for the -Tigers, I’m afraid. Glad he doesn’t belong to you, aren’t -you?”</p> - -<p>Seeley stared at him like a man in a trance and replied -evasively:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p> - -<p>“He may be good enough. It all depends on his -sand and nerve. Yes, I am doing the story for a change. -Have you the final line-up?”</p> - -<p>“Princeton is playing all her regular men,” said -the sporting editor, giving Seeley his note-book. “The -only Yale change is at full-back—and that’s a catastrophe.”</p> - -<p>Seeley copied the lists for reference and his pencil -was not steady when he came to “Full-back, Ernest -T. Seeley.” But he pulled his thoughts away from -the eleven and began to jot down notes of the passing -incidents which might serve to weave into the fabric -of his description. The unwonted stimulus aroused his -talent as if it were not dead but dormant. The scene -appealed to him with almost as much freshness and -color as if he were observing it for the first time.</p> - -<p>A roar of cheering rose from a far corner of the field -and ran swiftly along the Yale side of the amphitheatre, -which blossomed in tossing blue. The Yale eleven scampered -into view like colts at pasture, the substitutes -veering toward the benches behind the side-line. Without -more ado the team scattered in formation for signal -practice, paying no heed to the tumult which raged -around and above them. Agile, clean-limbed, splendid -in their disciplined young manhood, the dark blue -of their stockings and the white “Y” gleaming on -their sweaters fairly trumpeted their significance to -Henry Seeley. And poised behind the rush-line, wearing -his hard-won university blue, was the lithe figure of -the Freshman full-back, Ernest Seeley.</p> - -<p>The youngster, whose fate it was to be called a “forlorn -hope,” looked fragile beside his comrades of the -eleven. Although tall and wiry, he was like a greyhound -in a company of mastiffs. His father, looking -down at him from so great a height that he could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -read his face, muttered to himself while he dug his nails -into his palms:</p> - -<p>“He is too light for this day’s work. But he carries -himself like a thoroughbred.”</p> - -<p>The boy and his fellows seemed singularly remote -from the shouting thousands massed so near them. -They had become the sole arbiters of their fate, and -their impressive isolation struck Henry Seeley anew as -the most dramatic feature of this magnificent picture. -He must sit idly by and watch his only son battle through -the most momentous hour of his young life, as if he -were gazing down from another planet.</p> - -<p>The staccato cheers of Princeton rocketed along the -other side of the field, and the eleven from Old Nassau -ran briskly over the turf and wheeled into line for a last -rehearsal of their machine-like tactics. Henry Seeley -was finding it hard to breathe, just as it had happened -in other days when he was waiting for the “kick-off” -and facing a straining Princeton line. The minutes were -like hours while the officials consulted with the captains -in the centre of the field. Then the two elevens ranged -themselves across the brown turf, there was breathless -silence, and a Princeton toe lifted the ball far down -toward the Yale goal. It was the young full-back who -waited to receive the opening kick, while his comrades -thundered toward him to form a flying screen of interference. -But the twisting ball bounded from his too -eager arms, and another Yale back fell on it in time -to save it from the clutches of a meteoric Princeton end.</p> - -<p>“Nervous. Hasn’t steadied down yet,” exclaimed a -reporter behind Henry Seeley. “But he can’t afford -to give Princeton any more chances like that. Her ends -are faster than chain lightning.”</p> - -<p>The father groaned and wiped the sweat from his -eyes. If the team were afraid of this untried full-back,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> -such a beginning would not give them confidence. Then -the two lines locked and heaved in the first scrimmage, -and a stocky Yale half-back was pulled down in his -tracks. Again the headlong Princeton defence held -firm and the Yale captain gasped, “Second down and -three yards to gain.” The Yale interferers sped to -circle one end of the line, but they were spilled this way -and that and the runner went down a yard short of -the needed distance.</p> - -<p>The Yale full-back dropped back to punt. Far and -true the ball soared into the Princeton field, and the -lithe Freshman had somewhat redeemed himself. But -now, for their own part, the sons of Old Nassau found -themselves unable to make decisive gains against the -Yale defence. Greek met Greek in these early clashes, -and both teams were forced to punt again and again. -Trick-plays were spoiled by alert end-rushers for the -blue or the orange and black, fiercely launched assaults -at centre were torn asunder, and the longer the contest -raged up and down the field the more clearly it was -perceived that these ancient rivals were rarely well -matched in point of strength and strategy.</p> - -<p>The Yale coaches were dismayed at this turn of events. -They had hoped to see the ball carried toward the -Princeton goal by means of shrewdly devised teamwork, -instead of which the burden of the game was -shifted to one man, the weakest link in the chain, the -Freshman at full-back. He was punting with splendid -distance, getting the ball away when it seemed as if he -must be overwhelmed by the hurtling Tigers. Once -or twice, however, a hesitant nervousness almost wrought -quick disaster, and the Yale partisans watched him with -tormenting apprehension.</p> - -<p>The first half of the game was fought into the last -few minutes of play and neither eleven had been able<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -to score. Then luck and skill combined to force the -struggle far down into Yale territory. Only ten yards -more of trampled turf to gain and Princeton would -cross the last white line. The indomitable spirit which -had placed upon the escutcheon of Yale football the -figure of a bulldog rampant, rallied to meet this crisis, -and the hard-pressed line held staunch and won possession -of the ball on downs. Back to the very shadow -of his own goal-posts the Yale full-back ran to punt -the ball out of the danger zone. It shot fairly into -his grasp from a faultless pass, but his fingers juggled -the slippery leather as if it were bewitched. For a -frantic, awful instant he fumbled with the ball and -wildly dived after it as it caromed off to one side, -bounded crazily, and rolled beyond his reach.</p> - -<p>The Princeton quarter-back had darted through the -line like a bullet. Without slackening speed or veering -from his course, he scooped up the ball as he fled toward -the Yale goal-line. It was done and over within a -twinkling, and while the Yale team stampeded helplessly -in his wake the devastating hero was circling -behind the goal-posts where he flopped to earth, the -precious ball apparently embedded in his stomach. It -was a Princeton touchdown fairly won, but made possible -by the tragic blunder of one Yale man. While -ten thousand Princeton throats were barking their jubilation, -as many more loyal friends of Yale sat sad-eyed -and sullen and glowered their unspeakable displeasure -at the slim figure of the full-back as he limped into line -to face the try for goal.</p> - -<p>The goal was not scored, however, and the fateful -tally stood five to nothing when the first half ended, -with the blue banners drooping disconsolate.</p> - -<p>Henry Seeley pulled his slouch hat over his eyes and -sat with hunched shoulders staring at the Yale team<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -as it left the field for the intermission. He had forgotten -about his story of the game. The old spectre -of failure obsessed him. It was already haunting the -pathway of his boy. Was he also to be beaten by one -colossal blunder? Henry Seeley felt that Ernest’s whole -career hung upon his behavior in the second half. How -would the lad “take his medicine”? Would it break -his heart or rouse him to fight more valiantly? As if -the father had been thinking aloud, the sporting editor -at his side observed:</p> - -<p>“He may win the game yet. I like the looks of that -boy. But he did make a hideous mess of it, didn’t he? -I hope he hasn’t got a streak of yellow in him.”</p> - -<p>Henry Seeley turned on his neighbor with a savage -scowl and could not hold, back the quivering retort:</p> - -<p>“He belongs to me, I want you to understand, and -we’ll say nothing about yellow streaks until he has a -chance to make good next half.”</p> - -<p>“Whew-w-w, why did you hold it out on me, old -man?” gasped the sporting editor. “No wonder you -kicked me black and blue without knowing it. I hope -he is a chip of the old block. I saw you play here in -your last game.”</p> - -<p>Seeley grunted something and resumed staring at the -field. He was thinking of the present moment in the -training quarters, of the muddy, weary players sprawled -around the head coach, of his wise, bitter, stinging rebukes -and admonitions. Perhaps he would take Ernest -out of the game. But Seeley was confident that the -coaches would give the boy a chance to redeem himself -if they believed his heart was in the right place. Presently -the two teams trotted on the field, not as nimbly -as at their first appearance, but with dogged resolution -in their demeanor. Henry Seeley saw his son glance up -at the “cheering sections,” as if wondering whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> -their welcome was meant to include him. One cheer, -at least, was intended to greet him, for Henry Seeley -stood on his chair, waved his hat, and thundered:</p> - -<p>“‘Rah, ’rah, ’rah, for Yale, my boy. Eat ’em alive -as your daddy used to do.”</p> - -<p>The men from Princeton had no intention of being -devoured in this summary fashion. They resumed their -tireless, whirlwind attack like giants refreshed, and -so harried their Yale foemen that they were forced -to their utmost to ward off another touchdown. This -incessant battering dulled the edges of their offensive -tactics, and they seemed unable to set in motion a consistent -series of advances. But the joy of Princeton -was tempered by the knowledge that this, her dearest -enemy, was not beaten until the last play had been -signalled.</p> - -<p>And somehow the Yale machine of muscle, brains, -and power began to find itself when the afternoon shadows -were slanting athwart the arena. With the ball -on Princeton’s forty-yard line the chosen sons of Eli -began a heroic advance down the field. It was as if -some missing cog had been supplied. “Straight old-fashioned -football” it was, eleven minds and bodies -working as one and animated by a desperate resolve, -which carried the Yale team along for down after -down into the heart of Princeton’s ground.</p> - -<p>Perhaps because he was fresher than the other backs, -perhaps because the captain knew his man, the ball -was given to the Yale full-back for one swift and battering -assault after another. His slim figure pelted -at the rush-line, was overwhelmed in an avalanche of -striped arms and legs, but somehow twisted, wriggled, -dragged itself ahead as if there was no stopping him. -The multitude comprehended that this despised and -disgraced Freshman was working out his own salvation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> -along with that of his comrades. Once, when the -scrimmage was untangled, he was dragged from beneath -a heap of players, unable to regain his feet. -He lay on the grass a huddled heap, blood smearing -his forehead. A surgeon and the trainer doused and -bandaged him, and presently he staggered to his feet and -hobbled to his station, rubbing his hands across his eyes -as if dazed.</p> - -<p>When, at length, the stubbornly retreating Princeton -line had been driven deep down into their end of the -field, they, too, showed that they could hold fast in the -last extremity. The Yale attack crumpled against them -as if it had struck a stone wall. Young Seeley seemed -to be so crippled and exhausted that he had been given -a respite from the interlocked, hammering onslaught, -but at the third down the panting quarter-back croaked -out his signal. His comrades managed to rip a semblance -of an opening for him, he plunged through, -popped clear of the line, fell to his knees, recovered his -footing by a miracle of agility, and lunged onward, -to be brought down within five yards of the coveted -goal-posts.</p> - -<p>He had won the right to make the last momentous -charge. Swaying in his tracks, the full-back awaited -the summons. Then he dived in behind the interference -for a circuit of the right end. Two Princeton men -broke through as if they had been shot out of mortars, -but the Yale full-back had turned and was ploughing -straight ahead. Pulled down, dragging the tackler who -clung to his waist, he floundered to earth with most of -the Princeton team piled above him. But the ball lay -beyond the fateful chalk-line, the Yale touchdown was -won, and the game was tied.</p> - -<p>The captain clapped Seeley on the shoulder, nodded -at the ball, and the full-back limped on to the field<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> -to kick the goal or lose a victory. There were no more -signs of nervousness in his bearing. With grave deliberation -he stood waiting for the ball to be placed -in front of the goal-posts. The sun had dropped behind -the lofty grand-stands. The field lay in a kind -of wintry twilight. Thirty thousand men and women -gazed in tensest silence at the mud-stained, battered -youth who had become the crowning issue of this -poignant moment. Up in the press-box a thick-set, grayish -man dug his fists in his eyes and could not bear -to look at the lonely, reliant figure down yonder on -the quiet field. The father found courage to take his -hands from his face only when a mighty roar of joy -boomed along the Yale side of the amphitheatre, and he -saw the ball drop in a long arc behind the goal-posts. -The kick had won the game for Yale.</p> - -<p>Once clear of the crowds, Henry Seeley hurried toward -the training quarters. His head was up, his -shoulders squared, and he walked with the free stride -of an athlete. Mr. Richard Giddings danced madly -across to him:</p> - -<p>“Afraid to see him play were you, you silly old fool? -He is a chip of the old block. He didn’t know when -he was licked. Wow, wow, wow, blood will tell! Come -along with us, Harry.”</p> - -<p>“I must shake hands with the youngster, Dick. Glad -I changed my mind and came to see him do it.”</p> - -<p>“All right, see you at Mory’s to-night. Tell the boy -we’re all proud of him.”</p> - -<p>Seeley resumed his course, saying over and over -again, as if he loved the sound of the words, “chip of -the old block,” “blood will tell.”</p> - -<p>This verdict was like the ringing call of bugles. It -made him feel young, hopeful, resolute, that life were -worth having for the sake of its strife. One thing at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -least was certain. His son could “take his punishment” -and wrest victory from disaster, and he deserved -something better than a coward and a quitter for a -father.</p> - -<p>The full-back was sitting on a bench when the elder -Seeley entered the crowded, steaming room of the -training house. The surgeon had removed the muddy, -blood-stained bandage from around his tousled head -and was cleansing an ugly, ragged gash. The boy -scowled and winced but made no complaint, although -his bruised face was very pale.</p> - -<p>“Must have made you feel pretty foggy,” said the -surgeon. “I shall have to put in a few stitches. It -was a deuce of a thump.”</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t see very well and my legs went queer -for a few minutes, but I’m all right now, thanks,” replied -the full-back, and then, glancing up, he espied -his father standing near the door. The young hero of -the game beckoned him with a grimy fist. Henry Seeley -went over to him, took the fist in his two hands, -and then patted the boy’s cheek with awkward and unaccustomed -tenderness.</p> - -<p>“Sit still, Ernest. I won’t interfere with the doctor’s -job. I just wanted to let you know that I saw -your bully work. It made me think of—it made me -think of——”</p> - -<p>Henry Seeley’s voice broke curiously and his lip -quivered. He had not meant to show any emotion.</p> - -<p>His son replied with a smile of affectionate admiration:</p> - -<p>“It made you think of your own teams, didn’t it? -And I was thinking of you in that last half. It helped -my nerve a whole lot to remember that my dad never -knew when he was licked. Why, even the coaches told -me that between the halves. It put more ginger into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -me than anything else. We’ve got to keep up the family -record between us.”</p> - -<p>The father looked beyond the boy as if he were thinking -of a bigger, sterner game than football. There was -the light of a resurrected determination in his eyes, and -a vibrant earnestness in his voice as he said:</p> - -<p>“I’m not worrying about your keeping the family -record bright, Ernest. And, however things may go -with me, you will be able to hang fast to the doctrine -which helped you to-day, that your father, too, doesn’t -know when he is whipped.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">GALLEGHER</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">A NEWSPAPER STORY</p> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Richard Harding Davis</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This is an illustration of a popular type of the short-story. -The movement from beginning to end is swift -and urgent; something important is happening all the -time. Description is reduced to the minimum, and where -it is used does not impede the action. The local color -of a great newspaper office in a large city contributes to -the impression of orderly activity and haste. Gallegher, -moreover, is the kind of character that enlists sympathy -by his youth, his daring, and his resourcefulness.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">GALLEGHER<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[13]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">We had had so many office-boys before Gallegher -came among us that they had begun to lose the characteristics -of individuals, and became merged in a -composite photograph of small boys, to whom we -applied the generic title of “Here, you”; or “You, -boy.”</p> - -<p>We had had sleepy boys, and lazy boys, and bright, -“smart” boys, who became so familiar on so short -an acquaintance that we were forced to part with them -to save our own self-respect.</p> - -<p>They generally graduated into district-messenger -boys, and occasionally returned to us in blue coats with -nickel-plated buttons, and patronized us.</p> - -<p>But Gallegher was something different from anything -we had experienced before. Gallegher was short and -broad in build, with a solid, muscular broadness, and -not a fat and dumpy shortness. He wore perpetually -on his face a happy and knowing smile, as if you and -the world in general were not impressing him as seriously -as you thought you were, and his eyes, which -were very black and very bright, snapped intelligently -at you like those of a little black-and-tan terrier.</p> - -<p>All Gallegher knew had been learnt on the streets; -not a very good school in itself, but one that turns -out very knowing scholars. And Gallagher had attended -both morning and evening sessions. He could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> -tell you who the Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he -name the thirteen original States, but he knew all the -officers of the twenty-second police district by name, -and he could distinguish the clang of a fire-engine’s gong -from that of a patrol-wagon or an ambulance fully two -blocks distant. It was Gallegher who rang the alarm -when the Woolwich Mills caught fire, while the officer -on the beat was asleep, and it was Gallegher who led -the “Black Diamonds” against the “Wharf Rats,” -when they used to stone each other to their hearts’ -content on the coal-wharves of Richmond.</p> - -<p>I am afraid, now that I see these facts written down, -that Gallegher was not a reputable character; but he -was so very young and so very old for his years that -we all liked him very much nevertheless. He lived in -the extreme northern part of Philadelphia, where the -cotton- and woollen-mills run down to the river, and how -he ever got home after leaving the <i>Press</i> building at two -in the morning, was one of the mysteries of the office. -Sometimes he caught a night car, and sometimes he -walked all the way, arriving at the little house, where -his mother and himself lived alone, at four in the morning. -Occasionally he was given a ride on an early milk-cart, -or on one of the newspaper delivery wagons, with -its high piles of papers still damp and sticky from the -press. He knew several drivers of “night hawks”—those -cabs that prowl the streets at night looking for -belated passengers—and when it was a very cold morning -he would not go home at all, but would crawl into -one of these cabs and sleep, curled upon the cushions, -until daylight.</p> - -<p>Besides being quick and cheerful, Gallegher possessed -a power of amusing the <i>Press’s</i> young men to a degree -seldom attained by the ordinary mortal. His clog-dancing -on the city editor’s desk, when that gentleman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> -was upstairs fighting for two more columns of space, was -always a source of innocent joy to us, and his imitations -of the comedians of the variety halls delighted -even the dramatic critic, from whom the comedians themselves -failed to force a smile.</p> - -<p>But Gallegher’s chief characteristic was his love for -that element of news generically classed as “crime.”</p> - -<p>Not that he ever did anything criminal himself. On -the contrary, his was rather the work of the criminal -specialist, and his morbid interest in the doings of all -queer characters, his knowledge of their methods, their -present whereabouts, and their past deeds of transgression -often rendered him a valuable ally to our police -reporter, whose daily feuilletons were the only portion -of the paper Gallegher deigned to read.</p> - -<p>In Gallegher the detective element was abnormally -developed. He had shown this on several occasions, and -to excellent purpose.</p> - -<p>Once the paper had sent him into a Home for Destitute -Orphans which was believed to be grievously mismanaged, -and Gallegher, while playing the part of a -destitute orphan, kept his eyes open to what was going -on around him so faithfully that the story he told -of the treatment meted out to the real orphans was -sufficient to rescue the unhappy little wretches from the -individual who had them in charge, and to have -the individual himself sent to jail.</p> - -<p>Gallegher’s knowledge of the aliases, terms of imprisonment, -and various misdoings of the leading criminals -in Philadelphia was almost as thorough as that of the -chief of police himself, and he could tell to an hour when -“Dutchy Mack” was to be let out of prison, and could -identify at a glance “Dick Oxford, confidence man,” -as “Gentleman Dan, petty thief.”</p> - -<p>There were, at this time, only two pieces of news<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -in any of the papers. The least important of the two -was the big fight between the Champion of the United -States and the Would-be Champion, arranged to take -place near Philadelphia; the second was the Burrbank -murder, which was filling space in newspapers all over -the world, from New York to Bombay.</p> - -<p>Richard F. Burrbank was one of the most prominent -of New York’s railroad lawyers; he was also, as a -matter of course, an owner of much railroad stock, and -a very wealthy man. He had been spoken of as a political -possibility for many high offices, and, as the counsel -for a great railroad, was known even further than -the great railroad itself had stretched its system.</p> - -<p>At six o’clock one morning he was found by his butler -lying at the foot of the hall stairs with two pistol wounds -above his heart. He was quite dead. His safe, to -which only he and his secretary had the keys, was found -open, and $200,000 in bonds, stocks, and money, which -had been placed there only the night before, was found -missing. The secretary was missing also. His name -was Stephen S. Hade, and his name and his description -had been telegraphed and cabled to all parts of the -world. There was enough circumstantial evidence to -show, beyond any question or possibility of mistake, -that he was the murderer.</p> - -<p>It made an enormous amount of talk, and unhappy -individuals were being arrested all over the country, -and sent on to New York for identification. Three had -been arrested at Liverpool, and one man just as he -landed at Sydney, Australia. But so far the murderer -had escaped.</p> - -<p>We were all talking about it one night, as everybody -else was all over the country, in the local room, and -the city editor said it was worth a fortune to any one -who chanced to run across Hade and succeeded in handing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> -him over to the police. Some of us thought Hade -had taken passage from some one of the smaller sea-ports, -and others were of the opinion that he had buried -himself in some cheap lodging-house in New York, or -in one of the smaller towns in New Jersey.</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t be surprised to meet him out walking, -right here in Philadelphia,” said one of the staff. -“He’ll be disguised, of course, but you could always -tell him by the absence of the trigger finger on his -right hand. It’s missing, you know; shot off when -he was a boy.”</p> - -<p>“You want to look for a man dressed like a tough,” -said the city editor; “for as this fellow is to all appearances -a gentleman, he will try to look as little like -a gentleman as possible.”</p> - -<p>“No, he won’t,” said Gallegher, with that calm impertinence -that made him dear to us. “He’ll dress -just like a gentleman. Toughs don’t wear gloves, and -you see he’s got to wear ’em. The first thing he thought -of after doing for Burrbank was of that gone finger, -and how he was to hide it. He stuffed the finger of -that glove with cotton so’s to make it look like a whole -finger, and the first time he takes off that glove they’ve -got him—see, and he knows it. So what youse want to -do is to look for a man with gloves on. I’ve been a-doing -it for two weeks now, and I can tell you it’s hard work, -for everybody wears gloves this kind of weather. But -if you look long enough you’ll find him. And when you -think it’s him, go up to him and hold out your hand in -a friendly way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his hand; -and if you feel that his forefinger ain’t real flesh, but -just wadded cotton, then grip to it with your right -and grab his throat with your left, and holler for help.”</p> - -<p>There was an appreciative pause.</p> - -<p>“I see, gentlemen,” said the city editor, drily, “that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> -Gallegher’s reasoning has impressed you; and I also see -that before the week is out all of my young men will be -under bonds for assaulting innocent pedestrians whose -only offence is that they wear gloves in mid-winter.”</p> - -<table id="t05" summary="t05"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>It was about a week after this that Detective Hefflefinger, -of Inspector Byrnes’s staff, came over to Philadelphia -after a burglar, of whose whereabouts he had -been misinformed by telegraph. He brought the warrant, -requisition, and other necessary papers with him, -but the burglar had flown. One of our reporters had -worked on a New York paper, and knew Hefflefinger, -and the detective came to the office to see if he could -help him in his so far unsuccessful search.</p> - -<p>He gave Gallegher his card, and after Gallegher had -read it, and had discovered who the visitor was, he became -so demoralized that he was absolutely useless.</p> - -<p>“One of Byrnes’s men” was a much more awe-inspiring -individual to Gallegher than a member of the -Cabinet. He accordingly seized his hat and overcoat, -and leaving his duties to be looked after by others, hastened -out after the object of his admiration, who found -his suggestions and knowledge of the city so valuable, -and his company so entertaining, that they became -very intimate, and spent the rest of the day together.</p> - -<p>In the meanwhile the managing editor had instructed -his subordinates to inform Gallegher, when he condescended -to return, that his services were no longer -needed. Gallegher had played truant once too often. -Unconscious of this, he remained with his new friend -until late the same evening, and started the next afternoon -toward the <i>Press</i> office.</p> - -<p class="p2">As I have said, Gallegher lived in the most distant -part of the city, not many minutes’ walk from the Kensington<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> -railroad station, where trains ran into the suburbs -and on to New York.</p> - -<p>It was in front of this station that a smoothly-shaven, -well-dressed man brushed past Gallegher and hurried -up the steps to the ticket office.</p> - -<p>He held a walking-stick in his right hand, and Gallegher, -who now patiently scrutinized the hands of -every one who wore gloves, saw that while three fingers -of the man’s hand were closed around the cane, the -fourth stood out in almost a straight line with his -palm.</p> - -<p>Gallegher stopped with a gasp and with a trembling -all over his little body, and his brain asked with a throb -if it could be possible. But possibilities and probabilities -were to be discovered later. Now was the time -for action.</p> - -<p>He was after the man in a moment, hanging at his -heels and his eyes moist with excitement.</p> - -<p>He heard the man ask for a ticket to Torresdale, a -little station just outside of Philadelphia, and when -he was out of hearing, but not out of sight, purchased -one for the same place.</p> - -<p>The stranger went into the smoking-car, and seated -himself at one end toward the door. Gallegher took his -place at the opposite end.</p> - -<p>He was trembling all over, and suffered from a slight -feeling of nausea. He guessed it came from fright, -not of any bodily harm that might come to him, but -at the probability of failure in his adventure and of -its most momentous possibilities.</p> - -<p>The stranger pulled his coat collar up around his -ears, hiding the lower portion of his face, but not -concealing the resemblance in his troubled eyes and close-shut -lips to the likenesses of the murderer Hade.</p> - -<p>They reached Torresdale in half an hour, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -stranger, alighting quickly, struck off at a rapid pace -down the country road leading to the station.</p> - -<p>Gallegher gave him a hundred yards’ start, and then -followed slowly after. The road ran between fields and -past a few frame-houses set far from the road in kitchen -gardens.</p> - -<p>Once or twice the man looked back over his shoulder, -but he saw only a dreary length of road with a small -boy splashing through the slush in the midst of it and -stopping every now and again to throw snowballs at -belated sparrows.</p> - -<p>After a ten minutes’ walk the stranger turned into -a side road which led to only one place, the Eagle Inn, -an old roadside hostelry known now as the headquarters -for pothunters from the Philadelphia game market -and the battle-ground of many a cock-fight.</p> - -<p>Gallegher knew the place well. He and his young -companions had often stopped there when out chestnutting -on holidays in the autumn.</p> - -<p>The son of the man who kept it had often accompanied -them on their excursions, and though the boys -of the city streets considered him a dumb lout, they -respected him somewhat owing to his inside knowledge -of dog- and cock-fights.</p> - -<p>The stranger entered the inn at a side door, and Gallegher, -reaching it a few minutes later, let him go for -the time being, and set about finding his occasional -playmate, young Keppler.</p> - -<p>Keppler’s offspring was found in the wood-shed.</p> - -<p>“‘Tain’t hard to guess what brings you out here,” -said the tavern-keeper’s son, with a grin; “it’s the -fight.”</p> - -<p>“What fight?” asked Gallegher, unguardedly.</p> - -<p>“What fight? Why, <i>the</i> fight,” returned his companion, -with the slow contempt of superior knowledge.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p> - -<p>“It’s to come off here to-night. You knew that as -well as me; anyway your sportin’ editor knows it. He -got the tip last night, but that won’t help you any. You -needn’t think there’s any chance of your getting a peep -at it. Why, tickets is two hundred and fifty apiece!”</p> - -<p>“Whew!” whistled Gallegher, “where’s it to be?”</p> - -<p>“In the barn,” whispered Keppler. “I helped ’em -fix the ropes this morning, I did.”</p> - -<p>“Gosh, but you’re in luck,” exclaimed Gallegher, -with flattering envy. “Couldn’t I jest get a peep at -it?”</p> - -<p>“Maybe,” said the gratified Keppler. “There’s a -winder with a wooden shutter at the back of the barn. -You can get in by it, if you have some one to boost -you up to the sill.”</p> - -<p>“Sa-a-y,” drawled Gallegher, as if something had but -just that moment reminded him. “Who’s that gent -who come down the road just a bit ahead of me—him -with the cape-coat! Has he got anything to do with -the fight?”</p> - -<p>“Him?” repeated Keppler in tones of sincere disgust. -“No-oh, he ain’t no sport. He’s queer, Dad -thinks. He come here one day last week about ten in -the morning, said his doctor told him to go out ’en the -country for his health. He’s stuck up and citified, and -wears gloves, and takes his meals private in his room, -and all that sort of truck. They was saying in the saloon -last night that they thought he was hiding from something, -and Dad, just to try him, asks him last night if -he was coming to see the fight. He looked sort of scared, -and said he didn’t want to see no fight. And then Dad -says, ’I guess you mean you don’t want no fighters -to see you.’ Dad didn’t mean no harm by it, just -passed it as a joke; but Mr. Carleton, as he calls himself, -got white as a ghost an’ says, ’I’ll go to the fight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> -willing enough,’ and begins to laugh and joke. And -this morning he went right into the bar-room, where -all the sports were setting, and said he was going in to -town to see some friends; and as he starts off he laughs -an’ says, ’This don’t look as if I was afraid of seeing -people, does it?’ but Dad says it was just bluff that -made him do it, and Dad thinks that if he hadn’t said -what he did, this Mr. Carleton wouldn’t have left his -room at all.”</p> - -<p>Gallegher had got all he wanted, and much more than -he had hoped for—so much more that his walk back -to the station was in the nature of a triumphal march.</p> - -<p>He had twenty minutes to wait for the next train, -and it seemed an hour. While waiting he sent a telegram -to Hefflefinger at his hotel. It read: “Your man -is near the Torresdale station, on Pennsylvania Railroad; -take cab, and meet me at station. Wait until I -come. <span class="smcap">Gallegher.</span>”</p> - -<p>With the exception of one at midnight, no other -train stopped at Torresdale that evening, hence the direction -to take a cab.</p> - -<p>The train to the city seemed to Gallegher to drag -itself by inches. It stopped and backed at purposeless -intervals, waited for an express to precede it, and -dallied at stations, and when, at last, it reached the -terminus, Gallegher was out before it had stopped and -was in the cab and off on his way to the home of the -sporting editor.</p> - -<p>The sporting editor was at dinner and came out in -the hall to see him, with his napkin in his hand. Gallegher -explained breathlessly that he had located the -murderer for whom the police of two continents were -looking, and that he believed, in order to quiet the suspicions -of the people with whom he was hiding, that he -would be present at the fight that night.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> - -<p>The sporting editor led Gallegher into his library and -shut the door. “Now,” he said, “go over all that -again.”</p> - -<p>Gallegher went over it again in detail, and added how -he had sent for Hefflefinger to make the arrest in order -that it might be kept from the knowledge of the local -police and from the Philadelphia reporters.</p> - -<p>“What I want Hefflefinger to do is to arrest Hade -with the warrant he has for the burglar,” explained Gallegher; -“and to take him on to New York on the owl -train that passes Torresdale at one. It don’t get to -Jersey City until four o’clock, one hour after the morning -papers go to press. Of course, we must fix Hefflefinger -so’s he’ll keep quiet and not tell who his prisoner -really is.”</p> - -<p>The sporting editor reached his hand out to pat Gallegher -on the head, but changed his mind and shook -hands with him instead.</p> - -<p>“My boy,” he said, “you are an infant phenomenon. -If I can pull the rest of this thing off to-night, it will -mean the $5,000 reward and fame galore for you and -the paper. Now, I’m going to write a note to the managing -editor, and you can take it around to him and -tell him what you’ve done and what I am going to do, -and he’ll take you back on the paper and raise your -salary. Perhaps you didn’t know you’ve been discharged?”</p> - -<p>“Do you think you ain’t a-going to take me with -you?” demanded Gallegher.</p> - -<p>“Why, certainly not. Why should I? It all lies with -the detective and myself now. You’ve done your share, -and done it well. If the man’s caught, the reward’s -yours. But you’d only be in the way now. You’d better -go to the office and make your peace with the chief.”</p> - -<p>“If the paper can get along without me, I can get<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> -along without the old paper,” said Gallegher, hotly. -“And if I ain’t a-going with you, you ain’t neither, -for I know where Hefflefinger is to be, and you don’t, -and I won’t tell you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, very well, very well,” replied the sporting -editor, weakly capitulating. “I’ll send the note by a -messenger; only mind, if you lose your place, don’t blame -me.”</p> - -<p>Gallegher wondered how this man could value a -week’s salary against the excitement of seeing a noted -criminal run down, and of getting the news to the paper, -and to that one paper alone.</p> - -<p>From that moment the sporting editor sank in Gallegher’s -estimation.</p> - -<p>Mr. Dwyer sat down at his desk and scribbled off -the following note:</p> - -<div class="pbq"> - -<p class="p1">“I have received reliable information that Hade, the Burrbank -murderer, will be present at the fight to-night. We have -arranged it so that he will be arrested quietly and in such a manner -that the fact may be kept from all other papers. I need not -point out to you that this will be the most important piece of -news in the country to-morrow.</p> - -<p class="pr8">“Yours, etc.,</p> -<p class="pr2">“<span class="smcap">Michael E. Dwyer</span>.”</p></div> - -<p class="p1">The sporting editor stepped into the waiting cab, -while Gallegher whispered the directions to the driver. -He was told to go first to a district-messenger office, -and from there up to the Ridge Avenue Road, out -Broad Street, and on to the old Eagle Inn, near Torresdale.</p> - -<p class="p2">It was a miserable night. The rain and snow were -falling together, and freezing as they fell. The sporting -editor got out to send his message to the <i>Press</i> office,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> -and then lighting a cigar, and turning up the collar -of his great-coat, curled up in the corner of the cab.</p> - -<p>“Wake me when we get there, Gallegher,” he said. -He knew he had a long ride, and much rapid work before -him, and he was preparing for the strain.</p> - -<p>To Gallegher the idea of going to sleep seemed almost -criminal. From the dark corner of the cab his eyes -shone with excitement, and with the awful joy of anticipation. -He glanced every now and then to where -the sporting editor’s cigar shone in the darkness, and -watched it as it gradually burnt more dimly and went -out. The lights in the shop windows threw a broad -glare across the ice on the pavements, and the lights -from the lamp-posts tossed the distorted shadow of the -cab, and the horse, and the motionless driver, sometimes -before and sometimes behind them.</p> - -<p>After half an hour Gallegher slipped down to the -bottom of the cab and dragged out a lap-robe, in which -he wrapped himself. It was growing colder, and the -damp, keen wind swept in through the cracks until -the window-frames and woodwork were cold to the -touch.</p> - -<p>An hour passed, and the cab was still moving more -slowly over the rough surface of partly paved streets, -and by single rows of new houses standing at different -angles to each other in fields covered with ash-heaps and -brick-kilns. Here and there the gaudy lights of a -drug-store, and the forerunner of suburban civilization, -shone from the end of a new block of houses, and the -rubber cape of an occasional policeman showed in the -light of the lamp-post that he hugged for comfort.</p> - -<p>Then even the houses disappeared, and the cab -dragged its way between truck farms, with desolate-looking, -glass-covered beds, and pools of water, half-caked -with ice, and bare trees, and interminable fences.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span></p> - -<p>Once or twice the cab stopped altogether, and Gallegher -could hear the driver swearing to himself, or at -the horse, or the roads. At last they drew up before -the station at Torresdale. It was quite deserted, and -only a single light cut a swath in the darkness and -showed a portion of the platform, the ties, and the -rails glistening in the rain. They walked twice past -the light before a figure stepped out of the shadow and -greeted them cautiously.</p> - -<p>“I am Mr. Dwyer, of the <i>Press</i>,” said the sporting -editor, briskly. “You’ve heard of me, perhaps. Well, -there shouldn’t be any difficulty in our making a deal, -should there? This boy here has found Hade, and we -have reason to believe he will be among the spectators -at the fight to-night. We want you to arrest him quietly, -and as secretly as possible. You can do it with your -papers and your badge easily enough. We want you -to pretend that you believe he is this burglar you came -over after. If you will do this, and take him away -without any one so much as suspecting who he really -is, and on the train that passes here at 1.20 for New -York, we will give you $500 out of the $5,000 reward. -If, however, one other paper, either in New York or -Philadelphia, or anywhere else, knows of the arrest, you -won’t get a cent. Now, what do you say?”</p> - -<p>The detective had a great deal to say. He wasn’t -at all sure the man Gallegher suspected was Hade; he -feared he might get himself into trouble by making a -false arrest, and if it should be the man, he was afraid -the local police would interfere.</p> - -<p>“We’ve no time to argue or debate this matter,” -said Dwyer, warmly. “We agree to point Hade out to -you in the crowd. After the fight is over you arrest him -as we have directed, and you get the money and the -credit of the arrest. If you don’t like this, I will arrest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> -the man myself, and have him driven to town, with a -pistol for a warrant.”</p> - -<p>Hefflefinger considered in silence and then agreed -unconditionally. “As you say, Mr. Dwyer,” he returned. -“I’ve heard of you for a thoroughbred sport. -I know you’ll do what you say you’ll do; and as for -me I’ll do what you say and just as you say, and it’s a -very pretty piece of work as it stands.”</p> - -<p>They all stepped back into the cab, and then it was -that they were met by a fresh difficulty, how to get the -detective into the barn where the fight was to take place, -for neither of the two men had $250 to pay for his -admittance.</p> - -<p>But this was overcome when Gallegher remembered -the window of which young Keppler had told him.</p> - -<p>In the event of Hade’s losing courage and not daring -to show himself in the crowd around the ring, it was -agreed that Dwyer should come to the barn and warn -Hefflefinger; but if he should come, Dwyer was merely -to keep near him and to signify by a prearranged gesture -which one of the crowd he was.</p> - -<p>They drew up before a great black shadow of a house, -dark, forbidding, and apparently deserted. But at the -sound of the wheels on the gravel the door opened, letting -out a stream of warm, cheerful light, and a man’s -voice said, “Put out those lights. Don’t youse know -no better than that?” This was Keppler, and he welcomed -Mr. Dwyer with effusive courtesy.</p> - -<p>The two men showed in the stream of light, and the -door closed on them, leaving the house as it was at -first, black and silent, save for the dripping of the rain -and snow from the eaves.</p> - -<p>The detective and Gallegher put out the cab’s lamps -and led the horse toward a long, low shed in the rear -of the yard, which they now noticed was almost filled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -with teams of many different makes, from the Hobson’s -choice of a livery stable to the brougham of the man -about town.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Gallegher, as the cabman stopped to hitch -the horse beside the others, “we want it nearest that -lower gate. When we newspaper men leave this place -we’ll leave it in a hurry, and the man who is nearest -town is likely to get there first. You won’t be a-following -of no hearse when you make your return trip.”</p> - -<p>Gallegher tied the horse to the very gate-post itself, -leaving the gate open and allowing a clear road and a -flying start for the prospective race to Newspaper Row.</p> - -<p>The driver disappeared under the shelter of the porch, -and Gallegher and the detective moved off cautiously -to the rear of the barn. “This must be the window,” -said Hefflefinger, pointing to a broad wooden shutter -some feet from the ground.</p> - -<p>“Just you give me a boost once, and I’ll get that -open in a jiffy,” said Gallegher.</p> - -<p>The detective placed his hands on his knees, and Gallegher -stood upon his shoulders, and with the blade -of his knife lifted the wooden button that fastened -the window on the inside, and pulled the shutter -open.</p> - -<p>Then he put one leg inside over the sill, and leaning -down helped to draw his fellow-conspirator up to a -level with the window. “I feel just like I was burglarizing -a house,” chuckled Gallegher, as he dropped noiselessly -to the floor below and refastened the shutter. The -barn was a large one, with a row of stalls on either side -in which horses and cows were dozing. There was a -haymow over each row of stalls, and at one end of the -barn a number of fence-rails had been thrown across -from one mow to the other. These rails were covered -with hay.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p> - -<p>In the middle of the floor was the ring. It was not -really a ring, but a square, with wooden posts at its -four corners through which ran a heavy rope. The -space inclosed by the rope was covered with sawdust.</p> - -<p>Gallegher could not resist stepping into the ring, -and after stamping the sawdust once or twice, as if -to assure himself that he was really there, began dancing -around it, and indulging in such a remarkable series -of fistic manœuvres with an imaginary adversary that -the unimaginative detective precipitately backed into a -corner of the barn.</p> - -<p>“Now, then,” said Gallegher, having apparently vanquished -his foe, “you come with me.” His companion -followed quickly as Gallegher climbed to one of the haymows, -and crawling carefully out on the fence-rail, -stretched himself at full length, face downward. In -this position, by moving the straw a little, he could -look down, without being himself seen, upon the heads -of whomsoever stood below. “This is better’n a private -box, ain’t it?” said Gallegher.</p> - -<p>The boy from the newspaper office and the detective -lay there in silence, biting at straws and tossing anxiously -on their comfortable bed.</p> - -<p>It seemed fully two hours before they came. Gallegher -had listened without breathing, and with every -muscle on a strain, at least a dozen times, when some -movement in the yard had led him to believe that -they were at the door.</p> - -<p>And he had numerous doubts and fears. Sometimes -it was that the police had learnt of the fight, and had -raided Keppler’s in his absence, and again it was that -the fight had been postponed, or, worst of all, that it -would be put off until so late that Mr. Dwyer could -not get back in time for the last edition of the paper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> -Their coming, when at last they came, was heralded -by an advance-guard of two sporting men, who stationed -themselves at either side of the big door.</p> - -<p>“Hurry up, now, gents,” one of the men said with -a shiver, “don’t keep this door open no longer’n is -needful.”</p> - -<p>It was not a very large crowd, but it was wonderfully -well selected. It ran, in the majority of its component -parts, to heavy white coats with pearl buttons. -The white coats were shouldered by long blue coats with -astrakhan fur trimmings, the wearers of which preserved -a cliqueness not remarkable when one considers -that they believed every one else present to be either a -crook or a prize-fighter.</p> - -<p>There were well-fed, well-groomed clubmen and brokers -in the crowd, a politician or two, a popular comedian -with his manager, amateur boxers from the athletic -clubs, and quiet, close-mouthed sporting men from every -city in the country. Their names if printed in the papers -would have been as familiar as the types of the papers -themselves.</p> - -<p>And among these men, whose only thought was of -the brutal sport to come, was Hade, with Dwyer standing -at ease at his shoulder,—Hade, white, and visibly -in deep anxiety, hiding his pale face beneath a cloth -travelling-cap, and with his chin muffled in a woollen -scarf. He had dared to come because he feared his -danger from the already suspicious Keppler was less -than if he stayed away. And so he was there, hovering -restlessly on the border of the crowd, feeling his danger -and sick with fear.</p> - -<p>When Hefflefinger first saw him he started up on his -hands and elbows and made a movement forward as -if he would leap down then and there and carry off -his prisoner single-handed.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Lie down,” growled Gallegher; “an officer of any -sort wouldn’t live three minutes in that crowd.”</p> - -<p>The detective drew back slowly and buried himself -again in the straw, but never once through the long -fight which followed did his eyes leave the person of -the murderer. The newspaper men took their places -in the foremost row close around the ring, and kept -looking at their watches and begging the master of -ceremonies to “shake it up, do.”</p> - -<p>There was a great deal of betting, and all of the men -handled the great roll of bills they wagered with a flippant -recklessness which could only be accounted for -in Gallegher’s mind by temporary mental derangement. -Some one pulled a box out into the ring and the master -of ceremonies mounted it, and pointed out in forcible -language that as they were almost all already under -bonds to keep the peace, it behooved all to curb their -excitement and to maintain a severe silence, unless -they wanted to bring the police upon them and have -themselves “sent down” for a year or two.</p> - -<p>Then two very disreputable-looking persons tossed -their respective principals’ high hats into the ring, and -the crowd, recognizing in this relic of the days when -brave knights threw down their gauntlets in the lists -as only a sign that the fight was about to begin, cheered -tumultuously.</p> - -<p>This was followed by a sudden surging forward, and -a mutter of admiration much more flattering than the -cheers had been, when the principals followed their hats, -and slipping out of their great-coats, stood forth in all -the physical beauty of the perfect brute.</p> - -<p>Their pink skin was as soft and healthy-looking as a -baby’s, and glowed in the lights of the lanterns like -tinted ivory, and underneath this silken covering the -great biceps and muscles moved in and out and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> -looked like the coils of a snake around the branch -of a tree.</p> - -<p>Gentleman and blackguard shouldered each other for -a nearer view; the coachmen, whose metal buttons were -unpleasantly suggestive of police, put their hands, in -the excitement of the moment, on the shoulders of their -masters; the perspiration stood out in great drops on -the foreheads of the backers, and the newspaper men -bit somewhat nervously at the ends of their pencils.</p> - -<p>And in the stalls the cows munched contentedly at -their cuds and gazed with gentle curiosity at their two -fellow-brutes, who stood waiting the signal to fall upon, -and kill each other if need be, for the delectation of -their brothers.</p> - -<p>“Take your places,” commanded the master of ceremonies.</p> - -<p>In the moment in which the two men faced each other -the crowd became so still that, save for the beating of the -rain upon the shingled roof and the stamping of a horse -in one of the stalls, the place was as silent as a church.</p> - -<p>“Time!” shouted the master of ceremonies.</p> - -<p>The two men sprang into a posture of defence, which -was lost as quickly as it was taken, one great arm shot -out like a piston-rod; there was the sound of bare fists -beating on naked flesh; there was an exultant indrawn -gasp of savage pleasure and relief from the crowd, and -the great fight had begun.</p> - -<p>How the fortunes of war rose and fell, and changed -and rechanged that night, is an old story to those who -listen to such stories; and those who do not will be -glad to be spared the telling of it. It was, they say, one -of the bitterest fights between two men that this country -has ever known.</p> - -<p>But all that is of interest here is that after an hour -of this desperate brutal business the champion ceased<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> -to be the favorite; the man whom he had taunted and -bullied, and for whom the public had but little sympathy, -was proving himself a likely winner, and under -his cruel blows, as sharp and clean as those from a -cutlass, his opponent was rapidly giving way.</p> - -<p>The men about the ropes were past all control now; -they drowned Keppler’s petitions for silence with oaths -and in inarticulate shouts of anger, as if the blows had -fallen upon them, and in mad rejoicings. They swept -from one end of the ring to the other, with every muscle -leaping in unison with those of the man they favored, -and when a New York correspondent muttered over his -shoulder that this would be the biggest sporting surprise -since the Heenan-Sayers fight, Mr. Dwyer nodded his -head sympathetically in assent.</p> - -<p>In the excitement and tumult it is doubtful if any -heard the three quickly repeated blows that fell heavily -from the outside upon the big doors of the barn. If -they did, it was already too late to mend matters, for -the door fell, torn from its hinges, and as it fell a captain -of police sprang into the light from out of the -storm, with his lieutenants and their men crowding close -at his shoulder.</p> - -<p>In the panic and stampede that followed, several of -the men stood as helplessly immovable as though they -had seen a ghost; others made a mad rush into the arms -of the officers and were beaten back against the ropes -of the ring; others dived headlong into the stalls, among -the horses and cattle, and still others shoved the rolls -of money they held into the hands of the police and -begged like children to be allowed to escape.</p> - -<p>The instant the door fell and the raid was declared -Hefflefinger slipped over the cross rails on which he had -been lying, hung for an instant by his hands, and then -dropped into the centre of the fighting mob on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -floor. He was out of it in an instant with the agility of -a pickpocket, was across the room and at Hade’s throat -like a dog. The murderer, for the moment, was the -calmer man of the two.</p> - -<p>“Here,” he panted, “hands off, now. There’s no -need for all this violence. There’s no great harm in -looking at a fight, is there? There’s a hundred-dollar -bill in my right hand; take it and let me slip out of -this. No one is looking. Here.”</p> - -<p>But the detective only held him the closer.</p> - -<p>“I want you for burglary,” he whispered under his -breath. “You’ve got to come with me now, and quick. -The less fuss you make, the better for both of us. If -you don’t know who I am, you can feel my badge under -my coat there. I’ve got the authority. It’s all regular, -and when we’re out of this d——d row I’ll show you -the papers.”</p> - -<p>He took one hand from Hade’s throat and pulled a -pair of handcuffs from his pocket.</p> - -<p>“It’s a mistake. This is an outrage,” gasped the -murderer, white and trembling, but dreadfully alive -and desperate for his liberty. “Let me go, I tell you! -Take your hands off of me! Do I look like a burglar, -you fool?”</p> - -<p>“I know who you look like,” whispered the detective, -with his face close to the face of his prisoner. “Now, -will you go easy as a burglar, or shall I tell these men -who you are and what I <i>do</i> want you for? Shall I call -out your real name or not? Shall I tell them? Quick, -speak up; shall I?”</p> - -<p>There was something so exultant—something so unnecessarily -savage in the officer’s face that the man he -held saw that the detective knew him for what he really -was, and the hands that had held his throat slipped -down around his shoulders, or he would have fallen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -The man’s eyes opened and closed again, and he swayed -weakly backward and forward, and choked as if his -throat were dry and burning. Even to such a hardened -connoisseur in crime as Gallegher, who stood closely by, -drinking it in, there was something so abject in the -man’s terror that he regarded him with what was almost -a touch of pity.</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake,” Hade begged, “let me go. Come -with me to my room and I’ll give you half the money. -I’ll divide with you fairly. We can both get away. -There’s a fortune for both of us there. We both can -get away. You’ll be rich for life. Do you understand—for -life!”</p> - -<p>But the detective, to his credit, only shut his lips -the tighter.</p> - -<p>“That’s enough,” he whispered, in return. “That’s -more than I expected. You’ve sentenced yourself already. -Come!”</p> - -<p>Two officers in uniform barred their exit at the door, -but Hefflefinger smiled easily and showed his badge.</p> - -<p>“One of Byrnes’s men,” he said, in explanation; -“came over expressly to take this chap. He’s a burglar; -’Arlie’ Lane, <i>alias</i> Carleton. I’ve shown the papers -to the captain. It’s all regular. I’m just going to -get his traps at the hotel and walk him over to the -station. I guess we’ll push right on to New York to-night.”</p> - -<p>The officers nodded and smiled their admiration for -the representative of what is, perhaps, the best detective -force in the world, and let him pass.</p> - -<p>Then Hefflefinger turned and spoke to Gallegher, who -still stood as watchful as a dog at his side. “I’m going -to his room to get the bonds and stuff,” he whispered; -“then I’ll march him to the station and take that train. -I’ve done my share; don’t forget yours!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, you’ll get your money right enough,” said Gallegher. -“And, sa-ay,” he added, with the appreciative -nod of an expert, “do you know, you did it rather -well.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Dwyer had been writing while the raid was settling -down, as he had been writing while waiting for -the fight to begin. Now he walked over to where the -other correspondents stood in angry conclave.</p> - -<p>The newspaper men had informed the officers who -hemmed them in that they represented the principal -papers of the country, and were expostulating vigorously -with the captain, who had planned the raid, and who -declared they were under arrest.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be an ass, Scott,” said Mr. Dwyer, who was -too excited to be polite or politic. “You know our -being here isn’t a matter of choice. We came here on -business, as you did, and you’ve no right to hold us.”</p> - -<p>“If we don’t get our stuff on the wire at once,” protested -a New York man, “we’ll be too late for to-morrow’s paper, and——”</p> - -<p>Captain Scott said he did not care a profanely small -amount for to-morrow’s paper, and that all he knew -was that to the station-house the newspaper men would -go. There they would have a hearing, and if the magistrate -chose to let them off, that was the magistrate’s -business, but that his duty was to take them into -custody.</p> - -<p>“But then it will be too late, don’t you understand?” -shouted Mr. Dwyer. “You’ve got to let us go <i>now</i>, at -once.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t do it, Mr. Dwyer,” said the captain, “and -that’s all there is to it. Why, haven’t I just sent the -president of the Junior Republican Club to the patrol-wagon, -the man that put this coat on me, and do you -think I can let you fellows go after that? You were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> -all put under bonds to keep the peace not three days -ago, and here you’re at it—fighting like badgers. It’s -worth my place to let one of you off.”</p> - -<p>What Mr. Dwyer said next was so uncomplimentary -to the gallant Captain Scott that that overwrought individual -seized the sporting editor by the shoulder, and -shoved him into the hands of two of his men.</p> - -<p>This was more than the distinguished Mr. Dwyer -could brook, and he excitedly raised his hand in resistance. -But before he had time to do anything foolish -his wrist was gripped by one strong, little hand, and -he was conscious that another was picking the pocket -of his great-coat.</p> - -<p>He slapped his hands to his sides, and looking down, -saw Gallegher standing close behind him and holding -him by the wrist. Mr. Dwyer had forgotten the boy’s -existence, and would have spoken sharply if something -in Gallegher’s innocent eyes had not stopped him.</p> - -<p>Gallegher’s hand was still in that pocket, in which -Mr. Dwyer had shoved his note-book filled with what -he had written of Gallegher’s work and Hade’s final -capture, and with a running descriptive account of the -fight. With his eyes fixed on Mr. Dwyer, Gallegher drew -it out, and with a quick movement shoved it inside his -waistcoat. Mr. Dwyer gave a nod of comprehension. -Then glancing at his two guardsmen, and finding that -they were still interested in the wordy battle of the -correspondents with their chief, and had seen nothing, -he stooped and whispered to Gallegher: “The forms -are locked at twenty minutes to three. If you don’t -get there by that time it will be of no use, but if you’re -on time you’ll beat the town—and the country too.”</p> - -<p>Gallegher’s eyes flashed significantly, and nodding his -head to show he understood, started boldly on a run -toward the door. But the officers who guarded it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -brought him to an abrupt halt, and, much to Mr. Dwyer’s -astonishment, drew from him what was apparently a -torrent of tears.</p> - -<p>“Let me go to me father. I want me father,” the -boy shrieked, hysterically. “They’ve ’rested father. -Oh, daddy, daddy. They’re a-goin’ to take you to -prison.”</p> - -<p>“Who is your father, sonny?” asked one of the -guardians of the gate.</p> - -<p>“Keppler’s me father,” sobbed Gallegher. “They’re -a-goin’ to lock him up, and I’ll never see him no more.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, you will,” said the officer, good-naturedly; -“he’s there in that first patrol-wagon. You can run -over and say good-night to him, and then you’d better -get to bed. This ain’t no place for kids of your age.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, sir,” sniffed Gallegher, tearfully, as the -two officers raised their clubs, and let him pass out into -the darkness.</p> - -<p>The yard outside was in a tumult, horses were stamping, -and plunging, and backing the carriages into one -another; lights were flashing from every window of -what had been apparently an uninhabited house, and -the voices of the prisoners were still raised in angry -expostulation.</p> - -<p>Three police patrol-wagons were moving about the -yard, filled with unwilling passengers, who sat or stood, -packed together like sheep, and with no protection -from the sleet and rain.</p> - -<p>Gallegher stole off into a dark corner, and watched -the scene until his eyesight became familiar with the -position of the land.</p> - -<p>Then with his eyes fixed fearfully on the swinging -light of a lantern with which an officer was searching -among the carriages, he groped his way between horses’ -hoofs and behind the wheels of carriages to the cab<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> -which he had himself placed at the furthermost gate. -It was still there, and the horse, as he had left it, with -its head turned toward the city. Gallegher opened the -big gate noiselessly, and worked nervously at the hitching -strap. The knot was covered with a thin coating -of ice, and it was several minutes before he could loosen -it. But his teeth finally pulled it apart, and with the -reins in his hands he sprang upon the wheel. And as -he stood so, a shock of fear ran down his back like an -electric current, his breath left him, and he stood immovable, -gazing with wide eyes into the darkness.</p> - -<p>The officer with the lantern had suddenly loomed up -from behind a carriage not fifty feet distant, and was -standing perfectly still, with his lantern held over his -head, peering so directly toward Gallegher that the boy -felt that he must see him. Gallegher stood with one -foot on the hub of the wheel and with the other on -the box waiting to spring. It seemed a minute before -either of them moved, and then the officer took a step -forward, and demanded sternly, “Who is that? What -are you doing there?”</p> - -<p>There was no time for parley then. Gallegher felt -that he had been taken in the act, and that his only -chance lay in open flight. He leaped up on the box, -pulling out the whip as he did so, and with a quick -sweep lashed the horse across the head and back. The -animal sprang forward with a snort, narrowly clearing -the gate-post, and plunged off into the darkness.</p> - -<p>“Stop!” cried the officer.</p> - -<p>So many of Gallegher’s acquaintances among the -’longshoremen and mill hands had been challenged in -so much the same manner that Gallegher knew what -would probably follow if the challenge was disregarded. -So he slipped from his seat to the footboard below, and -ducked his head.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p> - -<p>The three reports of a pistol, which rang out briskly -from behind him, proved that his early training had -given him a valuable fund of useful miscellaneous -knowledge.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you be scared,” he said, reassuringly, to the -horse; “he’s firing in the air.”</p> - -<p>The pistol-shots were answered by the impatient -clangor of a patrol-wagon’s gong, and glancing over -his shoulder Gallegher saw its red and green lanterns -tossing from side to side and looking in the darkness -like the side-lights of a yacht plunging forward in a -storm.</p> - -<p>“I hadn’t bargained to race you against no patrol-wagons,” -said Gallegher to his animal; “but if they -want a race, we’ll give them a tough tussle for it, won’t -we?”</p> - -<p>Philadelphia, lying four miles to the south, sent up -a faint yellow glow to the sky. It seemed very far away, -and Gallegher’s braggadocio grew cold within him at -the loneliness of his adventure and the thought of the -long ride before him.</p> - -<p>It was still bitterly cold.</p> - -<p>The rain and sleet beat through his clothes, and struck -his skin with a sharp chilling touch that set him trembling.</p> - -<p>Even the thought of the overweighted patrol-wagon -probably sticking in the mud some safe distance in the -rear, failed to cheer him, and the excitement that had -so far made him callous to the cold died out and left -him weaker and nervous.</p> - -<p>But his horse was chilled with the long standing, and -now leaped eagerly forward, only too willing to warm -the half-frozen blood in its veins.</p> - -<p>“You’re a good beast,” said Gallegher, plaintively. -“You’ve got more nerve than me. Don’t you go back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> -on me now. Mr. Dwyer says we’ve got to beat the -town.” Gallegher had no idea what time it was as -he rode through the night, but he knew he would be -able to find out from a big clock over a manufactory -at a point nearly three-quarters of the distance from -Keppler’s to the goal.</p> - -<p>He was still in the open country and driving recklessly, -for he knew the best part of his ride must be made -outside the city limits.</p> - -<p>He raced between desolate-looking corn-fields with -bare stalks and patches of muddy earth rising above -the thin covering of snow, truck farms and brick-yards -fell behind him on either side. It was very lonely work, -and once or twice the dogs ran yelping to the gates -and barked after him.</p> - -<p>Part of his way lay parallel with the railroad tracks, -and he drove for some time beside long lines of freight -and coal cars as they stood resting for the night. The -fantastic Queen Anne suburban stations were dark and -deserted, but in one or two of the block-towers he could -see the operators writing at their desks, and the sight -in some way comforted him.</p> - -<p>Once he thought of stopping to get out the blanket -in which he had wrapped himself on the first trip, but -he feared to spare the time, and drove on with his -teeth chattering and his shoulders shaking with the -cold.</p> - -<p>He welcomed the first solitary row of darkened houses -with a faint cheer of recognition. The scattered lamp-posts -lightened his spirits, and even the badly paved -streets rang under the beats of his horse’s feet like music. -Great mills and manufactories, with only a night-watchman’s -light in the lowest of their many stories, -began to take the place of the gloomy farmhouses and -gaunt trees that had startled him with their grotesque<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> -shapes. He had been driving nearly an hour, he calculated, -and in that time the rain had changed to a wet -snow, that fell heavily and clung to whatever it touched. -He passed block after block of trim workmen’s houses, -as still and silent as the sleepers within them, and at last -he turned the horse’s head into Broad Street, the city’s -great thoroughfare, that stretches from its one end to -the other and cuts it evenly in two.</p> - -<p>He was driving noiselessly over the snow and slush -in the street, with his thoughts bent only on the clock-face -he wished so much to see, when a hoarse voice challenged -him from the sidewalk. “Hey, you, stop there, -hold up!” said the voice.</p> - -<p>Gallegher turned his head, and though he saw that -the voice came from under a policeman’s helmet, his -only answer was to hit his horse sharply over the head -with his whip and to urge it into a gallop.</p> - -<p>This, on his part, was followed by a sharp, shrill -whistle from the policeman. Another whistle answered -it from a street-corner one block ahead of him. -“Whoa,” said Gallegher, pulling on the reins. -“There’s one too many of them,” he added, in apologetic -explanation. The horse stopped, and stood, breathing -heavily, with great clouds of steam rising from -its flanks.</p> - -<p>“Why in hell didn’t you stop when I told you to?” -demanded the voice, now close at the cab’s side.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t hear you,” returned Gallegher, sweetly. -“But I heard you whistle, and I heard your partner -whistle, and I thought maybe it was me you wanted to -speak to, so I just stopped.”</p> - -<p>“You heard me well enough. Why aren’t your lights -lit?” demanded the voice.</p> - -<p>“Should I have ’em lit?” asked Gallegher, bending -over and regarding them with sudden interest.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p> - -<p>“You know you should, and if you don’t, you’ve -no right to be driving that cab. I don’t believe -you’re the regular driver, anyway. Where’d you get -it?”</p> - -<p>“It ain’t my cab, of course,” said Gallegher, with -an easy laugh. “It’s Luke McGovern’s. He left it -outside Cronin’s while he went in to get a drink, and -he took too much, and me father told me to drive it -round to the stable for him. I’m Cronin’s son. McGovern -ain’t in no condition to drive. You can see -yourself how he’s been misusing the horse. He puts it -up at Bachman’s livery stable, and I was just going -around there now.”</p> - -<p>Gallegher’s knowledge of the local celebrities of the -district confused the zealous officer of the peace. He -surveyed the boy with a steady stare that would have -distressed a less skilful liar, but Gallegher only shrugged -his shoulders slightly, as if from the cold, and waited -with apparent indifference to what the officer would say -next.</p> - -<p>In reality his heart was beating heavily against his -side, and he felt that if he was kept on a strain much -longer he would give way and break down. A second -snow-covered form emerged suddenly from the shadow -of the houses.</p> - -<p>“What is it, Reeder?” it asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing much,” replied the first officer. “This -kid hadn’t any lamps lit, so I called to him to stop and -he didn’t do it, so I whistled to you. It’s all right, -though. He’s just taking it round to Bachman’s. Go -ahead,” he added, sulkily.</p> - -<p>“Get up!” chirped Gallegher. “Good-night,” he -added, over his shoulder.</p> - -<p>Gallegher gave an hysterical little gasp of relief as -he trotted away from the two policemen, and poured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> -bitter maledictions on their heads for two meddling fools -as he went.</p> - -<p>“They might as well kill a man as scare him to -death,” he said, with an attempt to get back to his -customary flippancy. But the effort was somewhat pitiful, -and he felt guiltily conscious that a salt, warm tear -was creeping slowly down his face, and that a lump -that would not keep down was rising in his throat.</p> - -<p>“‘Tain’t no fair thing for the whole police force to -keep worrying at a little boy like me,” he said, in shame-faced -apology. “I’m not doing nothing wrong, and -I’m half froze to death, and yet they keep a-nagging -at me.”</p> - -<p>It was so cold that when the boy stamped his feet -against the footboard to keep them warm, sharp pains -shot up through his body, and when he beat his arms -about his shoulders, as he had seen real cabmen do, -the blood in his finger-tips tingled so acutely that he -cried aloud with the pain.</p> - -<p>He had often been up that late before, but he had -never felt so sleepy. It was as if some one was pressing -a sponge heavy with chloroform near his face, and -he could not fight off the drowsiness that lay hold of -him.</p> - -<p>He saw, dimly hanging above his head, a round disc -of light that seemed like a great moon, and which he -finally guessed to be the clock-face for which he had -been on the lookout. He had passed it before he realized -this; but the fact stirred him into wakefulness again, -and when his cab’s wheels slipped around the City Hall -corner, he remembered to look up at the other big clock-face -that keeps awake over the railroad station and -measures out the night.</p> - -<p>He gave a gasp of consternation when he saw that it -was half-past two, and that there was but ten minutes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> -left to him. This, and the many electric lights and the -sight of the familiar pile of buildings, startled him into -a semi-consciousness of where he was and how great was -the necessity for haste.</p> - -<p>He rose in his seat and called on the horse, and urged -it into a reckless gallop over the slippery asphalt. He -considered nothing else but speed, and looking neither -to the left nor right dashed off down Broad Street into -Chestnut, where his course lay straight away to the -office, now only seven blocks distant.</p> - -<p>Gallegher never knew how it began, but he was suddenly -assaulted by shouts on either side, his horse was -thrown back on its haunches, and he found two men -in cabmen’s livery hanging at its head, and patting its -sides, and calling it by name. And the other cabmen -who have their stand at the corner were swarming about -the carriage, all of them talking and swearing at once, -and gesticulating wildly with their whips.</p> - -<p>They said they knew the cab was McGovern’s and -they wanted to know where he was, and why he wasn’t -on it; they wanted to know where Gallegher had stolen -it, and why he had been such a fool as to drive it into -the arms of its owner’s friends; they said that it was -about time that a cab-driver could get off his box to -take a drink without having his cab run away with, -and some of them called loudly for a policeman to take -the young thief in charge.</p> - -<p>Gallegher felt as if he had been suddenly dragged -into consciousness out of a bad dream, and stood for a -second like a half-awakened somnambulist.</p> - -<p>They had stopped the cab under an electric light, and -its glare shone coldly down upon the trampled snow -and the faces of the men around him.</p> - -<p>Gallegher bent forward, and lashed savagely at the -horse with his whip.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Let me go,” he shouted, as he tugged impotently -at the reins. “Let me go, I tell you. I haven’t stole -no cab, and you’ve got no right to stop me. I only want -to take it to the <i>Press</i> office,” he begged. “They’ll send -it back to you all right. They’ll pay you for the trip. -I’m not running away with it. The driver’s got the collar—he’s -’rested—and I’m only a-going to the <i>Press</i> -office. Do you hear me?” he cried, his voice rising and -breaking in a shriek of passion and disappointment. “I -tell you to let go those reins. Let me go, or I’ll kill you. -Do you hear me? I’ll kill you.” And leaning forward, -the boy struck savagely with his long whip at the faces -of the men about the horse’s head.</p> - -<p>Some one in the crowd reached up and caught him -by the ankles, and with a quick jerk pulled him off -the box, and threw him on to the street. But he was -up on his knees in a moment, and caught at the man’s -hand.</p> - -<p>“Don’t let them stop me, mister,” he cried, “please -let me go. I didn’t steal the cab, sir. S’help me, I -didn’t. I’m telling you the truth. Take me to the <i>Press</i> -office, and they’ll prove it to you. They’ll pay you anything -you ask ’em. It’s only such a little ways now, -and I’ve come so far, sir. Please don’t let them stop -me,” he sobbed, clasping the man about the knees. “For -Heaven’s sake, mister, let me go!”</p> - -<table id="t06" summary="t06"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>The managing editor of the <i>Press</i> took up the india-rubber -speaking-tube at his side, and answered, -“Not yet” to an inquiry the night editor had already -put to him five times within the last twenty -minutes.</p> - -<p>Then he snapped the metal top of the tube impatiently, -and went upstairs. As he passed the door of -the local room, he noticed that the reporters had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> -gone home, but were sitting about on the tables and -chairs, waiting. They looked up inquiringly as he -passed, and the city editor asked, “Any news yet?” -and the managing editor shook his head.</p> - -<p>The compositors were standing idle in the composing-room, -and their foreman was talking with the night -editor.</p> - -<p>“Well?” said that gentleman, tentatively.</p> - -<p>“Well,” returned the managing editor, “I don’t -think we can wait; do you?”</p> - -<p>“It’s a half-hour after time now,” said the night -editor, “and we’ll miss the suburban trains if we hold -the paper back any longer. We can’t afford to wait -for a purely hypothetical story. The chances are all -against the fight’s having taken place or this Hade’s -having been arrested.”</p> - -<p>“But if we’re beaten on it——” suggested the chief. -“But I don’t think that is possible. If there were any -story to print, Dwyer would have had it here before -now.”</p> - -<p>The managing editor looked steadily down at the -floor.</p> - -<p>“Very well,” he said, slowly, “we won’t wait any -longer. Go ahead,” he added, turning to the foreman -with a sigh of reluctance. The foreman whirled -himself about, and began to give his orders; but the -two editors still looked at each other doubtfully.</p> - -<p>As they stood so, there came a sudden shout and the -sound of people running to and fro in the reportorial -rooms below. There was the tramp of many footsteps -on the stairs, and above the confusion they heard the -voice of the city editor telling some one to “run to Madden’s -and get some brandy, quick.”</p> - -<p>No one in the composing-room said anything; but -those compositors who had started to go home began<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> -slipping off their overcoats, and every one stood with -his eyes fixed on the door.</p> - -<p>It was kicked open from the outside, and in the -doorway stood a cab-driver and the city editor, supporting -between them a pitiful little figure of a boy, -wet and miserable, and with the snow melting on his -clothes and running in little pools to the floor. “Why, -it’s Gallegher,” said the night editor, in a tone of the -keenest disappointment.</p> - -<p>Gallegher shook himself free from his supporters, -and took an unsteady step forward, his fingers fumbling -stiffly with the buttons of his waistcoat.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Dwyer, sir,” he began faintly, with his eyes -fixed fearfully on the managing editor, “he got arrested—and -I couldn’t get here no sooner, ’cause they -kept a-stopping me, and they took me cab from under -me—but—” he pulled the note-book from his breast -and held it out with its covers damp and limp from -the rain, “but we got Hade, and here’s Mr. Dwyer’s -copy.”</p> - -<p>And then he asked, with a queer note in his voice, -partly of dread and partly of hope, “ Am I in time, -sir?”</p> - -<p>The managing editor took the book, and tossed it to -the foreman, who ripped out its leaves and dealt them -out to his men as rapidly as a gambler deals out cards.</p> - -<p>Then the managing editor stooped and picked Gallegher -up in his arms, and, sitting down, began to unlace -his wet and muddy shoes.</p> - -<p>Gallegher made a faint effort to resist this degradation -of the managerial dignity; but his protest was -a very feeble one, and his head fell back heavily on -the managing editor’s shoulder.</p> - -<p>To Gallegher the incandescent lights began to whirl -about in circles, and to burn in different colors; the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> -faces of the reporters kneeling before him and chafing -his hands and feet grew dim and unfamiliar, and the -roar and rumble of the great presses in the basement -sounded far away, like the murmur of the sea.</p> - -<p>And then the place and the circumstances of it came -back to him again sharply and with sudden vividness.</p> - -<p>Gallegher looked up, with a faint smile, into the managing -editor’s face. “You won’t turn me off for running -away, will you?” he whispered.</p> - -<p>The managing editor did not answer immediately. -His head was bent, and he was thinking, for some reason -or other, of a little boy of his own, at home in -bed. Then he said, quietly, “Not this time, Gallegher.”</p> - -<p>Gallegher’s head sank back comfortably on the older -man’s shoulder, and he smiled comprehensively at the -faces of the young men crowded around him. “You -hadn’t ought to,” he said, with a touch of his old impudence, -“‘cause—I beat the town.”</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">THE JUMPING FROG</h2> - -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> - -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Mark Twain</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This is a story typical of American humor. As William -Lyon Phelps says, “The essentially American qualities -of common-sense, energy, good-humor, and Philistinism -fairly shriek from his [Mark Twain’s] pages.”—<i>Essays -on Modern Novelists.</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG -OF CALAVERAS<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[14]</span></a> COUNTY<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[15]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, -who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, -garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my -friend’s friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, -and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking -suspicion that <i>Leonidas W.</i> Smiley is a myth; that my -friend never knew such a personage; and that he only -conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler about him, it -would remind him of his infamous <i>Jim</i> Smiley, and he -would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating -reminiscence of him as long and as tedious -as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, -it succeeded.</p> - -<p>I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the -bar-room stove of the dilapidated tavern in the decaying -mining camp of Angel’s, and I noticed that he was -fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning -gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. -He roused up, and gave me good-day. I told him a -friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries -about a cherished companion of his boyhood -named <i>Leonidas W.</i> Smiley—<i>Rev. Leonidas W.</i> Smiley, -a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was -at one time a resident of Angel’s Camp. I added that -if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> -Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations -to him.</p> - -<p>Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded -me there with his chair, and then sat down and -reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this -paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he -never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key -to which he tuned his initial sentence, he never betrayed -the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all -through the interminable narrative there ran a vein -of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me -plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was -anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded -it as a really important matter, and admired its -two heroes as men of transcendent genius in <i>finesse</i>. I -let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted -him once.</p> - -<p>“Rev. Leonidas W. H’m, Reverend Le—well, there -was a feller here once by the name of <i>Jim</i> Smiley, in the -winter of ’49—or maybe it was the spring of ’50—I don’t -recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think -it was one or the other is because I remember the big -flume warn’t finished when he first come to the camp; -but anyway, he was the curiosest man about always betting -on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could -get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn’t -he’d change sides. Any way that suited the other man -would suit <i>him</i>—any way just so’s he got a bet, <i>he</i> -was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; -he ’most always come out winner. He was always ready -and laying for a chance; there couldn’t be no solit’ry -thing mentioned but that feller’d offer to bet on it, -and take ary side you please, as I was just telling you. -If there was a horse-race, you’d find him flush or you’d -find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dogfight,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> -he’d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d bet -on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why, -if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet -you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, -he would be there reg’lar to bet on Parson -Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about -here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If he even -see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet -you how long it would take him to get to—to wherever -he was going to, and if you took him up, he would -foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would -find out where he was bound for and how long he was -on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, -and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no -difference to <i>him</i>—he’d bet on <i>any</i> thing—the dangdest -feller. Parson Walker’s wife laid very sick once, for -a good while, and it seemed as if they warn’t going to -save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley up -and asked him how she was, and he said she was consid’able -better—thank the Lord for his inf’nite mercy—and -coming on so smart that with the blessing of Prov’dence -she’d get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, -says: ’Well, I’ll resk two-and-a-half she don’t anyway.’</p> - -<p>“Thish-yer Smiley had a mare—the boys called her -the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you -know, because, of course, she was faster than that—and -he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so -slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or -the consumption, or something of that kind. They used -to give her two or three hundred yards start, and then -pass her under way; but always at the fag end of the -race she’d get excited and desperate like, and come -cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs -around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes -out to one side among the fences, and kicking up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> -m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing -and sneezing and blowing her nose—and <i>always</i> -fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near -as you could cipher it down.</p> - -<p>“And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look -at him you’d think he warn’t worth a cent but to set -around and look ornery and lay for a chance to steal -something. But as soon as money was up on him he -was a different dog; his under-jaw’d begin to stick out -like the fo’castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would -uncover and shine like the furnaces. And a dog might -tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw -him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew -Jackson—which was the name of the pup—Andrew -Jackson would never let on but what <i>he</i> was satisfied, -and hadn’t expected nothing else—and the bets being -doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, -till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden -he would grab that other dog jest by the j’int of his -hind leg and freeze to it—not chaw, you understand, -but only just grip and hang on till they throwed up -the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out -winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that -didn’t have no hind legs, because they’d been sawed -off in a circular saw, and when the thing had gone -along far enough, and the money was all up, and he -come to make a snatch for his pet holt, he see in a -minute how he’d been imposed on, and how the other -dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he ’peared -surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like -and didn’t try no more to win the fight, and so he got -shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, as much as -to say his heart was broke, and it was <i>his</i> fault, for -putting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for him to -take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> -and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. -It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would -have made a name for hisself if he’d lived, for the -stuff was in him and he had genius—I know it, because -he hadn’t no opportunities to speak of, and it -don’t stand to reason that a dog could make such a -fight as he could under them circumstances if he hadn’t -no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think -of that last fight of his’n, and the way it turned out.</p> - -<p>“Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken -cocks, and tomcats, and all them kind of things, till you -couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch nothing for him -to bet on but he’d match you. He ketched a frog one -day, and took him home, and said he cal’lated to educate -him; and so he never done nothing for three months -but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. -And you bet you he <i>did</i> learn him, too. He’d give him -a little punch behind, and the next minute you’d see -that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut—see him -turn one summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a -good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, -like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of ketching -flies, and kep’ him in practice so constant, that he’d -nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. Smiley -said all a frog wanted was education, and he could -do ’most anything—and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen -him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor—Dan’l -Webster was the name of the frog—and sing out, ’Flies, -Dan’l, flies!’ and quicker’n you could wink he’d spring -straight up and snake a fly off’n the counter there, and -flop down on the floor ag’in as solid as a gob of mud, -and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind -foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been -doin’ any more’n any frog might do. You never see -a frog so modest and straightfor’ard as he was, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> -all he was so gifted. And when it come to fair and -square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more -ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you -ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, -you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would -ante up money on him as long as he had a red. Smiley -was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might -be, for fellers that had travelled and been everywheres -all said he laid over any frog that ever <i>they</i> see.</p> - -<p>“Well, Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box, -and he used to fetch him down-town sometimes and lay -for a bet. One day a feller—a stranger in the camp, -he was—come acrost him with his box, and says:</p> - -<p>“‘What might it be that you’ve got in the box?’</p> - -<p>“And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like: ’It might -be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t—it’s -only just a frog.’</p> - -<p>“And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and -turned it round this way and that, and says: ’H’m—so -’tis. Well, what’s <i>he</i> good for?’</p> - -<p>“‘Well,’ Smiley says, easy and careless, ’he’s good -enough for <i>one</i> thing, I should judge—he can outjump -any frog in Calaveras county.’</p> - -<p>“The feller took the box again, and took another -long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and -says, very deliberate, ’Well,’ he says, ’I don’t see no -p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other -frog.’</p> - -<p>“‘Maybe you don’t,’ Smiley says. ’Maybe you -understand frogs and maybe you don’t understand ’em; -maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you ain’t only -a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got <i>my</i> opinion, -and I’ll resk forty dollars that he can outjump any -frog in Calaveras county.’</p> - -<p>“And the feller studied a minute, and then says,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> -kinder sad like, ’Well, I’m only a stranger here, and -I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog, I’d bet you.’</p> - -<p>“And then Smiley says, ’That’s all right—that’s -all right—if you’ll hold my box a minute, I’ll go and -get you a frog.’ And so the feller took the box, and -put up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s, and set -down to wait.</p> - -<p>“So he set there a good while thinking and thinking -to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized -his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full -of quail shot—filled him pretty near up to his chin—and -set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and -slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally -he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him -to this feller, and says:</p> - -<p>“‘Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, -with his forepaws just even with Dan’l’s, and I’ll give -the word.’ Then he says, ’One—two—three—<i>git</i>!’ -and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, -and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l -give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a -Frenchman, but it warn’t no use—he couldn’t budge; -he was planted as solid as a church, and he couldn’t -no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley -was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, -but he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of -course.</p> - -<p>“The feller took the money and started away; and -when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked -his thumb over his shoulder—so—at Dan’l, and says -again, very deliberate, ’Well,’ he says, ’<i>I</i> don’t see no -p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other -frog.’</p> - -<p>“Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking -down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, ’I do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> -wonder what in the nation that frog throw’d off for—I -wonder if there ain’t something the matter with -him—he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.’ And -he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and hefted -him, and says, ’Why, blame my cats if he don’t weigh -five pound!’ and turned him upside down and he -belched out a double handful of shot. And then he -see how it was, and he was the maddest man—he set -the frog down and took out after that feller, but he -never ketched him. And——”</p> - -<p>[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from -the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.] -And turning to me as he moved away, he said: “Just -set where you are, stranger, and rest easy—I ain’t -going to be gone a second.”</p> - -<p>But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation -of the history of the enterprising vagabond <i>Jim</i> -Smiley would be likely to afford me much information -concerning the Rev. <i>Leonidas W.</i> Smiley, and so I -started away.</p> - -<p>At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, -and he button-holed me and recommenced:</p> - -<p>“Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yeller one-eyed cow -that didn’t have no tail, only just a short stump like -a bannanner, and——”</p> - -<p>However, lacking both time and inclination, I did -not wait to hear about the afflicted cow, but took my -leave.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">THE LADY OR THE TIGER?</h2> - -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> - -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Frank R. Stockton</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This is an illustration of the symmetrical plot. It -challenges the constructive imagination of the reader to -search the story for the evidence that will lead to a logical -conclusion.</p> - -<p class="pc4 large">THE LADY OR THE TIGER?<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[16]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric -king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened -by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, -were still large, florid, and untrammelled, as became -the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man -of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so -irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies -into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing, -and when he and himself agreed upon anything, the -thing was done. When every member of his domestic -and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed -course, his nature was bland and genial; but whenever -there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got -out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial -still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the -crooked straight, and crush down uneven places.</p> - -<p>Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism -had become semified was that of the public arena, in -which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the -minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.</p> - -<p>But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy -asserted itself. The arena of the king was built, not -to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies -of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view -the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious -opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better -adapted to widen and develop the mental energies<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> -of the people. This vast amphitheatre, with its encircling -galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen -passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime -was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of -an impartial and incorruptible chance.</p> - -<p>When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient -importance to interest the king, public notice was given -that on an appointed day the fate of the accused person -would be decided in the king’s arena—a structure -which well deserved its name; for, although its form -and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated -solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn -a king, knew no tradition to which he owed -more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted -on every adopted form of human thought and -action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism.</p> - -<p>When all the people had assembled in the galleries, -and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on -his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, -he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the -accused subject stepped out into the amphitheatre. Directly -opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed -space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. -It was the duty and the privilege of the person on -trial to walk directly to these doors and open one of -them. He could open either door he pleased. He was -subject to no guidance or influence but that of the -aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If -he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, -the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which -immediately sprang upon him, and tore him to pieces, -as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case -of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells -were clanged, great wails went up from the hired -mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> -the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast -hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning -greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, -should have merited so dire a fate.</p> - -<p>But if the accused person opened the other door, there -came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his -years and station that his Majesty could select among -his fair subjects; and to this lady he was immediately -married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not -that he might already possess a wife and family, or -that his affections might be engaged upon an object -of his own selection. The king allowed no such subordinate -arrangements to interfere with his great scheme -of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the -other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. -Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest, -followed by a band of choristers, and dancing maidens -blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an -epithalamic measure, advanced to where the pair stood -side by side, and the wedding was promptly and cheerily -solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth -their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and -the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers -on his path, led his bride to his home.</p> - -<p>This was the king’s semi-barbaric method of administering -justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The -criminal could not know out of which door would come -the lady. He opened either he pleased, without having -the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he -was to be devoured or married. On some occasions the -tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the -other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only fair—they -were positively determinate. The accused person was -instantly punished if he found himself guilty, -and if innocent he was rewarded on the spot, whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> -he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments -of the king’s arena.</p> - -<p>The institution was a very popular one. When the -people gathered together on one of the great trial days, -they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody -slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty -lent an interest to the occasion which it could -not otherwise have attained. Thus the masses were entertained -and pleased, and the thinking part of the -community could bring no charge of unfairness against -this plan; for did not the accused person have the whole -matter in his own hands?</p> - -<p>This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming -as his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent -and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases, -she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above -all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man -of that fineness of blood and lowness of station common -to the conventional heroes of romance who love -royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied -with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a -degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved -him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in -it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love -affair moved on happily for many months, until, one -day, the king happened to discover its existence. He -did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in -the premises. The youth was immediately cast into -prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the -king’s arena. This, of course, was an especially important -occasion, and his Majesty, as well as all the -people, was greatly interested in the workings and development -of this trial. Never before had such a case -occurred—never before had a subject dared to love the -daughter of a king. In after years such things became<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> -commonplace enough, but then they were, in no slight -degree, novel and startling.</p> - -<p>The tiger cages of the kingdom were searched for -the most savage and relentless beasts, from which the -fiercest monster might be selected for the arena, and -the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the -land were carefully surveyed by competent judges, in -order that the young man might have a fitting bride -in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. -Of course, everybody knew that the deed with -which the accused was charged had been done. He had -loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one -else thought of denying the fact. But the king would -not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere -with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took -such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the -affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of, and -the king would take an æsthetic pleasure in watching -the course of events which would determine whether or -not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself -to love the princess.</p> - -<p>The appointed day arrived. From far and near the -people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of -the arena, while crowds, unable to gain admittance, -massed themselves against its outside walls. The king -and his court were in their places, opposite the twin -doors—those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity!</p> - -<p>All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath -the royal party opened, and the lover of the -princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, -his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration -and anxiety. Half the audience had not known -so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> -the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for -him to be there!</p> - -<p>As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned, -as the custom was, to bow to the king. But he did -not think at all of that royal personage; his eyes were -fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her -father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism -in her nature, it is probable that lady would not have -been there. But her intense and fervid soul would not -allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was -so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree -had gone forth that her lover should decide his -fate in the king’s arena, she had thought of nothing, -night or day, but this great event and the various subjects -connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, -and force of character than any one who had -ever before been interested in such a case, she had done -what no other person had done—she had possessed herself -of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of -the two rooms behind those doors stood the cage of -the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the -lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained -with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any -noise or suggestion should come from within to the -person who should approach to raise the latch of one -of them. But gold, and the power of a woman’s will, -had brought the secret to the princess.</p> - -<p>Not only did she know in which room stood the lady, -ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her -door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It -was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels -of the court who had been selected as the reward of -the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the -crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the -princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> -that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of -admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes -she thought these glances were perceived and -even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking -together. It was but for a moment or two, but much -can be said in a brief space. It may have been on most -unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The -girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes -to the loved one of the princess, and, with all the intensity -of the savage blood transmitted to her through -long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the -woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent -door.</p> - -<p>When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye -met hers as she sat there paler and whiter than any one -in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, -by that power of quick perception which is given to -those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which -door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the -lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood -her nature, and his soul was assured that she would -never rest until she had made plain to herself this -thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. -The only hope for the youth in which there was any -element of certainty was based upon the success of the -princess in discovering this mystery, and the moment -he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded.</p> - -<p>Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked -the question, “Which?” It was as plain to her as if -he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an -instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; -it must be answered in another.</p> - -<p>Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before -her. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick -movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> -her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the -arena.</p> - -<p>He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked -across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, -every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably -upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he -went to the door on the right, and opened it.</p> - -<p class="p2">Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come -out of that door, or did the lady?</p> - -<p>The more we reflect upon this question, the harder -it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart -which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out -of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, -fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended -upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric -princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the -combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost -him, but who should have him?</p> - -<p>How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, -had she started in wild horror and covered her face -with her hands as she thought of her lover opening -the door on the other side of which waited the cruel -fangs of the tiger!</p> - -<p>But how much oftener had she seen him at the other -door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed -her teeth and torn her hair when she saw his start -of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady! -How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen -him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek -and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him -lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy -of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts -from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy -bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> -followers, advance to the couple, and make them man -and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen -them walk away together upon their path of flowers, -followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, -in which her one despairing shriek was lost and -drowned!</p> - -<p>Would it not be better for him to die at once, and -go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric -futurity?</p> - -<p>And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!</p> - -<p>Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but -it had been made after days and nights of anguished -deliberation. She had known she would be asked, -she had decided what she would answer, and, without -the slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand -to the right.</p> - -<p>The question of her decision is one not to be lightly -considered, and it is not for me to presume to set up -myself as the one person able to answer it. So I leave -it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door—the -lady or the tiger?</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a><br /><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Francis Bret Harte</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This is often called a story of local color. And it is. -It is rich in the characteristics of California in the gold-seeking -days. It is also classified as a story of setting. -And it is. The setting is a determining factor in the -conduct of these outcasts. They are men and women as -inevitably drawn to the mining camp as the ill-fated -ship in “The Arabian Nights” was attracted to the -lode-stone mountain, and with as much certainty of -shipwreck. These the blizzard of the west gathers into -its embrace, and compels them to reveal their better -selves. But it is more than a story of local color and of -setting. It is also an illustration of the artistic blending -of plot, character, and setting, and of the magical power -of youth to see life at the time truly enough, but to -transform it later into something fine and noble.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[17]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main -street of Poker Flat on the morning of the twenty-third -of November, 1850, he was conscious of a change in -its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two -or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as -he approached, and exchanged significant glances. -There was a Sabbath lull in the air, which, in a settlement -unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous.</p> - -<p>Mr. Oakhurst’s calm, handsome face betrayed small -concern of these indications. Whether he was conscious -of any predisposing cause, was another question. “I -reckon they’re after somebody,” he reflected; “likely -it’s me.” He returned to his pocket the handkerchief -with which he had been whipping away the red dust -of Poker Flat from his neat boots, and quietly discharged -his mind of any further conjecture.</p> - -<p>In point of fact, Poker Flat was “after somebody.” -It had lately suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, -two valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. It -was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction, quite -as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that -had provoked it. A secret committee had determined to -rid the town of all improper persons. This was done -permanently in regard of two men who were then hanging -from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> -temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionable -characters. I regret to say that some of these -were ladies. It is but due to the sex, however, to state -that their impropriety was professional, and it was -only in such easily established standards of evil that -Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment.</p> - -<p>Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included -in this category. A few of the committee had -urged hanging him as a possible example, and a sure -method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets of -the sums he had won from them. “It’s agin justice,” -said Jim Wheeler, “to let this yer young man from -Roaring Camp—an entire stranger—carry away our -money.” But a crude sentiment of equity residing in -the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough -to win from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local -prejudice.</p> - -<p>Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic -calmness, none the less coolly that he was aware of the -hesitation of his judges. He was too much of a gambler -not to accept Fate. With him life was at best an uncertain -game, and he recognized the usual percentage -in favor of the dealer.</p> - -<p>A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness -of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settlement. -Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a coolly -desperate man, and for whose intimidation the armed -escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of -a young woman familiarly known as “The Duchess”; -another, who had gained the infelicitous title of -“Mother Shipton”; and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected -sluice-robber and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade -provoked no comments from the spectators, nor was -any word uttered by the escort. Only, when the gulch -which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> -reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The -exiles were forbidden to return at the peril of their -lives.</p> - -<p>As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found -vent in a few hysterical tears from “The Duchess,” -some bad language from Mother Shipton, and a Parthian -volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The philosophic -Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened -calmly to Mother Shipton’s desire to cut somebody’s -heart out, to the repeated statements of “The Duchess” -that she would die in the road, and to the alarming -oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy -as he rode forward. With the easy good-humor characteristic -of his class, he insisted upon exchanging his -own riding-horse, “Five Spot,” for the sorry mule -which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not -draw the party into any closer sympathy. The young -woman readjusted her somewhat draggled plumes with -a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the possessor -of “Five Spot” with malevolence, and Uncle -Billy included the whole party in one sweeping -anathema.</p> - -<p>The road to Sandy Bar—a camp that, not having -as yet experienced the regenerating influences of Poker -Flat, consequently seemed to offer some invitation to -the emigrants—lay over a steep mountain range. It was -distant a day’s severe journey. In that advanced season, -the party soon passed out of the moist, temperate -regions of the foot-hills into the dry, cold, bracing air -of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and difficult. At -noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the -ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and -the party halted.</p> - -<p>The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A -wooded amphitheatre, surrounded on three sides by precipitous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> -cliffs of naked granite, sloped gently toward -the crest of another precipice that overlooked the valley. -It was undoubtedly the most suitable spot for a -camp, had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst -knew that scarcely half the journey to Sandy Bar was -accomplished, and the party were not equipped or provisioned -for delay. This fact he pointed out to his companions -curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the -folly of “throwing up their hand before the game -was played out.” But they were furnished with liquor, -which in this emergency stood them in place of food, -fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, -it was not long before they were more or less under -its influence. Uncle Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose -state into one of stupor, the Duchess became maudlin, -and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone -remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying -them.</p> - -<p>Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a -profession which required coolness, impassiveness, and -presence of mind, and, in his own language, he -“couldn’t afford it.” As he gazed at his recumbent -fellow-exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade, -his habits of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously -oppressed him. He bestirred himself in dusting -his black clothes, washing his hands and face, and other -acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits, and for -a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting -his weaker and more pitiable companions never -perhaps occurred to him. Yet he could not help feeling -the want of that excitement which, singularly -enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for -which he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls -that rose a thousand feet sheer above the circling pines -around him; at the sky, ominously clouded; at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span> -valley below, already deepening into shadow. And, doing -so, suddenly he heard his own name called.</p> - -<p>A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, -open face of the new-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized -Tom Simson, otherwise known as “The Innocent” -of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before -over a “little game,” and had, with perfect equanimity, -won the entire fortune—amounting to some forty dollars—of -that guileless youth. After the game was finished, -Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator behind -the door and thus addressed him: “Tommy, -you’re a good little man, but you can’t gamble worth -a cent. Don’t try it over again.” He then handed him -his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and -so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson.</p> - -<p>There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and -enthusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, -he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune. -“Alone?” No, not exactly alone; in fact—a giggle—he -had run away with Piney Woods. Didn’t Mr. Oakhurst -remember Piney? She that used to wait on the -table at the Temperance House? They had been engaged -a long time, but old Jake Woods had objected, -and so they had run away, and were going to Poker -Flat to be married, and here they were. And they were -tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a place -to camp and company. All this the Innocent delivered -rapidly, while Piney—a stout, comely damsel of -fifteen—emerged from behind the pine-tree, where she -had been blushing unseen, and rode to the side of her -lover.</p> - -<p>Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, -still less with propriety; but he had a vague idea that -the situation was not felicitous. He retained, however, -his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> -who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was -sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst’s kick a -superior power that would not bear trifling. He then -endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from delaying -further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact -that there was no provision, nor means of making a -camp. But, unluckily, “The Innocent” met this objection -by assuring the party that he was provided with -an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery -of a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. -“Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,” said the Innocent, -pointing to the Duchess, “and I can shift for -myself.”</p> - -<p>Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst’s admonishing foot saved -Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter. As -it was, he felt compelled to retire up the cañon until he -could recover his gravity. There he confided the joke -to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg, contortions -of his face, and the usual profanity. But when -he returned to the party, he found them seated by a -fire—for the air had grown strangely chill and the -sky overcast—in apparently amicable conversation. -Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, girlish -fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest -and animation she had not shown for many days. -The Innocent was holding forth, apparently with equal -effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was -actually relaxing into amiability. “Is this yer a d—-d -picnic?” said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he -surveyed the sylvan group, the glancing fire-light, and -the tethered animals in the foreground. Suddenly an -idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that disturbed -his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for -he felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist -into his mouth.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p> - -<p>As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a -slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees, and -moaned through their long and gloomy aisles. The -ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs, -was set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they -unaffectedly exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere -that it might have been heard above the swaying pines. -The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton -were probably too stunned to remark upon this last -evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word to -the hut. The fire was replenished, the men lay down -before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep.</p> - -<p>Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning -he awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying -fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought -to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it,—snow!</p> - -<p>He started to his feet with the intention of awakening -the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But turning -to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone. -A suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips. -He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered; -they were no longer there. The tracks were already -rapidly disappearing in the snow.</p> - -<p>The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst -back to the fire with his usual calm. He did not waken -the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully, with -a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin -Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as -though attended by celestial guardians, and Mr. Oakhurst, -drawing his blanket over his shoulders, stroked -his mustachios and waited for the dawn. It came slowly -in a whirling mist of snowflakes, that dazzled and confused -the eye. What could be seen of the landscape -appeared magically changed. He looked over the valley,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> -and summed up the present and future in two -words,—“Snowed in!”</p> - -<p>A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately -for the party, had been stored within the hut, -and so escaped the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed -the fact that with care and prudence they might -last ten days longer. “That is,” said Mr. Oakhurst, -<i>sotto voce</i> to the Innocent, “if you’re willing to board -us. If you ain’t—and perhaps you’d better not—you -can wait till Uncle Billy gets back with provisions.” -For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could not bring -himself to disclose Uncle Billy’s rascality, and so offered -the hypothesis that he had wandered from the -camp and had accidentally stampeded the animals. He -dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Shipton, -who of course knew the facts of their associate’s defection. -“They’ll find out the truth about us <i>all</i>, when -they find out anything,” he added, significantly, “and -there’s no good frightening them now.”</p> - -<p>Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at -the disposal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the -prospect of their enforced seclusion. “We’ll have a -good camp for a week, and then the snow’ll melt, and -we’ll all go back together.” The cheerful gaiety of -the young man and Mr. Oakhurst’s calm infected the -others. The Innocent, with the aid of pine boughs, extemporized -a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the -Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the -interior with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes -of that provincial maiden to their fullest extent. “I -reckon now you’re used to fine things at Poker Flat,” -said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal -something that reddened her cheek through its professional -tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not -to “chatter.” But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> -a weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of -happy laughter echoed from the rocks. He stopped -in some alarm, and his thoughts first naturally reverted -to the whiskey, which he had prudently <i>cachéd</i>. “And -yet it don’t somehow sound like whiskey,” said the -gambler. It was not until he caught sight of the blazing -fire through the still blinding storm, and the group -around it, that he settled to the conviction that it was -“square fun.”</p> - -<p>Whether Mr. Oakhurst had <i>cachéd</i> his cards with the -whiskey as something debarred the free access of the -community, I cannot say. It was certain that, in -Mother Shipton’s words, he “didn’t say cards once” -during that evening. Haply the time was beguiled by -an accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom -Simson, from his pack. Notwithstanding some difficulties -attending the manipulation of this instrument, -Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies -from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent -on a pair of bone castanets. But the crowning -festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting -hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang -with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a -certain defiant tone and Covenanter’s swing to its chorus, -rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily -to infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain:</p> - -<p class="ppqs6 p1">“‘I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord,<br /> -And I’m bound to die in His army.’”</p> - -<p class="p1">The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above -the miserable group, and the flames of their altar -leaped heavenward, as if in token of the vow.</p> - -<p>At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds -parted, and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> -camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had -enabled him to live on the smallest possible amount -of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow -managed to take upon himself the greater part -of that duty. He excused himself to the Innocent, -by saying that he had “often been a week without -sleep.” “Doing what?” asked Tom. “Poker!” replied -Oakhurst, sententiously; “when a man gets a -streak of luck,—nigger-luck,—he don’t get tired. The -luck gives in first. Luck,” continued the gambler, reflectively, -“is a mighty queer thing. All you know -about it for certain is that it’s bound to change. And -it’s finding out when it’s going to change that makes -you. We’ve had a streak of bad luck since we left -Poker Flat—you come along, and slap you get into it, -too. If you can hold your cards right along you’re -all right. For,” added the gambler, with cheerful -irrelevance,</p> - -<p class="ppqs6 p1">“‘I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord,<br /> -And I’m bound to die in His army.’”</p> - -<p class="p1">The third day came, and the sun, looking through the -white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their -slowly decreasing store of provisions for the morning -meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that mountain -climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the -wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of -the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow piled -high around the hut; a hopeless, uncharted, trackless -sea of white lying below the rocky shores to which the -castaways still clung. Through the marvellously clear -air, the smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat -rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it, and from a -remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness, hurled in that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> -direction a final malediction. It was her last vituperative -attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested -with a certain degree of sublimity. It did her -good, she privately informed the Duchess. “Just you -go out there and cuss, and see.” She then set herself -to the task of amusing “the child,” as she and the -Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney was no -chicken, but it was a soothing and ingenious theory of -the pair thus to account for the fact that she didn’t -swear and wasn’t improper.</p> - -<p>When night crept up again through the gorges, the -reedy notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful -spasms and long-drawn gasps by the flickering camp-fire. -But music failed to fill entirely the aching void -left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed -by Piney—story-telling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst -nor his female companions caring to relate their personal -experiences, this plan would have failed, too, but -for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced -upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope’s ingenious translation -of the Iliad. He now proposed to narrate the principal -incidents of that poem—having thoroughly mastered -the argument and fairly forgotten the words—in -the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for -the rest of that night the Homeric demigods again -walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled -in the winds, and the great pines in the cañon seemed -to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst -listened with quiet satisfaction. Most especially -was he interested in the fate of “Ash-heels,” as the -Innocent persisted in denominating the “swift-footed -Achilles.”</p> - -<p>So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, -a week passed over the heads of the outcasts. -The sun again forsook them, and again from leaden<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> -skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by -day closer around them drew the snowy circle, until -at last they looked from their prison over drifted walls -of dazzling white, that towered twenty feet above their -heads. It became more and more difficult to replenish -their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now -half hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained. -The lovers turned from the dreary prospect and looked -into each other’s eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst -settled himself coolly to the losing game before him. -The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed -the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton—once -the strongest of the party—seemed to sicken and fade. -At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to -her side. “I’m going,” she said, in a voice of querulous -weakness, “but don’t say anything about it. Don’t -waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my head -and open it.” Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained -Mother Shipton’s rations for the last week, untouched. -“Give ’em to the child,” she said, pointing to the sleeping -Piney. “You’ve starved yourself,” said the gambler. -“That’s what they call it,” said the woman, -querulously, as she lay down again, and, turning her -face to the wall, passed quietly away.</p> - -<p>The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, -and Homer was forgotten. When the body of Mother -Shipton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst -took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of -snowshoes, which he had fashioned from the old packsaddle. -“There’s one chance in a hundred to save -her yet,” he said, pointing to Piney; “but it’s there,” -he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. “If you can -reach there in two days she’s safe.” “And you?” -asked Tom Simson. “I’ll stay here,” was the curt -reply.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span></p> - -<p>The lovers parted with a long embrace. “You are -not going, too?” said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst -apparently waiting to accompany him. “As far -as the cañon,” he replied. He turned suddenly, and -kissed the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame, and -her trembling limbs rigid with amazement.</p> - -<p>Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the -storm again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess, -feeding the fire, found that some one had quietly piled -beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer. -The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from -Piney.</p> - -<p>The women slept but little. In the morning, looking -into each other’s faces, they read their fate. Neither -spoke; but Piney, accepting the position of the stronger, -drew near and placed her arm around the Duchess’s -waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. -That night the storm reached its greatest fury, and, -rending asunder the protecting pines, invaded the very -hut.</p> - -<p>Toward morning they found themselves unable to -feed the fire, which gradually died away. As the embers -slowly blackened, the Duchess crept closer to Piney, -and broke the silence of many hours: “Piney, can -you pray?” “No, dear,” said Piney, simply. The -Duchess, without knowing exactly why, felt relieved, -and, putting her head upon Piney’s shoulder, spoke no -more. And so reclining, the younger and purer pillowing -the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin -breast, they fell asleep.</p> - -<p>The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. -Feathery drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine -boughs, flew like white-winged birds, and settled about -them as they slept. The moon through the rifted clouds -looked down upon what had been the camp. But all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> -human stain, all trace of earthly travail, was hidden -beneath the spotless mantle mercifully flung from above.</p> - -<p>They slept all that day and the next, nor did they -waken when voices and footsteps broke the silence of -the camp. And when pitying fingers brushed the snow -from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told -from the equal peace that dwelt upon them, which was -she that had sinned. Even the Law of Poker Flat -recognized this, and turned away, leaving them still -locked in each other’s arms.</p> - -<p>But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest -pine-trees, they found the deuce of clubs pinned to -the bark with a bowie knife. It bore the following, -written in pencil, in a firm hand:</p> - -<p class="pc1">†<br /> - -BENEATH THIS TREE<br /> -LIES THE BODY<br /> -OF<br /> -<span class="mid">JOHN OAKHURST,</span><br /> -WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK<br /> -ON THE 23D OF NOVEMBER, 1850,<br /> -AND<br /> -HANDED IN HIS CHECKS<br /> -ON THE 7TH DECEMBER, 1850.<br /> -<span class="mid">⸸</span></p> - -<p class="p1">And, pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side -and a bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life, -beneath the snow lay he who was at once the strongest -and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">THE REVOLT OF “MOTHER”</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 mid"><span class="smcap">Mary E. Wilkins Freeman</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This is a story of character against a New England -background. Each character is worked out with the delicacy -and minuteness of a cameo. Each is intensely -realistic, yet, as in the cameo, palely flushed with romance. -“Mother,” along with her originality of action -and long-concealed ideals, has the saving quality of common-sense, -which makes its powerful appeal to the daily -realities of life. Thus when “Father,” dazed by the -unexpected revelation of the character and ideals of the -woman he has misunderstood for forty years, stands uncertain -whether to assert or to surrender his long-established -supremacy, she decides him in her favor by -a practical suggestion of acquiescence: “You’d better -take your coat off an’ get washed—there’s the wash-basin—an’ -then we’ll have supper.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">THE REVOLT OF “MOTHER”<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[18]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">“Father!”</p> - -<p>“What is it?”</p> - -<p>“What are them men diggin’ over there in the field -for?”</p> - -<p>There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the -lower part of the old man’s face, as if some heavy -weight had settled therein; he shut his mouth tight, -and went on harnessing the great bay mare. He hustled -the collar on to her neck with a jerk.</p> - -<p>“Father!”</p> - -<p>The old man slapped the saddle upon the mare’s -back.</p> - -<p>“Look here, father, I want to know what them men -are diggin’ over in the field for, an’ I’m goin’ to -know.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d go into the house, mother, an’ ’tend -to your own affairs,” the old man said then. He ran -his words together, and his speech was almost as inarticulate -as a growl.</p> - -<p>But the woman understood; it was her most native -tongue. “I ain’t goin’ into the house till you tell me -what them men are doin’ over there in the field,” said -she.</p> - -<p>Then she stood waiting. She was a small woman, -short and straight-waisted like a child in her brown -cotton gown. Her forehead was mild and benevolent -between the smooth curves of gray hair; there were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> -meek downward lines about her nose and mouth; but -her eyes, fixed upon the old man, looked as if the -meekness had been the result of her own will, never -of the will of another.</p> - -<p>They were in the barn, standing before the wide-open -doors. The spring air, full of the smell of growing -grass and unseen blossoms, came in their faces. The -deep yard in front was littered with farm wagons and -piles of wood; on the edges, close to the fence and -the house, the grass was a vivid green, and there were -some dandelions.</p> - -<p>The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he -tightened the last buckles on the harness. She looked -as immovable to him as one of the rocks in his pastureland, -bound to the earth with generations of blackberry -vines. He slapped the reins over the horse, -and started forth from the barn.</p> - -<p>“<i>Father!</i>” said she.</p> - -<p>The old man pulled up. “What is it?”</p> - -<p>“I want to know what them men are diggin’ over -there in that field for.”</p> - -<p>“They’re diggin’ a cellar, I s’pose, if you’ve got -to know.”</p> - -<p>“A cellar for what?”</p> - -<p>“A barn.”</p> - -<p>“A barn? You ain’t goin’ to build a barn over there -where we was goin’ to have a house, father?”</p> - -<p>The old man said not another word. He hurried -the horse into the farm wagon, and clattered out of the -yard, jouncing as sturdily on his seat as a boy.</p> - -<p>The woman stood a moment looking after him, then -she went out of the barn across a corner of the yard -to the house. The house, standing at right angles with -the great barn and a long reach of sheds and out-buildings, -was infinitesimal compared with them. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> -was scarcely as commodious for people as the little -boxes under the barn eaves were for doves.</p> - -<p>A pretty girl’s face, pink and delicate as a flower, -was looking out of one of the house windows. She was -watching three men who were digging over in the field -which bounded the yard near the road line. She turned -quietly when the woman entered.</p> - -<p>“What are they digging for, mother?” said she. -“Did he tell you?”</p> - -<p>“They’re diggin’ for—a cellar for a new barn.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, he ain’t going to build another barn?”</p> - -<p>“That’s what he says.”</p> - -<p>A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair. -He combed slowly and painstakingly, arranging his -brown hair in a smooth hillock over his forehead. He -did not seem to pay any attention to the conversation.</p> - -<p>“Sammy, did you know father was going to build -a new barn?” asked the girl.</p> - -<p>The boy combed assiduously.</p> - -<p>“Sammy!”</p> - -<p>He turned, and showed a face like his father’s under -his smooth crest of hair. “Yes, I s’pose I did,” he -said, reluctantly.</p> - -<p>“How long have you known it?” asked his mother.</p> - -<p>“‘Bout three months, I guess.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you tell of it?”</p> - -<p>“Didn’t think ’twould do no good.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see what father wants another barn for,” -said the girl, in her sweet, slow voice. She turned again -to the window, and stared out at the digging men in -the field. Her tender, sweet face was full of a gentle -distress. Her forehead was as bald and innocent as a -baby’s, with the light hair strained back from it in a -row of curl-papers. She was quite large, but her soft -curves did not look as if they covered muscles.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span></p> - -<p>Her mother looked sternly at the boy. “Is he goin’ -to buy more cows?” said she.</p> - -<p>The boy did not reply; he was tying his shoes.</p> - -<p>“Sammy, I want you to tell me if he’s goin’ to buy -more cows.”</p> - -<p>“I s’pose he is.”</p> - -<p>“How many?”</p> - -<p>“Four, I guess.”</p> - -<p>His mother said nothing more. She went into the -pantry, and there was a clatter of dishes. The boy -got his cap from a nail behind the door, took an old -arithmetic from the shelf, and started for school. He -was lightly built, but clumsy. He went out of the -yard with a curious spring in the hips, that made his -loose home-made jacket tilt up in the rear.</p> - -<p>The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the -dishes that were piled up there. Her mother came -promptly out of the pantry, and shoved her aside. -“You wipe ’em,” said she; “I’ll wash. There’s a good -many this mornin’.”</p> - -<p>The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the -water, the girl wiped the plates slowly and dreamily. -“Mother,” said she, “don’t you think it’s too bad -father’s going to build that new barn, much as we need -a decent house to live in?”</p> - -<p>Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. “You ain’t -found out yet we’re women-folks, Nanny Penn,” said -she. “You ain’t seen enough of men-folks yet to. One -of these days you’ll find it out, an’ then you’ll know -that we know only what men-folks think we do, -so far as any use of it goes, an’ how we’d ought -to reckon men-folks in with Providence, an’ not complain -of what they do any more than we do of the -weather.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care; I don’t believe George is anything like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span> -that, anyhow,” said Nanny. Her delicate face flushed -pink, her lips pouted softly, as if she were going to -cry.</p> - -<p>“You wait an’ see. I guess George Eastman ain’t -no better than other men. You hadn’t ought to judge -father, though. He can’t help it, ’cause he don’t look -at things jest the way we do. An’ we’ve been pretty -comfortable here, after all. The roof don’t leak—ain’t -never but once—that’s one thing. Father’s kept it -shingled right up.”</p> - -<p>“I do wish we had a parlor.”</p> - -<p>“I guess it won’t hurt George Eastman any to come -to see you in a nice clean kitchen. I guess a good many -girls don’t have as good a place as this. Nobody’s ever -heard me complain.”</p> - -<p>“I ain’t complained either, mother.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t think you’d better, a good father an’ -a good home as you’ve got. S’pose your father made -you go out an’ work for your livin’? Lots of girls have -to that ain’t no stronger an’ better able to than you -be.”</p> - -<p>Sarah Penn washed the frying-pan with a conclusive -air. She scrubbed the outside of it as faithfully as the -inside. She was a masterly keeper of her box of a house. -Her one living-room never seemed to have in it any -of the dust which the friction of life with inanimate -matter produces. She swept, and there seemed to be -no dirt to go before the broom; she cleaned, and one -could see no difference. She was like an artist so perfect -that he has apparently no art. To-day she got out -a mixing bowl and a board, and rolled some pies, and -there was no more flour upon her than upon her daughter -who was doing finer work. Nanny was to be married -in the fall, and she was sewing on some white cambric -and embroidery. She sewed industriously while<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> -her mother cooked, her soft milk-white hands and wrists -showed whiter than her delicate work.</p> - -<p>“We must have the stove moved out in the shed -before long,” said Mrs. Penn. “Talk about not havin’ -things, it’s been a real blessin’ to be able to put a -stove up in that shed in hot weather. Father did -one good thing when he fixed that stove-pipe out -there.”</p> - -<p>Sarah Penn’s face as she rolled her pies had that expression -of meek vigor which might have characterized -one of the New Testament saints. She was making -mince-pies. Her husband, Adoniram Penn, liked them -better than any other kind. She baked twice a week. -Adoniram often liked a piece of pie between meals. -She hurried this morning. It had been later than -usual when she began, and she wanted to have a pie -baked for dinner. However deep a resentment she -might be forced to hold against her husband, she would -never fail in sedulous attention to his wants.</p> - -<p>Nobility of character manifests itself at loop-holes -when it is not provided with large doors. Sarah Penn’s -showed itself to-day in flaky dishes of pastry. So she -made the pies faithfully, while across the table she -could see, when she glanced up from her work, the sight -that rankled in her patient and steadfast soul—the digging -of the cellar of the new barn in the place where -Adoniram forty years ago had promised her their new -house should stand.</p> - -<p>The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and -Sammy were home a few minutes after twelve o’clock. -The dinner was eaten with serious haste. There was -never much conversation at the table in the Penn family. -Adoniram asked a blessing, and they ate promptly, -then rose up and went about their work.</p> - -<p>Sammy went back to school, taking soft sly lopes out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> -of the yard like a rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles -before school, and feared his father would give -him some chores to do. Adoniram hastened to the door -and called after him, but he was out of sight.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see what you let him go for, mother,” said -he. “I wanted him to help me unload that wood.”</p> - -<p>Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading -wood from the wagon. Sarah put away the dinner -dishes, while Nanny took down her curl-papers and -changed her dress. She was going down to the store -to buy some more embroidery and thread.</p> - -<p>When Nanny was gone, Mrs. Penn went to the door. -“Father!” she called.</p> - -<p>“Well, what is it!”</p> - -<p>“I want to see you jest a minute, father.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t leave this wood nohow. I’ve got to git it -unloaded an’ go for a load of gravel afore two o’clock. -Sammy had ought to helped me. You hadn’t ought -to let him go to school so early.”</p> - -<p>“I want to see you jest a minute.”</p> - -<p>“I tell ye I can’t, nohow, mother.”</p> - -<p>“Father, you come here.” Sarah Penn stood in the -door like a queen; she held her head as if it bore a -crown; there was that patience which makes authority -royal in her voice. Adoniram went.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed -to a chair. “Sit down, father,” said she; “I’ve got -somethin’ I want to say to you.”</p> - -<p>He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but -he looked at her with restive eyes. “Well, what is it, -mother?”</p> - -<p>“I want to know what you’re buildin’ that new barn -for, father?”</p> - -<p>“I ain’t got nothin’ to say about it.”</p> - -<p>“It can’t be you think you need another barn?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I tell ye I ain’t got nothin’ to say about it, mother; -an’ I ain’t goin’ to say nothin’.”</p> - -<p>“Be you goin’ to buy more cows?”</p> - -<p>Adoniram did not reply; he shut his mouth tight.</p> - -<p>“I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, -look here”—Sarah Penn had not sat down; she stood -before her husband in the humble fashion of a Scripture -woman—“I’m goin’ to talk real plain to you; I -never have sence I married you, but I’m goin’ to now. -I ain’t never complained, an’ I ain’t goin’ to complain -now, but I’m goin’ to talk plain. You see this -room here, father; you look at it well. You see there -ain’t no carpet on the floor, an’ you see the paper is -all dirty, an’ droppin’ off the walls. We ain’t had no -new paper on it for ten year, an’ then I put it on myself, -an’ it didn’t cost but ninepence a roll. You see -this room, father; it’s all the one I’ve had to work in -an’ eat in an’ sit in sence we was married. There ain’t -another woman in the whole town whose husband ain’t -got half the means you have but what’s got better. It’s -all the room Nanny’s got to have her company in; an’ -there ain’t one of her mates but what’s got better, an’ -their fathers not so able as hers is. It’s all the room -she’ll have to be married in. What would you have -thought, father, if we had had our weddin’ in a room -no better than this? I was married in my mother’s -parlor, with a carpet on the floor, an’ stuffed furniture, -an’ a mahogany card-table. An’ this is all the room -my daughter will have to be married in. Look here, -father!”</p> - -<p>Sarah Penn went across the room as though it were -a tragic stage. She flung open a door and disclosed -a tiny bedroom, only large enough for a bed and bureau, -with a path between. “There, father,” said she—“there’s -all the room I’ve had to sleep in forty year.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> -All my children were born there—the two that died, an’ -the two that’s livin’. I was sick with a fever there.”</p> - -<p>She stepped to another door and opened it. It led -into the small, ill-lighted pantry. “Here,” said she, -“is all the buttery I’ve got—every place I’ve got for -my dishes, to set away my victuals in, an’ to keep my -milk-pans in. Father, I’ve been takin’ care of the milk -of six cows in this place, an’ now you’re goin’ to build -a new barn, an’ keep more cows, an’ give me more to -do in it.”</p> - -<p>She threw open another door. A narrow crooked -flight of stairs wound upward from it. “There, father,” -said she, “I want you to look at the stairs that -go up to them two unfinished chambers that are all the -places our son an’ daughter have had to sleep in all -their lives. There ain’t a prettier girl in town nor a -more ladylike one than Nanny, an’ that’s the place she -has to sleep in. It ain’t so good as your horse’s stall; -it ain’t so warm an’ tight.”</p> - -<p>Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband. -“Now, father,” said she, “I want to know if you think -you’re doin’ right an’ accordin’ to what you profess. -Here, when we was married, forty year ago, you promised -me faithful that we should have a new house built -in that lot over in the field before the year was out. -You said you had money enough, an’ you wouldn’t -ask me to live in no such place as this. It is forty -year now, an’ you’ve been makin’ more money, an’ I’ve -been savin’ of it for you ever sence, an’ you ain’t built -no house yet. You’ve built sheds an’ cow-houses an’ -one new barn, an’ now you’re goin’ to build another. -Father, I want to know if you think it’s right. You’re -lodgin’ your dumb beasts better than you are your own -flesh an’ blood. I want to know if you think it’s -right.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t say nothin’ without ownin’ it ain’t right, -father. An’ there’s another thing—I ain’t complained; -I’ve got along forty year, an’ I s’pose I should forty -more, if it wa’n’t for that—if we don’t have another -house. Nanny she can’t live with us after she’s married. -She’ll have to go somewheres else to live away -from us, an’ it don’t seem as if I could have it so, noways, -father. She wa’n’t ever strong. She’s got considerable -color, but there wa’n’t never any backbone -to her. I’ve always took the heft of everything off her, -an’ she ain’t fit to keep house an’ do everything herself. -She’ll be all worn out inside of a year. Think -of her doin’ all the washin’ an’ ironin’ an’ bakin’ with -them soft white hands an’ arms, an’ sweepin’! I can’t -have it so, noways, father.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Penn’s face was burning; her mild eyes gleamed. -She had pleaded her little cause like a Webster; she -had ranged from severity to pathos; but her opponent -employed that obstinate silence which makes eloquence -futile with mocking echoes. Adoniram arose -clumsily.</p> - -<p>“Father, ain’t you got nothin’ to say?” said Mrs. -Penn.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to go off after that load of gravel. I can’t -stan’ here talkin’ all day.”</p> - -<p>“Father, won’t you think it over, an’ have a house -built there instead of a barn?”</p> - -<p>“I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”</p> - -<p>Adoniram shuffled out. Mrs. Penn went into her -bedroom. When she came out, her eyes were red. She -had a roll of unbleached cotton cloth. She spread it -out on the kitchen table, and began cutting out some -shirts for her husband. The men over in the field had -a team to help them this afternoon; she could hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> -their halloos. She had a scanty pattern for the shirts; -she had to plan and piece the sleeves.</p> - -<p>Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down -with her needlework. She had taken down her curl-papers, -and there was a soft roll of fair hair like an -aureole over her forehead; her face was as delicately -fine and clear as porcelain. Suddenly she looked up, -and the tender red flamed all over her face and neck. -“Mother,” said she.</p> - -<p>“What say?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been thinking—I don’t see how we’re goin’ to -have any—wedding in this room. I’d be ashamed to -have his folks come if we didn’t have anybody else.”</p> - -<p>“Mebbe we can have some new paper before then; -I can put it on. I guess you won’t have no call to be -ashamed of your belongin’s.”</p> - -<p>“We might have the wedding in the new barn,” said -Nanny, with gentle pettishness. “Why, mother, what -makes you look so?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with -a curious expression. She turned again to her work, -and spread out a pattern carefully on the cloth. -“Nothin’,” said she.</p> - -<p>Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his -two-wheeled dump cart, standing as proudly upright -as a Roman charioteer. Mrs. Penn opened the door and -stood there a minute looking out; the halloos of the men -sounded louder.</p> - -<p>It seemed to her all through the spring months -that she heard nothing but the halloos and the noises of -saws and hammers. The new barn grew fast. It was -a fine edifice for this little village. Men came on pleasant -Sundays, in their meeting suits and clean shirt -bosoms, and stood around it admiringly. Mrs. Penn -did not speak of it, and Adoniram did not mention it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> -to her, although sometimes, upon a return from inspecting -it, he bore himself with injured dignity.</p> - -<p>“It’s a strange thing how your mother feels about -the new barn,” he said, confidentially, to Sammy one -day.</p> - -<p>Sammy only grunted after an odd fashion for a boy; -he had learned it from his father.</p> - -<p>The barn was all completed ready for use by the third -week in July. Adoniram had planned to move his stock -in on Wednesday; on Tuesday he received a letter which -changed his plans. He came in with it early in the -morning. “Sammy’s been to the post-office,” said he, -“an’ I’ve got a letter from Hiram.” Hiram was Mrs. -Penn’s brother, who lived in Vermont.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mrs. Penn, “what does he say about -the folks?”</p> - -<p>“I guess they’re all right. He says he thinks if I -come up country right off there’s a chance to buy jest -the kind of a horse I want.” He stared reflectively out -of the window at the new barn.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping -the rolling-pin into the crust, although she was very -pale, and her heart beat loudly.</p> - -<p>“I dun’ know but what I’d better go,” said Adoniram. -“I hate to go off jest now, right in the midst of -hayin’, but the ten-acre lot’s cut, an’ I guess Rufus an’ -the others can git along without me three or four days. -I can’t get a horse round here to suit me, nohow, an’ -I’ve got to have another for all that wood-haulin’ in the -fall. I told Hiram to watch out, an’ if he got wind of -a good horse to let me know. I guess I’d better go.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll get out your clean shirt an’ collar,” said Mrs. -Penn, calmly.</p> - -<p>She laid out Adoniram’s Sunday suit and his clean -clothes on the bed in the little bedroom. She got his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> -shaving-water and razor ready. At last she buttoned on -his collar and fastened his black cravat.</p> - -<p>Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on -extra occasions. He held his head high, with a rasped -dignity. When he was all ready, with his coat and -hat brushed, and a lunch of pie and cheese in a paper -bag, he hesitated on the threshold of the door. He -looked at his wife, and his manner was defiantly apologetic. -“<i>If</i> them cows come to-day, Sammy can drive -’em into the new barn,” said he; “an’ when they bring -the hay up, they can pitch it in there.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” replied Mrs. Penn.</p> - -<p>Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. -When he had cleared the door-step, he turned and looked -back with a kind of nervous solemnity. “I shall be back -by Saturday if nothin’ happens,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Do be careful, father,” returned his wife.</p> - -<p>She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and -watched him out of sight. Her eyes had a strange, -doubtful expression in them; her peaceful forehead was -contracted. She went in, and about her baking again. -Nanny sat sewing. Her wedding-day was drawing -nearer, and she was getting pale and thin with her -steady sewing. Her mother kept glancing at her.</p> - -<p>“Have you got that pain in your side this mornin’?” -she asked.</p> - -<p>“A little.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Penn’s face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed -forehead smoothed, her eyes were steady, her lips -firmly set. She formed a maxim for herself, although -incoherently with her unlettered thoughts. “Unsolicited -opportunities are the guide-posts of the Lord to -the new roads of life,” she repeated in effect, and she -made up her mind to her course of action.</p> - -<p>“S’posin’ I <i>had</i> wrote to Hiram,” she muttered once,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> -when she was in the pantry—“s’posin’ I had wrote, an’ -asked him if he knew of any horse? But I didn’t, an’ -father’s goin’ wa’n’t none of my doin’. It looks like a -providence.” Her voice rang out quite loud at the last.</p> - -<p>“What you talkin’ about, mother?” called Nanny.</p> - -<p>“Nothin’.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Penn hurried her baking; at eleven o’clock it was -all done. The load of hay from the west field came -slowly down the cart track, and drew up at the new -barn. Mrs. Penn ran out. “Stop!” she screamed—“stop!”</p> - -<p>The men stopped and looked; Sammy upreared from -the top of the load, and stared at his mother.</p> - -<p>“Stop!” she cried out again. “Don’t you put the -hay in that barn; put it in the old one.”</p> - -<p>“Why, he said to put it in here,” returned one of -the haymakers, wonderingly. He was a young man, -a neighbor’s son, whom Adoniram hired by the year -to help on the farm.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you put the hay in the new barn; there’s -room enough in the old one, ain’t there?” said Mrs. -Penn.</p> - -<p>“Room enough,” returned the hired man, in his -thick, rustic tones. “Didn’t need the new barn, nohow, -far as room’s concerned. Well, I s’pose he changed -his mind.” He took hold of the horses’ bridles.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen -windows were darkened, and a fragrance like warm -honey came into the room.</p> - -<p>Nanny laid down her work. “I thought father -wanted them to put the hay into the new barn?” she -said, wonderingly.</p> - -<p>“It’s all right,” replied her mother.</p> - -<p>Sammy slid down from the load of hay, and came in -to see if dinner was ready.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I ain’t goin’ to get a regular dinner to-day, as long -as father’s gone,” said his mother. “I’ve let the fire -go out. You can have some bread an’ milk an’ pie. I -thought we could get along.” She set out some bowls -of milk, some bread, and a pie on the kitchen table. -“You’d better eat your dinner now,” said she. “You -might jest as well get through with it. I want you to -help me afterward.”</p> - -<p>Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was -something strange in their mother’s manner. Mrs. Penn -did not eat anything herself. She went into the pantry, -and they heard her moving dishes while they ate. Presently -she came out with a pile of plates. She got the -clothes-basket out of the shed, and packed them in it. -Nanny and Sammy watched. She brought out cups -and saucers, and put them in with the plates.</p> - -<p>“What you goin’ to do, mother?” inquired Nanny, -in a timid voice. A sense of something unusual made -her tremble, as if it were a ghost. Sammy rolled his -eyes over his pie.</p> - -<p>“You’ll see what I’m goin’ to do,” replied Mrs. Penn. -“If you’re through, Nanny, I want you to go upstairs -an’ pack up your things; an’ I want you, Sammy, to -help me take down the bed in the bedroom.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, what for?” gasped Nanny.</p> - -<p>“You’ll see.”</p> - -<p>During the next few hours a feat was performed -by this simple, pious New England mother which was -equal in its way to Wolfe’s storming of the Heights of -Abraham. It took no more genius and audacity of -bravery for Wolfe to cheer his wondering soldiers up -those steep precipices, under the sleeping eyes of the -enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at the head of her children, -to move all their little household goods into the -new barn while her husband was away.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p> - -<p>Nanny and Sammy followed their mother’s instructions -without a murmur; indeed, they were overawed. -There is a certain uncanny and superhuman quality -about all such purely original undertakings as their -mother’s was to them. Nanny went back and forth -with her light loads, and Sammy tugged with sober -energy.</p> - -<p>At five o’clock in the afternoon the little house in -which the Penns had lived for forty years had emptied -itself into the new barn.</p> - -<p>Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, -and is in a measure a prophet. The architect of -Adoniram Penn’s barn, while he designed it for the -comfort of four-footed animals, had planned better than -he knew for the comfort of humans. Sarah Penn saw -at a glance its possibilities. Those great box-stalls, with -quilts hung before them, would make better bedrooms -than the one she had occupied for forty years, and -there was a tight carriage-room. The harness-room, -with its chimney and shelves, would make a kitchen of -her dreams. The great middle space would make a -parlor, by-and-by, fit for a palace. Upstairs there was -as much room as down. With partitions and windows, -what a house would there be! Sarah looked at the row -of stanchions before the allotted space for cows, and -reflected that she would have her front entry there.</p> - -<p>At six o’clock the stove was up in the harness-room, -the kettle was boiling, and the table set for tea. It -looked almost as home-like as the abandoned house across -the yard had ever done. The young hired man milked, -and Sarah directed him calmly to bring the milk to -the new barn. He came gaping, dropping little blots -of foam from the brimming pails on the grass. Before -the next morning he had spread the story of Adoniram -Penn’s wife moving into the new barn all over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> -little village. Men assembled in the store and talked -it over, women with shawls over their heads scuttled -into each other’s houses before their work was done. -Any deviation from the ordinary course of life in this -quiet town was enough to stop all progress in it. Everybody -paused to look at the staid, independent figure on -the side track. There was a difference of opinion with -regard to her. Some held her to be insane; some, of a -lawless and rebellious spirit.</p> - -<p>Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the -forenoon, and she was at the barn door shelling peas -for dinner. She looked up and returned his salutation -with dignity, then she went on with her work. -She did not invite him in. The saintly expression of -her face remained fixed, but there was an angry flush -over it.</p> - -<p>The minister stood awkwardly before her, and talked. -She handled the peas as if they were bullets. At last -she looked up, and her eyes showed the spirit that her -meek front had covered for a lifetime.</p> - -<p>“There ain’t no use talkin’, Mr. Hersey,” said she. -“I’ve thought it all over an’ over, an’ I believe I’m -doin’ what’s right. I’ve made it the subject of prayer, -an’ it’s betwixt me an’ the Lord an’ Adoniram. There -ain’t no call for nobody else to worry about it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, of course, if you have brought it to the Lord -in prayer, and feel satisfied that you are doing right, -Mrs. Penn,” said the minister, helplessly. His thin -gray-bearded face was pathetic. He was a sickly man; -his youthful confidence had cooled; he had to scourge -himself up to some of his pastoral duties as relentlessly -as a Catholic ascetic, and then he was prostrated by the -smart.</p> - -<p>“I think it’s right jest as much as I think it was -right for our forefathers to come over from the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> -country ’cause they didn’t have what belonged to ’em,” -said Mrs. Penn. She arose. The barn threshold might -have been Plymouth Rock from her bearing. “I don’t -doubt you mean well, Mr. Hersey,” said she, “but there -are things people hadn’t ought to interfere with. I’ve -been a member of the church for over forty year. I’ve -got my own mind an’ my own feet, an’ I’m goin’ to -think my own thoughts an’ go my own ways, an’ nobody -but the Lord is goin’ to dictate to me unless I’ve -a mind to have him. Won’t you come in an’ set down? -How is Mis’ Hersey?”</p> - -<p>“She is well, I thank you,” replied the minister. He -added some more perplexed apologetic remarks; then he -retreated.</p> - -<p>He could expound the intricacies of every character -study in the Scriptures, he was competent to grasp the -Pilgrim Fathers and all historical innovators, but Sarah -Penn was beyond him. He could deal with primal cases, -but parallel ones worsted him. But, after all, although -it was aside from his province, he wondered more how -Adoniram Penn would deal with his wife than how the -Lord would. Everybody shared the wonder. When -Adoniram’s four new cows arrived, Sarah ordered three -to be put in the old barn, the other in the house shed -where the cooking-stove had stood. That added to the -excitement. It was whispered that all four cows were -domiciled in the house.</p> - -<p>Towards sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was -expected home, there was a knot of men in the road near -the new barn. The hired man had milked, but he still -hung around the premises. Sarah Penn had supper all -ready. There were brown-bread and baked beans and -a custard pie; it was the supper that Adoniram loved -on a Saturday night. She had on a clean calico, and -she bore herself imperturbably. Nanny and Sammy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span> -kept close at her heels. Their eyes were large, and -Nanny was full of nervous tremors. Still there was to -them more pleasant excitement than anything else. An -inborn confidence in their mother over their father asserted -itself.</p> - -<p>Sammy looked out of the harness-room window. -“There he is,” he announced, in an awed whisper. He -and Nanny peeped around the casing. Mrs. Penn kept -on about her work. The children watched Adoniram -leave the new horse standing in the drive while he -went to the house door. It was fastened. Then he -went around to the shed. That door was seldom locked, -even when the family was away. The thought how -her father would be confronted by the cow flashed upon -Nanny. There was a hysterical sob in her throat. -Adoniram emerged from the shed and stood looking -about in a dazed fashion. His lips moved; he was saying -something, but they could not hear what it was. -The hired man was peeping around a corner of the -old barn, but nobody saw him.</p> - -<p>Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led -him across the yard to the new barn. Nanny and -Sammy slunk close to their mother. The barn doors -rolled back, and there stood Adoniram, with the long -mild face of the great Canadian farm horse looking -over his shoulder.</p> - -<p>Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped -suddenly forward, and stood in front of her.</p> - -<p>Adoniram stared at the group. “What on airth you -all down here for?” said he. “What’s the matter over -to the house?”</p> - -<p>“We’ve come here to live, father,” said Sammy. -His shrill voice quavered out bravely.</p> - -<p>“What”—Adoniram sniffed—“what is it smells like -cookin’?” said he. He stepped forward and looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> -in the open door of the harness-room. Then he turned -to his wife. His old bristling face was pale and frightened. -“What on airth does this mean, mother?” he -gasped.</p> - -<p>“You come in here, father,” said Sarah. She led the -way into the harness-room and shut the door. “Now, -father,” said she, “you needn’t be scared. I ain’t -crazy. There ain’t nothin’ to be upset over. But we’ve -come here to live, an’ we’re goin’ to live here. We’ve -got jest as good a right here as new horses an’ cows. -The house wa’n’t fit for us to live in any longer, an’ -I made up my mind I wa’n’t goin’ to stay there. I’ve -done my duty by you forty year, an’ I’m goin’ to do -it now; but I’m goin’ to live here. You’ve got to put -in some windows and partitions; an’ you’ll have to buy -some furniture.”</p> - -<p>“Why, mother!” the old man gasped.</p> - -<p>“You’d better take your coat off an’ get washed—there’s -the wash-basin—an’ then we’ll have supper.”</p> - -<p>“Why, mother!”</p> - -<p>Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse -to the old barn. The old man saw him, and shook his -head speechlessly. He tried to take off his coat, but his -arms seemed to lack the power. His wife helped him. -She poured some water into the tin basin, and put in a -piece of soap. She got the comb and brush, and -smoothed his thin gray hair after he had washed. -Then she put the beans, hot bread, and tea on the table. -Sammy came in, and the family drew up. Adoniram -sat looking dazedly at his plate, and they waited.</p> - -<p>“Ain’t you goin’ to ask a blessin’, father?” said -Sarah.</p> - -<p>And the old man bent his head and mumbled.</p> - -<p>All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> -and stared furtively at his wife; but he ate well. The -home food tasted good to him, and his old frame was -too sturdily healthy to be affected by his mind. But -after supper he went out, and sat down on the step of -the smaller door at the right of the barn, through which -he had meant his Jerseys to pass in stately file, but -which Sarah designed for her front house door, and -he leaned his head on his hands.</p> - -<p>After the supper dishes were cleared away and the -milk-pans washed, Sarah went out to him. The twilight -was deepening. There was a clear green glow -in the sky. Before them stretched the smooth level -of field; in the distance was a cluster of hay-stacks like -the huts of a village; the air was very cool and calm and -sweet. The landscape might have been an ideal one of -peace.</p> - -<p>Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of -his thin, sinewy shoulders. “Father!”</p> - -<p>The old man’s shoulders heaved: he was weeping.</p> - -<p>“Why, don’t do so, father,” said Sarah.</p> - -<p>“I’ll—put up the—partitions, an’—everything you—want, -mother.”</p> - -<p>Sarah put her apron up to her face; she was overcome -by her own triumph.</p> - -<p>Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no -active resistance, and went down the instant the right -besieging tools were used. “Why, mother,” he said, -hoarsely, “I hadn’t no idee you was so set on’t as all -this comes to.”</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">MARSE CHAN</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">A TALE OF OLD VIRGINIA</p> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 mid"><span class="smcap">Thomas Nelson Page</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">Here plot, character, and setting are happily blended. -The story is sufficient to move smoothly and interestingly; -the characters, both black and white, reveal the -Southerner at his best; and the setting not only furnishes -an appropriate background for plot and characters, -but is significant of the leisure, the isolation, and -the pride of the people.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">MARSE CHAN<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[19]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">One afternoon, in the autumn of 1872, I was riding -leisurely down the sandy road that winds along the -top of the water-shed between two of the smaller rivers -of eastern Virginia. The road I was travelling, following -“the ridge” for miles, had just struck me as most -significant of the character of the race whose only -avenue of communication with the outside world it had -formerly been. Their once splendid mansions, now fast -falling to decay, appeared to view from time to time, set -back far from the road, in proud seclusion, among groves -of oak and hickory, now scarlet and gold with the early -frost. Distance was nothing to this people; time was -of no consequence to them. They desired but a level -path in life, and that they had, though the way was -longer, and the outer world strode by them as they -dreamed.</p> - -<p>I was aroused from my reflections by hearing some -one ahead of me calling, “Heah!—heah—whoo-oop, -heah!”</p> - -<p>Turning the curve in the road, I saw just before -me a negro standing, with a hoe and a watering-pot -in his hand. He had evidently just gotten over the -“worm-fence” into the road, out of the path which -led zigzag across the “old field” and was lost to sight -in the dense growth of sassafras. When I rode up, he -was looking anxiously back down this path for his dog. -So engrossed was he that he did not even hear my horse,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> -and I reined in to wait until he should turn around -and satisfy my curiosity as to the handsome old place -half a mile off from the road.</p> - -<p>The numerous out-buildings and the large barns and -stables told that it had once been the seat of wealth, -and the wild waste of sassafras that covered the broad -fields gave it an air of desolation that greatly excited -my interest. Entirely oblivious of my proximity, the -negro went on calling “Whoo-oop, heah!” until along -the path, walking very slowly and with great dignity, -appeared a noble-looking old orange and white setter, -gray with age, and corpulent with excessive feeding. As -soon as he came in sight, his master began:</p> - -<p>“Yes, dat you! You gittin’ deaf as well as bline, -I s’pose! Kyarnt heah me callin’, I reckon? Whyn’t -yo’ come on, dawg?”</p> - -<p>The setter sauntered slowly up to the fence and -stopped, without even deigning a look at the speaker, -who immediately proceeded to take the rails down, talking -meanwhile:</p> - -<p>“Now, I got to pull down de gap, I s’pose! Yo’ so -sp’ilt yo’ kyahn hardly walk. Jes’ ez able to git over -it as I is! Jes’ like white folks—think ’cuz you’s white -and I’se black, I got to wait on yo’ all de time. Ne’m -mine, I ain’ gwi’ do it!”</p> - -<p>The fence having been pulled down sufficiently low -to suit his dogship, he marched sedately through, and, -with a hardly perceptible lateral movement of his tail, -walked on down the road. Putting up the rails carefully, -the negro turned and saw me.</p> - -<p>“Sarvent, marster,” he said, taking his hat off. -Then, as if apologetically for having permitted a -stranger to witness what was merely a family affair, he -added: “He know I don’ mean nothin’ by what I sez. -He’s Marse Chan’s dawg, an’ he’s so ole he kyahn git<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> -long no pearter. He know I’se jes’ prodjickin’ wid -’im.”</p> - -<p>“Who is Marse Chan?” I asked; “and whose place -is that over there, and the one a mile or two back—the -place with the big gate and the carved stone -pillars?”</p> - -<p>“Marse Chan,” said the darky, “he’s Marse Channin’—my -young marster; an’ dem places—dis one’s -Weall’s, an’ de one back dyar wid de rock gate-pos’s -is ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. Dey don’ nobody live dyar -now, ’cep’ niggers. Arfter de war some one or nurr -bought our place, but his name done kind o’ slipped -me. I nuver hearn on ’im befo’; I think dey’s half-strainers. -I don’ ax none on ’em no odds. I lives down -de road heah, a little piece, an’ I jes’ steps down of a -evenin’ and looks arfter de graves.”</p> - -<p>“Well, where is Marse Chan?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Hi! don’ you know? Marse Chan, he went in de -army. I was wid ’im. Yo’ know he warn’ gwine an’ -lef’ Sam.”</p> - -<p>“Will you tell me all about it?” I said, dismounting.</p> - -<p>Instantly, and as if by instinct, the darky stepped -forward and took my bridle. I demurred a little; but -with a bow that would have honored old Sir Roger, he -shortened the reins, and taking my horse from me, led -him along.</p> - -<p>“Now tell me about Marse Chan,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Lawd, marster, hit’s so long ago, I’d a’most forgit -all about it, ef I hedn’ been wid him ever sence he wuz -born. Ez ’tis, I remembers it jes’ like ’twuz yistiddy. -Yo’ know Marse Chan an’ me—we wuz boys togerr. I -wuz older’n he wuz, jes’ de same ez he wuz whiter’n me. -I wuz born plantin’ corn time, de spring arfter big Jim -an’ de six steers got washed away at de upper ford -right down dyar b’low de quarters ez he wuz a-bringin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>’ -de Chris’mas things home; an’ Marse Chan, he warn’ -born tell mos’ to de harves’ arfter my sister Nancy married -Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s Torm, ’bout eight years arfterwoods.</p> - -<p>“Well, when Marse Chan wuz born, dey wuz de -grettes’ doin’s at home you ever did see. De folks all -hed holiday, jes’ like in de Chris’mas. Ole marster -(we didn’ call ’im <i>ole</i> marster tell arfter Marster Chan -wuz born—befo’ dat he wuz jes’ de marster, so)—well, -ole marster, his face fyar shine wid pleasure, an’ all -de folks wuz mighty glad, too, ’cause dey all loved ole -marster, and aldo’ dey did step aroun’ right peart when -ole marster was lookin’ at ’em, dyar warn’ nyar han’ -on de place but what, ef he wanted anythin’, would -walk up to de back poach, an’ say he warn’ to see de -marster. An’ ev’ybody wuz talkin’ ’bout de young -marster, an’ de maids an’ de wimmens ’bout de kitchen -wuz sayin’ how ’twuz de purties’ chile dey ever see; -an’ at dinner-time de mens (all on ’em hed holiday) -come roun’ de poach an’ ax how de missis an’ de young -marster wuz, an’ ole marster come out on de poach an’ -smile wus’n a ’possum, an’ sez, ’Thankee! Bofe doin’ -fust rate, boys’; an’ den he stepped back in de house, -sort o’ laughin’ to hisse’f, an’ in a minute he come out -ag’in wid de baby in he arms, all wrapped up in flannens -an’ things, an’ sez, ’Heah he is, boys.’ All de -folks den, dey went up on de poach to look at ’im, drappin’ -dey hats on de steps, an’ scrapin’ dey feets ez dey -went up. An’ pres’n’y old marster, lookin’ down at we -all chil’en all packed togerr down dyah like a parecel -o’ sheep-burrs, cotch sight <i>o’ me</i> (he knowed my name, -’cause I use’ to hole he hoss fur ’im sometimes; but he -didn’t know all de chile’n by name, dey wuz so many -on ’em), an’ he sez, ’Come up heah!’ So up I goes -tippin’, skeered like, an’ old marster sez, ’Ain’ you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span> -Mymie’s son?’ ’Yass, seh,’ sez I. ’Well,’ sez he, -’I’m gwine to give you to yo’ young Marse Channin’ to -be his body-servant,’ an’ he put de baby right in my -arms (it’s de truth I’m tellin’ yo’!), an’ yo’ jes’ ought -to a-heard de folks sayin’, ’Lawd! marster, dat boy’ll -drap dat chile!’ ’Naw, he won’t,’ sez marster; ’I kin -trust ’im.’ And den he sez: ’Now, Sam, from dis time -you belong to yo’ young Marse Channin’; I wan’ you -to tek keer on ’im ez long ez he lives. You are to be -his boy from dis time. An’ now,’ he sez, ’carry ’im -in de house.’ An’ he walks arfter me an’ opens de do’s -fur me, an’ I kyars ’im in my arms, an’ lays ’im down -on de bed. An’ from dat time I was tooken in de house -to be Marse Channin’s body-servant.</p> - -<p>“Well, you nuver see a chile grow so. Pres’n’y he -growed up right big, an’ ole marster sez he must have -some edication. So he sont ’im to school to ole Miss -Lawry down dyar, dis side o’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, an’ -I use’ to go ’long wid ’im an’ tote he books an’ we all’s -snacks; an’ when he larnt to read an’ spell right good, -an’ got ’bout so-o big, old Miss Lawry she died, an’ old -marster said he mus’ have a man to teach ’im an’ -trounce ’im. So we all went to Mr. Hall, whar kep’ de -school-house beyant de creek, an’ dyar we went ev’y -day, ’cep Sat’d’ys of co’se, an’ sich days ez Marse -Chan din’ warn’ go, an’ ole missis begged ’im off.</p> - -<p>“Hit wuz down dyar Marse Chan fust took notice -o’ Miss Anne. Mr. Hall, he taught gals ez well ez -boys, an’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin he sont his daughter (dat’s -Miss Anne I’m talkin’ about). She wuz a leetle bit -o’ gal when she fust come. Yo’ see, her ma wuz dead, -an’ old Miss Lucy Chahmb’lin, she lived wid her brurr -an’ kep’ house for ’im; an’ he wuz so busy wid politics, -he didn’ have much time to spyar, so he sont Miss Anne -to Mr. Hall’s by a ’ooman wid a note. When she come<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span> -dat day in de school-house, an’ all de chil’en looked at -her so hard, she tu’n right red, an’ tried to pull her -long curls over her eyes, an’ den put bofe de backs of -her little han’s in her two eyes, an’ begin to cry to herse’f. -Marse Chan he was settin’ on de een’ o’ de bench -nigh de do’, an’ he jes’ reached out an’ put he arm -’roun’ her an’ drawed her up to ’im. An’ he kep’ whisperin’ -to her, an’ callin’ her name, an’ coddlin’ her; an’ -pres’n’y she took her han’s down an’ begin to laugh.</p> - -<p>“Well, dey ’peared to tek’ a gre’t fancy to each -urr from dat time. Miss Anne she warn’ nuthin’ but a -baby hardly, an’ Marse Chan he wuz a good big boy -’bout mos’ thirteen years ole, I reckon. Hows’ever, dey -sut’n’y wuz sot on each urr an’ (yo’ heah me!) ole -marster an’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin dey ’peared to like it -’bout well ez de chil’en. Yo’ see, Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s -place j’ined ourn, an’ it looked jes’ ez natural fur -dem two chil’en to marry an’ mek it one plantation, ez -it did fur de creek to run down de bottom from our -place into Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. I don’ rightly think de -chil’en thought ’bout gittin’ <i>married</i>, not den, no mo’n -I thought ’bout marryin’ Judy when she wuz a little -gal at Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, runnin’ ’bout de house, -huntin’ fur Miss Lucy’s spectacles; but dey wuz good -frien’s from de start. Marse Chan he use’ to kyar Miss -Anne’s books fur her ev’y day, an’ ef de road wuz -muddy or she wuz tired, he use’ to tote her; an’ ’twarn’ -hardly a day passed dat he didn’ kyar her some’n’ to -school—apples or hick’y nuts, or some’n. He wouldn’t -let none o’ de chil’en tease her, nurr. Heh! One day, -one o’ de boys poked he finger at Miss Anne, and arfter -school Marse Chan he axed ’im ’roun’ ’hine de school-house -out o’ sight, an’ ef he didn’t whop ’im!</p> - -<p>“Marse Chan, he wuz de peartes’ scholar ole Mr. -Hall hed, an’ Mr. Hall he wuz mighty proud o’ ’im. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span> -don’ think he use’ to beat ’im ez much ez he did de urrs, -aldo’ he wuz de head in all debilment dat went on, jes’ -ez he wuz in sayin’ he lessons.</p> - -<p>“Heh! one day in summer, jes’ fo’ de school broke -up, dyah come up a storm right sudden, an’ riz de creek -(dat one yo’ cross’ back yonder), an’ Marse Chan he -toted Miss Anne home on he back. He ve’y off’n did dat -when de parf wuz muddy. But dis day when dey come -to de creek, it had done washed all de logs ’way. ’Twuz -still mighty high, so Marse Chan he put Miss Anne down, -an’ he took a pole an’ waded right in. Hit took ’im long -up to de shoulders. Den he waded back, an’ took Miss -Anne up on his head an’ kyared her right over. At fust -she wuz skeered; but he tol’ her he could swim an’ -wouldn’ let her git hu’t, an’ den she let ’im kyar her -’cross, she hol’in’ his han’s. I warn’ ’long dat day, -but he sut’n’y did dat thing.</p> - -<p>“Ole marster he wuz so pleased ’bout it, he giv’ -Marse Chan a pony; an’ Marse Chan rode ’im to school -de day arfter he come, so proud, an’ sayin’ how he wuz -gwine to let Anne ride behine ’im; an’ when he come -home dat evenin’ he wuz walkin’. ’Hi! where’s yo’ -pony?’ said ole marster. ’I give ’im to Anne,’ says -Marse Chan. ’She liked ’im, an’—I kin walk.’ ’Yes,’ -sez ole marster, laughin’, ’I s’pose you’s already done -giv’ her yo’se’f, an’ nex’ thing I know you’ll be givin’ -her this plantation and all my niggers.’</p> - -<p>“Well, about a fortnight or sich a matter arfter dat, -Cun’l Chahmb’lin sont over an’ invited all o’ we all -over to dinner, an’ Marse Chan wuz ’spressly named -in de note whar Ned brought; an’ arfter dinner he made -ole Phil, whar wuz his ker’ige-driver, bring ’roun’ Marse -Chan’s pony wid a little side-saddle on ’im, an’ a beautiful -little hoss wid a bran’-new saddle an’ bridle on -’im; an’ he gits up an’ meks Marse Chan a gre’t speech,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> -an’ presents ’im de little hoss; an’ den he calls Miss -Anne, an’ she comes out on de poach in a little ridin’ -frock, an’ dey puts her on her pony, an’ Marse Chan -mounts his hoss, an’ dey goes to ride, while de grown -folks is a-laughin’ an’ chattin’ an’ smokin’ dey cigars.</p> - -<p>“Dem wuz good ole times, marster—de bes’ Sam -ever see! Dey wuz, in fac’! Niggers didn’ hed nothin’ -’t all to do—jes’ hed to ’ten’ to de feedin’ an’ cleanin’ -de hosses, an’ doin’ what de marster tell ’em to do; -an’ when dey wuz sick, dey had things sont ’em out de -house, an’ de same doctor come to see ’em whar ’ten’ to -de white folks when dey wuz po’ly. Dyar warn’ no -trouble nor nothin’.</p> - -<p>“Well, things tuk a change arfter dat. Marse Chan -he went to de bo’din’ school, whar he use’ to write to me -constant. Ole missis use’ to read me de letters, an’ -den I’d git Miss Anne to read ’em ag’in to me when I’d -see her. He use’ to write to her too, an’ she use’ to write -to him too. Den Miss Anne she wuz sont off to school -too. An’ in de summer time dey’d bofe come home, an’ -yo’ hardly knowed whether Marse Chan lived at home -or over at Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. He wuz over dyah constant. -’Twuz always ridin’ or fishin’ down dyah in de -river; or sometimes he’ go over dyah, an’ ’im an’ she’d -go out an’ set in de yard onder de trees; she settin’ up -mekin’ out she wuz knittin’ some sort o’ bright-cullored -some’n’, wid de grarss growin’ all up ’g’inst -her, an’ her hat th’owed back on her neck, an’ he -readin’ to her out books; an’ sometimes dey’d bofe read -out de same book, fust one an’ den todder. I use’ to -see em! Dat wuz when dey wuz growin’ up like.</p> - -<p>“Den ole marster he run for Congress, an’ ole Cun’l -Chahmb’lin he wuz put up to run ’g’inst ole marster -by de Dimicrats; but ole marster he beat ’im. Yo’ know -he wuz gwine do dat! Co’se he wuz! Dat made ole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> -Cun’l Chahmb’lin mighty mad, and dey stopt visitin’ -each urr reg’lar, like dey had been doin’ all ’long. Den -Cun’l Chahmb’lin he sort o’ got in debt, an’ sell some -o’ he niggers, an’ dat’s de way de fuss begun. Dat’s -whar de lawsuit cum from. Ole marster he didn’ like -nobody to sell niggers, an’ knowin’ dat Cun’l Chahmb’lin -wuz sellin’ o’ his, he writ an’ offered to buy his -M’ria an’ all her chil’en, ’cause she hed married our -Zeek’yel. An’ don’ yo’ think, Cun’l Chahmb’lin axed ole -marster mo’ ‘n th’ee niggers wuz wuth fur M’ria! -Befo’ old marster bought her, dough, de sheriff cum -an’ levelled on M’ria an’ a whole parecel o’ urr niggers. -Ole marster he went to de sale, an’ bid for ’em; -but Cun’l Chahmb’lin he got some one to bid ’g’inst -ole marster. Dey wuz knocked out to ole marster dough, -an’ den dey hed a big lawsuit, an’ ole marster wuz -agwine to co’t, off an’ on, fur some years, till at lars’ -de co’t decided dat M’ria belonged to ole marster. Ole -Cun’l Chahmb’lin den wuz so mad he sued ole marster -for a little strip o’ lan’ down dyah on de line fence, -whar he said belonged to ’im. Ev’ybody knowed hit -belonged to ole marster. Ef yo’ go down dyah now, I -kin show it to yo’, inside de line fence, whar it hed -done bin ever sence long befo’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin wuz -born. But Cun’l Chahmb’lin wuz a mons’us perseverin’ -man, an’ ole marster he wouldn’ let nobody ran -over ’im. No, dat he wouldn’! So dey wuz agwine -down to co’t about dat, fur I don’ know how long, till -ole marster beat ’im.</p> - -<p>“All dis time, yo’ know, Marse Chan wuz a-goin’ -back’ads an’ for’ads to college, an’ wuz growed up a -ve’y fine young man. He wuz a ve’y likely gent’man! -Miss Anne she hed done mos’ growed up too—wuz puttin’ -her hyar up like old missis use’ to put hers up, an’ -’twuz jes’ ez bright ez de sorrel’s mane when de sun<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span> -cotch on it, an’ her eyes wuz gre’t big dark eyes, like -her pa’s, on’y bigger an’ not so fierce, an’ ’twarn’ none -o’ de young ladies ez purty ez she wuz. She an’ Marse -Chan still set a heap o’ sto’ by one ‘nurr, but I don’ -think dey wuz easy wid each urr ez when he used to -tote her home from school on his back. Marse Chan he -use’ to love de ve’y groun’ she walked on, dough, in my -’pinion. Heh! His face ’twould light up whenever -she come into chu’ch, or anywhere, jes’ like de sun hed -come th’oo a chink on it suddenly.</p> - -<p>“Den’ ole marster lost he eyes. D’ yo’ ever heah -’bout dat? Heish! Didn’ yo’? Well, one night de -big barn cotch fire. De stables, yo’ know, wuz under -de big barn, an’ all de hosses wuz in dyah. Hit ’peared -to me like ’twarn’ no time befo’ all de folks an’ de -neighbors dey come, an’ dey wuz a-totin’ water, an’ -a-tryin’ to save de po’ critters, and dey got a heap on -’em out; but de ker’ige-hosses dey wouldn’ come out, -an’ dey wuz a-runnin’ back’ads an’ for’ads inside de -stalls, a-nikerin’ an’ a-screamin’, like dey knowed dey -time hed come. Yo’ could heah ’em so pitiful, an’ -pres’n’y old marster said to Ham Fisher (he wuz de -ker’ige-driver), ’Go in dyah an’ try to save ’em; don’ -let ’em bu’n to death.’ An’ Ham he went right in. An’ -jest arfter he got in, de shed whar it hed fus’ cotch -fell in, an’ de sparks shot ’way up in de air; an’ Ham -didn’ come back, an’ de fire begun to lick out under de -eaves over whar de ker’ige-hosses’ stalls wuz, an’ all -of a sudden ole marster tu’ned an’ kissed ole missis, who -wuz standin’ nigh him, wid her face jes’ ez white ez a -sperit’s, an’, befo’ anybody knowed what he wuz gwine -do, jumped right in de do’, an’ de smoke come po’in’ -out behine ’im. Well, seh, I nuver ’spects to heah tell -Judgment sich a soun’ ez de folks set up! Ole missis -she jes’ drapt down on her knees in de mud an’ prayed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> -out loud. Hit ’peared like her pra’r wuz heard; for in -a minit, right out de same do’, kyarin’ Ham Fisher in -his arms, come ole marster, wid his clo’s all blazin’. -Dey flung water on ’im, an’ put ’im out; an’, ef you -b’lieve me, yo’ wouldn’t a-knowed ’twuz ole marster. -Yo’ see, he had find Ham Fisher done fall down in de -smoke right by the ker’ige-hoss’ stalls, whar he sont -him, an’ he hed to tote ’im back in his arms th’oo de fire -what hed done cotch de front part o’ de stable, and -to keep de flame from gittin’ down Ham Fisher’s th’oat -he hed tuk off his own hat and mashed it all over Ham -Fisher’s face, an’ he hed kep’ Ham Fisher from bein’ -so much bu’nt; but <i>he</i> wuz bu’nt dreadful! His beard -an’ hyar wuz all nyawed off, an’ his face an’ han’s an’ -neck wuz scorified terrible. Well, he jes’ laid Ham -Fisher down, an’ then he kind o’ staggered for’ad, an’ -ole missis ketch’ ’im in her arms. Ham Fisher, he -warn’ bu’nt so bad, an’ he got out in a month to two; -an’ arf ter a long time, ole marster he got well, too; but -he wuz always stone blind arfter that. He nuver could -see none from dat night.</p> - -<p>“Marse Chan he comed home from college toreckly, -an’ he sut’n’y did nuss ole marster faithful—jes’ like a -’ooman. Den he took charge of de plantation arfter -dat; an’ I use’ to wait on ’im jes’ like when we wuz -boys togedder; an’ sometimes we’d slip off an’ have a -fox-hunt, an’ he’d be jes’ like he wuz in ole times, befo’ -ole marster got bline, an’ Miss Anne Chahmb’lin stopt -comin’ over to our house, an’ settin’ onder de trees, -readin’ out de same book.</p> - -<p>“He sut’n’y wuz good to me. Nothin’ nuver made -no diffunce ’bout dat. He nuver hit me a lick in his -life—an’ nuver let nobody else do it, nurr.</p> - -<p>“I ’members one day, when he wuz a leetle bit o’ -boy, ole marster hed done tole we all chil’en not to slide<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span> -on de straw-stacks; an’ one day me an’ Marse Chan -thought ole marster hed done gone ’way from home. We -watched him git on he hoss an’ ride up de road out o’ -sight, an’ we wuz out in de field a-slidin’ an’ a-slidin’, -when up comes ole marster. We started to run; but he -hed done see us, an’ he called us to come back; an’ -sich a whuppin’ ez he did gi’ us!</p> - -<p>“Fust he took Marse Chan, an’ den he teched me -up. He nuver hu’t me, but in co’se I wuz a-hollerin’ -ez hard ez I could stave it, ’cause I knowed dat wuz -gwine mek him stop. Marse Chan he hed’n open he -mouf long ez ole marster wuz tunin’ ’im; but soon ez -he commence warmin’ me an’ I begin to holler, Marse -Chan he bu’st out cryin’, an’ stept right in befo’ ole -marster an’ ketchin’ de whup, sed:</p> - -<p>“‘Stop, seh! Yo’ sha’n’t whup ’im; he b’longs to -me, an’ ef you hit ’im another lick I’ll set ’im free!’</p> - -<p>“I wish yo’ hed see old marster. Marse Chan he -warn’ mo’n eight years ole, an’ dyah dey wuz—old -marster stan’in’ wid he whup raised up, an’ Marse Chan -red an’ cryin’, hol’in’ on to it, an’ sayin’ I b’longst -to ’im.</p> - -<p>“Ole marster, he raise’ de whup, an’ den he drapt -it, an’ broke out in a smile over he face, an’ he chuck’ -Marse Chan onder de chin, an’ tu’n right ’roun’ an’ -went away, laughin’ to hisse’f, an’ I heah ’im tellin’ -ole missis dat evenin’, an’ laughin’ ’bout it.</p> - -<p>“‘Twan’ so mighty long arfter dat when dey fust -got to talkin’ ’bout de war. Dey wuz a-dictatin’ -back’ads an’ for’ads ’bout it fur two or th’ee years ’fo’ -it come sho’ nuff, you know. Ole marster, he was a -Whig, an’ of co’se Marse Chan he tuk after he pa. -Cun’l Chahmb’lin, he wuz a Dimicrat. He wuz in favor -of de war, an’ ole marster and Marse Chan dey wuz -agin’ it. Dey wuz a-talkin’ ’bout it all de time, an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>’ -purty soon Cun’l Chahmb’lin he went about ev’ywhar -speakin’ an’ noratin’ ’bout Firginia ought to secede; -an’ Marse Chan he’wuz picked up to talk agin’ ’im. -Dat wuz de way dey come to fight de dull. I sut’n’y -wuz skeered fur Marse Chan dat mawnin’, an’ he was -jes’ ez cool! Yo’ see, it happen so: Marse Chan he wuz -a-speakin’ down at de Deep Creek Tavern, an’ he kind -o’ got de bes’ of ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin. All de white -folks laughed an’ hoorawed, an’ ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin—my -Lawd! I fought he’d ’a’’ bu’st, he was so mad. -Well, when it come to his time to speak, he jes’ light -into Marse Chan. He call ’im a traitor, an’ a ab’litionis’, -an’ I don’ know what all. Marse Chan, he jes’ -kep’ cool till de ole Cun’l light into he pa. Ez soon -ez he name ole marster, I seen Marse Chan sort o’ lif -up he head. D’ yo’ ever sec a hoss rar he head up right -sudden at night when he see somethiu’ comin’ to’ds ’im -from de side an’ he don’ know what ’tis? Ole Cun’l -Chahmb’lin he went right on. He said ole marster hed -taught Marse Chan; dat ole marster wuz a wuss ab’litionis’ -dan he son. I looked at Marse Chan, an’ sez -to myse’f: ’Fo’ Gord! old Cun’l Chahmb’lin better -min’, an’ I hedn’ got de wuds out, when ole Cun’l -Chahmb’lin ’cuse’ old marster o’ cheatin’ ’im out o’ he -niggers, an’ stealing piece o’ he lan’—dat’s de lan’ I -tole you ’bout. Well, seh, nex’ thing I knowed, I -heahed Marse Chan—hit all happen right ’long togerr, -like lightnin’ and thunder when they hit right at you—I -heah ’im say:</p> - -<p>“‘Cun’l Chahmb’lin, what you say is false, an’ yo’ -know it to be so. You have wilfully slandered one of de -pures’ an’ nobles’ men Gord ever made, an’ nothin’ -but yo’ gray hyars protects you.’</p> - -<p>“Well, ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin, he ra’d an’ he pitch’d. -He said he wan’ too ole, an’ he’d show ’im so.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘Ve’y well,’ says Marse Chan.</p> - -<p>“De meetin’ broke up den. I wuz hol’in’ de hosses -out dyar in de road by dee een’ o’ de poach, an’ I see -Marse Chan talkin’ an’ talkin’ to Mr. Gordon an’ anudder -gent’man, and den he come out an’ got on de sorrel -an’ galloped off. Soon ez he got out o’ sight he pulled -up, an’ we walked along tell we come to de road whar -leads off to ’ds Mr. Barbour ’s. He wuz de big lawyer o’ -de country. Dar he tu’ned off. All dis time he hedn’ -sed a wud, ’cep’ to kind o’ mumble to hisse’f now and -den. When we got to Mr. Harbour’s, he got down an’ -went in. Dat wuz in de late winter; de folks wuz jes’ -beginnin’ to plough fur corn. He stayed dyar ’bout two -hours, an’ when he come out Mr. Barbour come out to -de gate wid ’im an’ shake han’s arfter he got up in de -saddle. Den we all rode off. ’Twuz late den—good -dark; an’ we rid ez hard ez we could, tell we come to -de ole school-house at ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s gate. -When we got dar, Marse Chan got down an’ walked -right slow ’roun’ de house. After lookin’ ’roun’ a little -while an’ tryin’ de do’ to see ef if wuz shet, he walked -down de road tell he got to de creek. He stop’ dyar a -little while an’ picked up two or three little rocks an’ -frowed ’em in, an’ pres’n’y he got up an’ we come on -home. Ez he got down, he tu’ned to me an’, rubbin’ de -sorrel’s nose, said: ’Have ’em well fed, Sam; I’ll want -’em early in de mawnin’.’</p> - -<p>“Dat night at supper he laugh an’ talk, an’ he set -at de table a long time. Arfter ole marster went to -bed, he went in de charmber an’ set on de bed by ’im -talkin’ to ’im an’ tellin’ ’im ’bout de meetin’ an’ ev’ything; -but he nuver mention ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s -name. When he got up to come out to de office in de -yard, whar he slept, he stooped down an’ kissed ’im jes’ -like he wuz a baby layin’ dyar in de bed, an’ he’d hardly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> -let ole missis go at all. I knowed some’n wuz up, an’ -nex’ mawnin’ I called ’im early befo’ light, like he tole -me, an’ he dressed an’ come out pres’n’y jes’ like he wuz -goin’ to church. I had de hosses ready, an’ we went out -de back way to ’ds de river. Ez we rode along, he said:</p> - -<p>“‘Sam, you an’ I wuz boys togedder, wa’n’t we?’</p> - -<p>“‘Yes,’ sez I, ’Marse Chan, dat we wuz.’</p> - -<p>“‘You have been ve’y faithful to me,’ sez he, ’a’n’ -I have seen to it that you are well provided fur. You -want to marry Judy, I know, an’ you’ll be able to buy -her ef you want to.’</p> - -<p>“Den he tole me he wuz goin’ to fight a duil, an’ in -case he should git shot, he had set me free an’ giv’ me -nuff to tek keer o’ me an’ my wife ez long ez we lived. -He said he’d like me to stay an’ tek keer o’ ole marster -an’ ole missis ez long ez dey lived, an’ he said it wouldn’ -be very long, he reckoned. Dat wuz de on’y time he -voice broke—when he said dat; an’ I couldn’ speak a -wud, my th’oat choked me so.</p> - -<p>“When we come to de river, we tu’ned right up de -bank, an’ arfter ridin’ ’bout a mile or sich a matter, -we stopped whar dey wuz a little clearin’ wid elder -bushes on one side an’ two big gum-trees on de urr, -an’ de sky wuz all red, an’ de water down to’ds whar -the sun wuz comin’ wuz jes’ like de sky.</p> - -<p>“Pres’n’y Mr. Gordon he come, wid a ’hogany box -’bout so big ’fore ’im, an’ he got down, an’ Marse Chan -tole me to tek all de hosses an’ go ’roun’ behine de -bushes whar I tell you ’bout—off to one side; an’ ’fore -I got ’roun’ dar, ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin an’ Mr. Hennin -an’ Dr. Call come ridin’ from t’urr way, to’ds ole -Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. When dey hed tied dey hosses, -de urr gent’mens went up to whar Mr. Gordon wuz, -an’ arfter some chattin’ Mr. Hennin step’ off ’bout fur -ez ’cross dis road, or mebbe it mout be a little furder;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span> -an’ den I seed ’em th’oo de bushes loadin’ de pistils, an’ -talk a little while; an’ den Marse Chan an’ ole Cun’l -Chahmb’lin walked up wid de pistils in dey han’s, an’ -Marse Chan he stood wid his face right to’ds de sun. I -seen it shine on him jes’ ez it come up over de low -groun’s, an’ he look like he did sometimes when he come -out of church. I wuz so skeered I couldn’ say nothin’. -Ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin could shoot fust rate, an’ Marse -Chan he never missed.</p> - -<p>“Den I heared Mr. Gordon say, ’Gent’mens, is yo’ -ready?’ and bofe of ’em sez, ’Ready,’ jes’ so.</p> - -<p>“An’ he sez, ’Fire, one, two’—an’ ez he said ’one,’ -old Cun’l Chahmb’lin raised he pistil an’ shot right -at Marse Chan. De ball went th’oo his hat. I seen he -hat sort o’ settle on he head ez de bullit hit it, an’ <i>he</i> -jes’ tilted his pistil up in de a’r an’ shot—<i>bang</i>; an’ ez -de pistil went <i>bang</i>, he sez to Cun’l Chahmb’lin, ’I mek -you a present to yo’ fam’ly, seh!’</p> - -<p>“Well, dey had some talkin’ arfter dat. I didn’t -git rightly what it wuz; but it ’peared like Cun’l -Chahmb’lin he warn’t satisfied, an’ wanted to have -anurr shot. De seconds dey wuz talkin’, an’ pres’n’y -dey put de pistils up, an’ Marse Chan an’ Mr. Gordon -shook han’s wid Mr. Hennin an’ Dr. Call, an’ come an’ -got on dey bosses. An’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin he got on his -hoss an’ rode away wid de urr gent’mens, lookin’ like -he did de day befo’ when all de people laughed at -’im.</p> - -<p>“I b’lieve ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin wan’ to shoot Marse -Chan, anyway!</p> - -<p>“We come on home to breakfast, I totin’ de box -wid de pistils befo’ me on de roan. Would you b’lieve -me, seh, Marse Chan he nuver said a wud ’bout it to -ole marster or nobody. Ole missis didn’ fin’ out ’bout -it for mo’n a month, an’ den, Lawd! how she did cry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span> -and kiss Marse Chan; an’ ole marster, aldo’ he never -say much, he wuz jes’ ez please’ ez ole missis. He call -me in de room an’ made me tole ’im all ’bout it, an’ -when I got th’oo he gi’ me five dollars an’ a pyar of -breeches.</p> - -<p>“But ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin he nuver did furgive -Marse Chan, an’ Miss Anne she got mad too. Wimmens -is mons’us onreasonable nohow. Dey’s jes’ like -a catfish: you can n’ tek hole on ’em like udder folks, -an’ when you gits ’im yo’ can n’ always hole ’em.</p> - -<p>“What meks me think so? Heaps o’ things—dis: -Marse Chan he done gi’ Miss Anne her pa jes’ ez good -ez I gi’ Marse Chan’s dawg sweet ’taters, an’ she git -mad wid ’im ez if he hed kill ’im ’stid o’ sen’in’ ’im -back to her dat mawnin’ whole an’ soun’. B’lieve me! -she wouldn’ even speak to him arfter dat!</p> - -<p>“Don’ I ’member dat mawnin’!</p> - -<p>“We wuz gwine fox-huntin’, ’bout six weeks or sich -a matter arfter de duil, an’ we met Miss Anne ridin’ -’long wid anurr lady an’ two gent’mens whar wuz -stayin’ at her house. Dyar wuz always some one or -nurr dyar co’ting her. Well, dat mawnin’ we meet -’em right in de road. Twuz de fust time Marse Chan -had see her sence de duil, an’ he raises he hat ez he -pahss, an’ she looks right at ’im wid her head up in de -yair like she nuver see ’im befo’ in her born days; an’ -when she comes by me, she sez, ’Good-mawnin’, Sam!’ -Gord! I nuver see nuthin’ like de look dat come on -Marse Chan’s face when she pahss ’im like dat. He gi’ -de sorrel a pull dat fotch ’im back settin’ down in de -san’ on he handles. He ve’y lips wuz white. I tried -to keep up wid ’im, but ’twarn’ no use. He sont me -back home pres’n’y, an’ he rid on. I sez to myself, -’Cun’l Chahmb’lin, don’ yo’ meet Marse Chan dis -mawnin’. He ain’ bin lookin’ ’roun’ de ole school-house,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> -whar he an’ Miss Anne use’ to go to school to ole -Mr. Hall together, fur nuffin’. He won’ stan’ no prodjickin’ -to-day.’</p> - -<p>“He nuver come home dat night tell ’way late, an’ -ef he’d been fox-huntin’ it mus’ ha’ been de ole red -whar lives down in de greenscum mashes he’d been -chasin’. De way de sorrel wuz gormed up wid sweat -an’ mire sut’n’y did hu’t me. He walked up to de -stable wid he head down all de way, an’ I’se seen ’im -go eighty miles of a winter day, an’ prance into de -stable at night ez fresh ez if he hed jes’ cantered over -to ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s to supper. I nuver seen a -hoss beat so sence I knowed de fetlock from de fo’lock, -an’ bad ez he wuz he wan’ ez bad ez Marse Chan.</p> - -<p>“Whew! he didn’ git over dat thing, seh—he nuver -did git over it.</p> - -<p>“De war come on jes’ den, an’ Marse Chan wuz -elected cap’n; but he wouldn’ tek it. He said Firginia -hadn’ seceded, an’ he wuz gwine stan’ by her. Den -dey ’lected Mr. Gordon cap’n.</p> - -<p>“I sut’n’y did wan’ Marse Chan to tek de place, cuz -I knowed he wuz gwine tek me wid ’im. He wan’ -gwine widout Sam. An’ beside, he look so po’ an’ thin, -I thought he wuz gwine die.</p> - -<p>“Of co’se, ole missis she heared ’bout it, an’ she met -Miss Anne in de road, an’ cut her jes’ like Miss Anne -cut Marse Chan.</p> - -<p>“Ole missis, she wuz proud ez anybody! So we -wuz mo’ strangers dan ef we hadn’ live’ in a hundred -miles of each urr. An’ Marse Chan he wuz gittin’ -thinner an’ thinner, an’ Firginia she come out, an’ den -Marse Chan he went to Richmond an’ listed, an’ come -back an’ sey he wuz a private, an’ he didn’ know whe’r -he could tek me or not. He writ to Mr. Gordon, hows’ever, -an’ ’twuz ’cided dat when he went I wuz to go<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> -’long an’ wait on him an’ de cap’n too. I didn’ min’ -dat, yo’ know, long ez I could go wid Marse Chan, an’ -I like’ Mr. Gordon, anyways.</p> - -<p>“Well, one night Marse Chan come back from de -offis wid a telegram dat say, ’Come at once,’ so he wuz -to start nex’ mawnin’. He uniform wuz all ready, -gray wid yaller trimmin’s, an’ mine wuz ready too, an’ -he had ole marster’s sword, whar de State gi’ ’im in de -Mexikin war; an’ he trunks wuz all packed wid ev’rything -in ’em, an’ my chist was packed too, an’ Jim -Rasher he druv ’em over to de depo’ in de waggin, an’ -we wuz to start nex’ mawuin’ ’bout light. Dis wuz -’bout de las’ o’ spring, you know. Dat night ole missis -made Marse Chan dress up in he uniform, an’ he sut’n’y -did look splendid, wid he long mustache an’ he wavin’ -hyar an’ he tall figger.</p> - -<p>“Arfter supper he come down an’ sez: ’Sam, I wan’ -you to tek dis note an’ kyar it over to Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, -an’ gi’ it to Miss Anne wid yo’ own han’s, an’ -bring me wud what she sez. Don’ let any one know -’bout it, or know why you’ve gone.’ ’Yes, seh,’ sez I.</p> - -<p>“Yo’ see, I knowed Miss Anne’s maid over at ole -Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s—dat wuz Judy whar is my wife -now—an’ I knowed I could wuk it. So I tuk de roan -an’ rid over, an’ tied ’im down de hill in de cedars, -an’ I wen’ ’roun’ to de back yard. ’Twuz a right blowy -sort o’ night; de moon wuz jes’ risin’, but de clouds wuz -so big it didn’ shine ’cep’ th’oo a crack now an’ den. -I soon foun’ my gal, an’ arfter tellin’ her two or three -lies ’bout herse’f, I got her to go in an’ ax Miss Anne -to come to de do’. When she come, I gi’ her de note, -an’ arfter a little while she bro’t me anurr, an’ I tole -her good-bye, an’ she gi’ me a dollar, an’ I come home -an’ gi’ de letter to Marse Chan. He read it, an’ tole -me to have de hosses ready at twenty minits to twelve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span> -at de corner of de garden. An’ jes’ befo’ dat he come -out ez ef he wuz gwine to bed, but instid he come, an’ -we all struck out to’ds Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s. When we -got mos’ to de gate, de hosses got sort o’ skeered, an’ -I see dey wuz some’n or somebody standin’ jes’ inside; -an’ Marse Chan he jumpt off de sorrel an’ flung me de -bridle an’ he walked up.</p> - -<p>“She spoke fust (’twuz Miss Anne had done come -out dyar to meet Marse Chan), an’ she sez, jes’ ez cold -ez a chill, ’Well, seh, I granted your favor. I wished -to relieve myse’f of de obligations you placed me under -a few months ago, when you made me a present of my -father, whom you fust insulted an’ then prevented -from gittin’ satisfaction.’</p> - -<p>“Marse Chan he didn’ speak fur a minit, an’ den -he said: ’Who is with you?’ Dat wuz ev’y wud.</p> - -<p>“‘No one,’ sez she; ’I came alone.’</p> - -<p>“‘My God!’ sez he, ’you didn’ come all through -those woods by yourse’f at this time o’ night?’</p> - -<p>“‘Yes, I’m not afraid,’ sez she. (An’ heah dis -nigger! I don’ b’lieve she wuz.)</p> - -<p>“De moon come out, an’ I cotch sight o’ her stan’in’ -dyar in her white dress, wid de cloak she had wrapped -herse’f up in drapped off on de groun’, an’ she didn’ -look like she wuz ’feared o’ nuthin’. She wuz mons’us -purty ez she stood dyar wid de green bushes behine her, -an’ she hed jes’ a few flowers in her breas’—right hyah—and -some leaves in her sorrel hyar; an’ de moon come -out an’ shined down on her hyar an’ her frock an’ -’peared like de light wuz jes’ stan’in’ off it ez she stood -dyar lookin’ at Marse Chan wid her head tho’d back, -jes’ like dat mawnin’ when she pahss Marse Chan in de -road widout speakin’ to ’im, an’ sez to me, ’Good-mawnin’, -Sam.’</p> - -<p>“Marse Chan, he den tole her he hed come to say<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span> -good-bye to her, ez he wuz gwine ’way to de war nex’ -mawnin’. I wuz watchin’ on her, an’ I tho’t, when -Marse Chan tole her dat, she sort o’ started an’ looked -up at ’im like she wuz mighty sorry, an’ ’peared like -she didn’ stan’ quite so straight arfter dat. Den Marse -Chan he went on talkin’ right fars’ to her; an’ he tole -her how he had loved her ever sence she wuz a little -bit o’ baby mos’, an’ how he nuver ’membered de time -when he hedn’t ’spected to marry her. He tole her -it wuz his love for her dat hed made ’im stan’ fust at -school an’ collige, an’ hed kep’ ’im good an’ pure; an’ -now he wuz gwine ’way, wouldn’t she let it be like ’twuz -in ole times, an’ ef he come back from de war wouldn’ -she try to think on him ez she use’ to do when she wuz -a little guirl?</p> - -<p>“Marse Chan he had done been talkin’ so serious, -he hed done tuk Miss Anne’s han’, an’ wuz lookin’ down -in her face like he wuz list’nin’ wid his eyes.</p> - -<p>“Arfter a minit Miss Anne she said somethin’, an’ -Marse Chan he cotch her urr han’ an’ sez:</p> - -<p>“‘But if you love me, Anne?’</p> - -<p>“When he said dat, she tu’ned her head ’way from -’im, an’ wait’ a minit, an’ den she said—right clear:</p> - -<p>“‘But I don’ love yo’.’ (Jes’ dem th’ee wuds!) -De wuds fall right slow-like dirt falls out a spade on -a coffin when yo’s buryin’ anybody, an’ seys, ’Uth to -uth.’ Marse Chan he jes’ let her hand drap, an’ he -stiddy hisse’f ’g’inst de gate-pos’, an’ he didn’ speak -torekly. When he did speak, all he sez wuz:</p> - -<p>“‘I mus’ see you home safe.’</p> - -<p>“I ’clar, marster, I didn’ know ’twuz Marse Chan’s -voice tell I look at ’im right good. Well, she wouldn’ -let ’im go wid her. She jes’ wrap’ her cloak ’roun’ her -shoulders, an’ wen’ ’long back by herse’f, widout doin’ -more’n jes’ look up once at Marse Chan leanin’ dyah<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span> -’g’inst de gate-pos’ in he sodger clo’s, wid he eyes on -de groun’. She said ’Good-bye’ sort o’ sorf, an’ Marse -Chan, widout lookin’ up, shake han’s wid her, an’ she -wuz done gone down de road. Soon ez she got ’mos’ -’roun’ de curve, Marse Chan he followed her, keepin’ -under de trees so ez not to be seen, an’ I led de hosses -on down de road behine ’im. He kep’ ’long behine her -tell she wuz safe in de house, an’ den he come an’ got -on he hoss, an’ we all come home.</p> - -<p>“Nex’ mawnin’ we all come off to j’ine de army. An’ -dey wuz a-drillin’ an’ a-drillin’ all ’bout for a while, -an’ dey went ’long wid all de res’ o’ de army, -an’ I went wid Marse Chan an’ clean he boots, an’ look -arfter de tent, an’ tek keer o’ him an’ de hosses. An’ -Marse Chan, he wan’ a bit like he use’ to be. He wuz so -solumn an’ moanful all de time, at leas’ ’cep’ when dyah -wuz gwine to be a fight. Den he’d peartin’ up, an’ he -alwuz rode at de head o’ de company, ’cause he wuz -tall; an’ hit wan’ on’y in battles whar all his company -wuz dat <i>he</i> went, but he use’ to volunteer whenever -de cun’l wanted anybody to fine out anythin’, an’ ’twuz -so dangersome he didn’ like to mek one man go no -sooner’n anurr, yo’ know, an’ ax’d who’d volunteer. -<i>He</i> ’peared to like to go prowlin’ aroun’ ’mong dem -Yankees, an’ he use’ to tek me wid ’im whenever he -could. Yes, seh, he sut’n’y wuz a good sodger! He -didn’ mine bullets no more’n he did so many draps o’ -rain. But I use’ to be pow’ful skeered sometimes. It -jes’ use’ to ’pear like fun to ’im. In camp he use’ to -be so sorrerful he’d hardly open he mouf. You’d ’a’’ -tho’t he wuz seekin’, he used to look so moanful; but -jes le’ ’im git into danger, an’ he use’ to be like ole -times—jolly an’ laughin’ like when he wuz a boy.</p> - -<p>“When Cap’n Gordon got he leg shot off, dey mek -Marse Chan cap’n on de spot, ’cause one o’ de lieutenants<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span> -got kilt de same day, an’ turr one (named Mr. -Ronny) wan’ no ’count, an’ de company said Marse -Chan wuz de man.</p> - -<p>“An’ Marse Chan he wuz jes’ de same. He didn’ -never mention Miss Anne’s name, but I knowed he wuz -thinkin’ on her constant. One night he wuz settin’ -by de fire in camp, an’ Mr. Ronny—he wuz de secon’ -lieutenant—got to talkin’ ’bout ladies, an’ he say all -sorts o’ things ’bout ’em, an’ I see Marse Chan kinder -lookin’ mad; an’ de lieutenant mention Miss Anne’s -name. He had been courtin’ Miss Anne ’bout de time -Marse Chan fit de duil wid her pa, an’ Miss Anne hed -kicked ’im, dough he wuz mighty rich, ’cause he warn’ -nuthin’ but a half-strainer, an’ ’cause she like Marse -Chan, I believe, dough she didn’ speak to ’im; an’ Mr. -Ronny he got drunk, an’ ’cause Cun’l Chahmb’lin tole -’im not to come dyah no more, he got mighty mad. An’ -dat evenin’ I’se tellin’ yo’ ’bout, he wuz talkin’, an’ -he mention’ Miss Anne’s name. I see Marse Chan tu’n -he eye ’roun’ on ’im an’ keep it on he face, and pres’n’y -Mr. Ronny said he wuz gwine hev some fun dyah yit. -He didn’ mention her name dat time; but he said dey -wuz all on ’em a parecel of stuck-up ’risticrats, an’ her -pa wan’ no gent’man anyway, an’——I don’ know -what he wuz gwine say (he nuver said it), fur ez he -got dat far Marse Chan riz up an’ hit ’im a crack, an’ -he fall like he hed been hit wid a fence-rail. He challenged -Marse Chan to fight a duil, an’ Marse Chan he -excepted de challenge, an’ dey wuz gwine fight; but -some on ’em tole ’im Marse Chan wan’ gwine mek a -present o’ him to his fam’ly, an’ he got somebody to -bre’k up de duil; ’twan’ nuthin’ dough, but he wuz -’fred to fight Marse Chan. An’ purty soon he lef’ de -comp’ny.</p> - -<p>“Well, I got one o’ de gent’mens to write Judy a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span> -letter for me, an’ I tole her all ’bout de fight, an’ how -Marse Chan knock Mr. Ronny over fur speakin’ discontemptuous -o’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin, an’ I tole her how -Marse Chan wuz a-dyin’ fur love o’ Miss Anne. An’ -Judy she gits Miss Anne to read de letter fur her. Den -Miss Anne she tells her pa, an’—you mind, Judy tells -me all dis arfterwards, an’ she say when Cun’l Chahmb’lin -hear ’bout it, he wuz settin’ on de poach, an’ he set -still a good while, an’ den he sey to hisse’f:</p> - -<p>“‘Well, he carn’ he’p bein’ a Whig.’</p> - -<p>“An’ den he gits up an’ walks up to Miss Anne an’ -looks at her right hard; an’ Miss Anne she hed done -tu’n away her haid an’ wuz makin’ out she wuz fixin’ a -rose-bush ’g’inst de poach; an’ when her pa kep’ lookin’ -at her, her face got jes’ de color o’ de roses on de bush, -and pres’n’y her pa sez:</p> - -<p>“‘Anne!’</p> - -<p>“An’ she tu’ned roun’, an’ he sez:</p> - -<p>“‘Do yo’ want ’im?’</p> - -<p>“An’ she sez, ’Yes,’ an’ put her head on he shoulder -an’ begin to cry; an’ he sez:</p> - -<p>“‘Well, I won’ stan’ between yo’ no longer. Write -to ’im an’ say so.’</p> - -<p>“We didn’ know nuthin’ ’bout dis den. We wuz -a-fightin’ an’ a-fightin’ all dat time; an’ come one day -a letter to Marse Chan, an’ I see ’im start to read it -in his tent, an’ he face hit look so cu’ious, an’ he han’s -trembled so I couldn’ mek out what wuz de matter wid -’im. An’ he fol’ de letter up an’ wen’ out an’ wen’ way -down ’hine de camp, an’ stayed dyah ’bout nigh an hour. -Well, seh, I wuz on de lookout for ’im when he come -back, an’, fo’ Gord, ef he face didn’ shine like a angel’s! -I say to myse’f, ’Um’m! ef de glory o’ Gord ain’ done -shine on ’im!’ An’ what yo’ ’spose ’twuz?</p> - -<p>“He tuk me wid ’im dat evenin’, an’ he tell me he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span> -hed done git a letter from Miss Anne, an’ Marse Chan -he eyes look like gre’t big stars, an’ he face wuz jes’ -like ’twuz dat mawnin’ when de sun riz up over de -low groun’, an’ I see ’im stan’in’ dyah wid de pistil in -he han’, lookin’ at it, an’ not knowin’ but what it mout -be de lars’ time, an’ he done mek up he mine not to -shoot ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin fur Miss Anne’s sake, what -writ ’im de letter.</p> - -<p>“He fol’ de letter wha’ was in his han’ up, an’ put -it in he inside pocket—right dyar on de lef’ side; an’ -den he tole me he tho’t mebbe we wuz gwine hev some -warm wuk in de nex’ two or th’ee days, an’ arfter dat -ef Gord speared ’im he’d git a leave o’ absence fur a -few days, an’ we’d go home.</p> - -<p>“Well, dat night de orders come, an’ we all hed to -git over to’ds Romney; an’ we rid all night till ’bout -light; an’ we halted right on a little creek, an’ we -stayed dyah till mos’ breakfas’ time, an’ I see Marse -Chan set down on de groun’ ’hine a bush an’ read dat -letter over an’ over. I watch ’im, an’ de battle wuz -a-goin’ on, but we had orders to stay ’hine de hill, an’ -ev’y now an’ den de bullets would cut de limbs o’ de -trees right over us, an’ one o’ dem big shells what goes -’<i>Awhar—awhar—awhar!</i>’ would fall right ’mong us; -but Marse Chan he didn’ mine it no mo’n nuthin’! Den -it ’peared to git closer an’ thicker, and Marse Chan -he calls me, an’ I crep’ up, an’ he sez:</p> - -<p>“‘Sam, we’se goin’ to win in dis battle, an’ den -we’ll go home an’ git married; an’ I’se goin’ home wid a -star on my collar.’ An’ den he sez, ’Ef I’m wounded, -kyar me home, yo’ hear?’ An’ I sez, ’Yes, Marse -Chan.’</p> - -<p>“Well, jes’ den dey blowed boots an’ saddles, an’ we -mounted; an’ de orders come to ride ’roun’ de slope, -an’ Marse Chan’s comp’ny wuz de secon’, an’ when we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span> -got ’roun’ dyah, we wuz right in it. Hit wuz de wust -place ever dis nigger got in. An’ dey said, ’Charge -’em!’ an’ my king! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey did -dat day. Hit wuz jes’ like hail; an’ we wen’ down de -slope (I ’long wid de res’) an’ up de hill right to’ds de -cannons, an’ de fire wuz so strong dyar (dey hed a -whole rigiment o’ infintrys layin’ down dyar onder de -cannons) our lines sort o’ broke an’ stop; de cun’l was -kilt, an’ I b’lieve dey wuz jes’ ’bout to bre’k all to -pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an’ cotch hol’ de fleg -an’ hollers, ’Foller me!’ an’ rid strainin’ up de hill -’mong de cannons. I seen ’im when he went, de sorrel -four good length ahead o’ ev’y urr hoss, jes’ like he use’ -to be in a fox-hunt, an’ de whole rigiment right arfter -’im. Yo’ ain’ nuver hear thunder! Fust thing I -knowed, de roan roll’ head over heels an’ flung me up -’g’inst de bank, like yo’ chuck a nubbin over ’g’inst de -foot o’ de corn pile. An’ dat’s what kep’ me from bein’ -kilt, I ’spects. Judy she say she think ’twuz Providence, -but I think ’twuz de bank! O’ co’se, Providence -put de bank dyah, but how come Providence nuver saved -Marse Chan? When I look’ ’roun’, de roan wuz layin’ -dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone ’mos’ -th’oo him, an’ our men hed done swep’ dem on t’urr -side from de top o’ de hill. ’Twan’ mo’n a minit, de -sorrel come gallupin’ back wid his mane flyin’, an’ de -rein hangin’ down on one side to his knee. ’Dyar!’ -says I, ’fo’ Gord! I ’specks dey done kill Marse Chan, -an’ I promised to tek care on him.’</p> - -<p>“I jumped up an’ run over de bank, an’ dyar, wid -a whole lot o’ dead men, an’ some not dead yit, onder -one o’ de guns wid de fleg still in he han’, an’ a bullet -right th’oo he body, lay Marse Chan. I tu’n ’im over -an’ call ’im, ’Marse Chan!’ but ’twan’ no use, he wuz -done gone home, sho’ ‘nuff. I pick’ ’im up in my arms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span> -wid de fleg still in he han’s, an’ toted ’im back jes’ like -I did dat day when he wuz a baby, an’ ole marster gin -’im to me in my arms, an’ sez he could trus’ me, an’ -tell me to tek keer on ’im long ez he lived. I kyar’d -’im ’way off de battlefiel’ out de way o’ de balls, an’ I -laid ’im down onder a big tree till I could git somebody -to ketch de sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter a -while, an’ I hed some money, so I got some pine plank -an’ made a coffin dat evenin’, an’ wrapt Marse Chan’s -body up in de fleg, an’ put ’im in de coffin; but I didn’ -nail de top on strong, ’cause I knowed ole missis wan’ -see ’im; an’ I got a’ ambulance an’ set out for home dat -night. We reached dyar de nex’ evein’, arfter travellin’ -all dat night an’ all nex’ day.</p> - -<p>“Hit ’peared like somethin’ hed tole ole missis we -wuz comin’ so; for when we got home she wuz waitin’ -for us—done drest up in her best Sunday-clo’es, an’ -stan’n’ at de head o’ de big steps, an’ ole marster settin’ -in his big cheer—ez we druv up de hill to’ds de house, -I drivin’ de ambulance an’ de sorrel leadin’ ’long behine -wid de stirrups crost over de saddle.</p> - -<p>“She come down to de gate to meet us. We took de -coffin out de ambulance an’ kyar’d it right into de big -parlor wid de pictures in it, whar dey use’ to dance in -ole times when Marse Chan wuz a schoolboy, an’ Miss -Anne Chahmb’lin use’ to come over, an’ go wid ole -missis into her charmber an’ tek her things off. In dyar -we laid de coffin on two o’ de cheers, an’ ole missis -nuver said a wud; she jes’ looked so ole an’ white.</p> - -<p>“When I had tell ’em all ’bout it, I tu’ned right -’roun’ an’ rid over to Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s, ’cause I -knowed dat wuz what Marse Chan he’d ’a’ wanted me -to do. I didn’ tell nobody whar I wuz gwine, ’cause yo’ -know none on ’em hadn’ nuver speak to Miss Anne, not -sence de duil, an’ dey didn’ know ’bout de letter.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span></p> - -<p>“When I rid up in de yard, dyar wuz Miss Anne -a-stan’in’ on de poach watchin’ me ez I rid up. I tied -my hoss to de fence, an’ walked up de parf. She -knowed by de way I walked dyar wuz somethin’ de motter, -an’ she wuz mighty pale. I drapt my cap down on -de een’ o’ de steps an’ went up. She nuver opened her -mouf; jes’ stan’ right still an’ keep her eyes on my -face. Fust, I couldn’ speak; den I cotch my voice, an’ -I say, ’Marse Chan, he done got he furlough.’</p> - -<p>“Her face was mighty ashy, an’ she sort o’ shook, -but she didn’ fall. She tu’ned ’roun’ an’ said, ’Git -me de ker’ige!’ Dat wuz all.</p> - -<p>“When de ker’ige come ’roun’, she hed put on her -bonnet, an’ wuz ready. Ez she got in, she sey to me, -’Hev yo’ brought him home?’ an’ we drove ’long, I -ridin’ behine.</p> - -<p>“When we got home, she got out, an’ walked up de -big walk—up to de poach by herse’f. Ole missis hed -done fin’ de letter in Marse Chan’s pocket, wid de love -in it, while I wuz ’way, an’ she wuz a-waitin’ on de -poach. Dey sey dat wuz de fust time ole missis cry -when she find de letter, an’ dat she sut’n’y did cry over -it, pintedly.</p> - -<p>“Well, seh, Miss Anne she walks right up de steps, -mos’ up to ole missis stan’in’ dyar on de poach, an’ -jes’ falls right down mos’ to her, on her knees fust, an’ -den flat on her face right on de flo’, ketchin’ at ole -missis’ dress wid her two han’s—so.</p> - -<p>“Ole missis stood for ’bout a minit lookin’ down at -her, an’ den she drapt down on de flo’ by her, an’ took -her in bofe her arms.</p> - -<p>“I couldn’ see, I wuz cryin’ so myse’f, an’ ev’ybody -wuz cryin’. But dey went in arfter a while in de parlor, -an’ shet de do’; an’ I heahd ’em say, Miss Anne she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span> -tuk de coffin in her arms an’ kissed it, an’ kissed Marse -Chan, an’ call ’im by his name, an’ her darlin’, an’ ole -missis lef’ her cryin’ in dyar tell some on ’em went in, -an’ found her done faint on de flo’.</p> - -<p>“Judy (she’s my wife) she tell me she heah Miss -Anne when she axed ole missis mout she wear mo’nin’ -fur ‘im. I don’ know how dat is; but when we buried -‘im nex’ day, she wuz de one whar walked arfter de -coffin, holdin’ ole marster, an’ ole missis she walked -next to ’em.</p> - -<p>“Well, we buried Marse Chan dyar in de ole grabeyard, -wid de fleg wrapped roun’ ‘im, an’ he face lookin’ -like it did dat mawnin’ down in de low groun’s, wid de -new sun shinin’ on it so peaceful.</p> - -<p>“Miss Anne she nuver went home to stay arfter dat; -she stay wid ole marster an’ ole missis ez long ez dey -lived. Dat warn’ so mighty long, ’cause ole marster he -died dat fall, when dey wuz fallerin’ fur wheat—I had -jes’ married Judy den—an’ ole missis she warn’ long -behine him. We buried her by him next summer. Miss -Anne she went in de hospitals toreckly arfter ole missis -died; an’ jes’ fo’ Richmond fell she come home sick -wid de fever. Yo’ nuver would ’a’’ knowed her fur de -same ole Miss Anne. She wuz light ez a piece o’ peth, -an’ so white, ’cep’ her eyes an’ her sorrel hyar, an’ she -kep’ on gittin’ whiter an’ weaker. Judy she sut’n’y did -nuss her faithful. But she nuver got no betterment! -De fever an’ Marse Chan’s bein’ kilt hed done strain -her, an’ she died jes’ fo’ de folks wuz sot free.</p> - -<p>“So we buried Miss Anne right by Marse Chan, in -a place whar ole missis hed tole us to leave, an’ dey’s -bofe on ’em sleep side by side over in de ole grabeyard -at home.</p> - -<p>“An’ will yo’ please tell me, marster? Dey tells me -dat de Bible sey dyar won’ be marryin’ nor givin’ in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span> -marriage in heaven, but I don’ b’lieve it signifies dat—does -you?”</p> - -<p>I gave him the comfort of my earnest belief in some -other interpretation, together with several spare -“eighteen-pences,” as he called them, for which he -seemed humbly grateful. And as I rode away I heard -him calling across the fence to his wife, who was standing -in the door of a small whitewashed cabin, near -which we had been standing for some time:</p> - -<p>“Judy, have Marse Chan’s dawg got home?”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">“POSSON JONE’”</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 mid"><span class="smcap">George W. Cable</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">Bliss Perry mentions this story as one that presents -“people and events and circumstances, blended into an -artistic whole that defies analysis.” It illustrates dramatic -incident, local color, and complex character -analysis.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">“POSSON JONE’”<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor"><span class="small"><span class="small">[20]</span></span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">To Jules St.-Ange—elegant little heathen—there yet -remained at manhood a remembrance of having been -to school, and of having been taught by a stony-headed -Capuchin that the world is round—for example, like -a cheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten -through, and Jules had nibbled quite into his cheeseworld -already at twenty-two.</p> - -<p>He realized this as he idled about one Sunday morning -where the intersection of Royal and Conti streets -some seventy years ago formed a central corner of -New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was he had been -wasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that -faithful friend and confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant. -They concluded that, papa’s patience and -<i>tante’s</i> pin-money having been gnawed away quite to -the rind, there were left open only these few easily -enumerated resorts: to go to work—they shuddered; -to join Major Innerarity’s filibustering expedition; or -else—why not?—to try some games of confidence. At -twenty-two one must begin to be something. Nothing -else tempted; could that avail? One could but try. It -is noble to try; and, besides, they were hungry. If one -could “make the friendship” of some person from -the country, for instance, with money, not expert at -cards or dice, but, as one would say, willing to learn, -one might find cause to say some “Hail Marys.”</p> - -<p>The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span> -pronounced it good for luck. There had been a hurricane -in the night. The weed-grown tile-roofs were still -dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe walls a -rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. Upstreet, -and across the Rue du Canal, one could get -glimpses of the gardens in Faubourg Ste.-Marie standing -in silent wretchedness, so many tearful Lucretias, -tattered victims of the storm. Short remnants of the -wind now and then came down the narrow street in -erratic puffs heavily laden with odors of broken boughs -and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools of rain-water -in the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly -went away to nothing, like a juggler’s butterflies or a -young man’s money.</p> - -<p>It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale. The rich -and poor met together. The locksmith’s swinging key -creaked next door to the bank; across the way, crouching, -mendicant-like, in the shadow of a great importing-house, -was the mud laboratory of the mender of broken -combs. Light balconies overhung the rows of showy -shops and stores open for trade this Sunday morning, -and pretty Latin faces of the higher class glanced over -their savagely pronged railings upon the passers below. -At some windows hung lace curtains, flannel duds at -some, and at others only the scraping and sighing one-hinged -shutter groaning toward Paris after its neglectful -master.</p> - -<p>M. St.-Ange stood looking up and down the street for -nearly an hour. But few ladies, only the inveterate -mass-goers, were out. About the entrance of the frequent -<i>cafés</i> the masculine gentility stood leaning on -canes, with which now one and now another beckoned -to Jules, some even adding pantomimic hints of the -social cup.</p> - -<p>M. St.-Ange remarked to his servant without turning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span> -his head that somehow he felt sure he should soon -return those <i>bons</i> that the mulatto had lent him.</p> - -<p>“What will you do with them?”</p> - -<p>“Me!” said Baptiste, quickly; “I will go and see -the bull-fight in the Place Congo.”</p> - -<p>“There is to be a bull-fight? But where is M. -Cayetano?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. Instead -of his circus, they are to have a bull-fight—not an ordinary -bull-fight with sick horses, but a buffalo-and-tiger -fight. I would not miss it——”</p> - -<p>Two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, and -commenced striking at something with their canes. -Others followed. Can M. St.-Ange and servant, who -hasten forward—can the Creoles, Cubans, Spaniards, -San Domingo refugees, and other loungers—can they -hope it is a fight? They hurry forward. Is a man -in a fit? The crowd pours in from the side-streets. -Have they killed a so-long snake? Bareheaded shopmen -leave their wives, who stand upon chairs. The crowd -huddles and packs. Those on the outside make little -leaps into the air, trying to be tall.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?”</p> - -<p>“Have they caught a real live rat?”</p> - -<p>“Who is hurt?” asks some one in English.</p> - -<p>“<i>Personne</i>,” replies a shopkeeper; “a man’s hat -blow’ in the gutter; but he has it now. Jules pick’ it. -See, that is the man, head and shoulders on top the -res’.”</p> - -<p>“He in the homespun?” asks a second shopkeeper. -“Humph! an <i>Américain</i>—a West-Floridian; -bah!”</p> - -<p>“But wait; ’st! he is speaking; listen!”</p> - -<p>“To who is he speak——?”</p> - -<p>“Sh-sh-sh! to Jules.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Jules who?”</p> - -<p>“Silence, you! To Jules St.-Ange, what howe me a -bill since long time. Sh-sh-sh!”</p> - -<p>Then the voice was heard.</p> - -<p>Its owner was a man of giant stature, with a slight -stoop in his shoulders, as if he was making a constant, -good-natured attempt to accommodate himself to ordinary -doors and ceilings. His bones were those of an -ox. His face was marked more by weather than age, -and his narrow brow was bald and smooth. He had instantaneously -formed an opinion of Jules St.-Ange, and -the multitude of words, most of them lingual curiosities, -with which he was rasping the wide-open ears of his -listeners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his name -was Parson Jones, the little Creole was a “plum -gentleman.”</p> - -<p>M. St.-Ange bowed and smiled, and was about to -call attention, by both gesture and speech, to a singular -object on top of the still uncovered head, when the -nervous motion of the <i>Américain</i> anticipated him, as, -throwing up an immense hand, he drew down a large -roll of bank-notes. The crowd laughed, the West-Floridian -joining, and began to disperse.</p> - -<p>“Why, that money belongs to Smyrny Church,” said -the giant.</p> - -<p>“You are very dengerous to make your money expose -like that, Misty Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange, -counting it with his eyes.</p> - -<p>The countryman gave a start and smile of surprise.</p> - -<p>“How d’dyou know my name was Jones?” he asked; -but, without pausing for the Creole’s answer, furnished -in his reckless way some further specimens of West-Floridian -English; and the conciseness with which he -presented full intelligence of his home, family, calling, -lodging-house, and present and future plans, might have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span> -passed for consummate art, had it not been the most -run-wild nature. “And I’ve done been to Mobile, you -know, on busi<i>ness</i> for Bethesdy Church. It’s the on’yest -time I ever been from home; now you wouldn’t of believed -that, would you? But I admire to have saw you, -that’s so. You’ve got to come and eat with me. Me -and my boy ain’t been fed yit. “What might one call yo’ -name? Jools? Come on, Jools. Come on, Colossus. -That’s my niggah—his name’s Colossus of Rhodes. Is -that yo’ yallah boy, Jools? Fetch him along, Colossus. -It seems like a special provi<i>dence</i>.—Jools, do you believe -in a special provi<i>dence</i>?”</p> - -<p>Jules said he did.</p> - -<p>The new-made friends moved briskly off, followed -by Baptiste and a short, square, old negro, very black -and grotesque, who had introduced himself to the -mulatto, with many glittering and cavernous smiles, as -“d’body-sarvant of d’Rev’n’ Mr. Jones.”</p> - -<p>Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. -Parson Jones descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, -as illustrated in the perplexities of cotton-growing, -and concluded that there would always be “a -special provi<i>dence</i> again’ cotton untell folks quits -a-pressin’ of it and haulin’ of it on Sundays!”</p> - -<p>“<i>Je dis</i>,” said St.-Ange, in response, “I thing you -is juz right. I believe, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, -yes. You know my papa he hown a sugah-plantation, -you know. ’Jules, me son,’ he say one time -to me, ’I goin’ to make one baril sugah to fedge the -moze high price in New Orleans.’ Well, he take his bez -baril sugah—I nevah see a so careful man like me papa -always to make a so beautiful sugah <i>et sirop</i>. ’Jules, -go at Father Pierre an’ ged this lill pitcher fill with holy-water, -an’ tell him sen’ his tin bucket, and I will make -it fill with <i>quitte</i>.’ I ged the holy-water; my papa<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span> -sprinkle it over the baril, an’ make one cross on the ’ead -of the baril.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Jools,” said Parson Jones, “that didn’t do -no good.”</p> - -<p>“Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value! -You can strike me dead if thad baril sugah din fedge -the more high cost than any other in the city. <i>Parce-que</i>, -the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistake -of one hundred pound”—falling back—“<i>Mais</i> certainlee!”</p> - -<p>“And you think that was growin’ out of the holy-water?” -asked the parson.</p> - -<p>“<i>Mais</i>, what could make it else? Id could not be -the <i>quitte</i>, because my papa keep the bucket, an’ forget -to sen’ the <i>quitte</i> to Father Pierre.”</p> - -<p>Parson Jones was disappointed.</p> - -<p>“Well, now, Jools, you know, I don’t think that was -right. I reckon you must be a plum Catholic.”</p> - -<p>M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his faith.</p> - -<p>“I am a <i>Catholique</i>, <i>mais</i>”—brightening as he hoped -to recommend himself anew—“not a good one.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you know,” said Jones—“where’s Colossus? -Oh! all right. Colossus strayed off a minute in Mobile, -and I plum lost him for two days. Here’s the place; -come in. Colossus and this boy can go to the kitchen.—Now, -Colossus, what <i>air</i> you a-beckonin’ at me faw?”</p> - -<p>He let his servant draw him aside and address him -in a whisper.</p> - -<p>“Oh, go ’way!” said the parson with a jerk. -“Who’s goin’ to throw me? What? Speak louder. -Why, Colossus, you shayn’t talk so, saw. ’Pon my soul, -you’re the mightiest fool I ever taken up with. Jest -you go down that alley-way with this yalla boy, and -don’t show yo’ face untell yo’ called!”</p> - -<p>The negro begged; the master wrathily insisted.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I hev -to strike you, saw?”</p> - -<p>“O Mahs Jimmy, I—I’s gwine; but”—he ventured -nearer—“don’t on no account drink nothin’, Mahs -Jimmy.”</p> - -<p>Such was the negro’s earnestness that he put one -foot in the gutter, and fell heavily against his master. -The parson threw him off angrily.</p> - -<p>“Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you most of been dosted -with sumthin’; yo’ plum crazy.—Humph, come on, -Jools, let’s eat! Humph! to tell me that when I never -taken a drop, exceptin’ for chills, in my life—which he -knows so as well as me!”</p> - -<p>The two masters began to ascend a stair.</p> - -<p>“<i>Mais</i>, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me,” said the -young Creole.</p> - -<p>“No, I wouldn’t do that,” replied the parson; -“though there is people in Bethesdy who says he is -a rascal. He’s a powerful smart fool. Why, that boy’s -got money, Jools; more money than religion, I reckon. -I’m shore he fallen into mighty bad company”—they -passed beyond earshot.</p> - -<p>Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern -kitchen, passed to the next door and entered the dark -rear corner of a low grocery, where, the law notwithstanding, -liquor was covertly sold to slaves. There, -in the quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer, the -colloquial powers of Colossus, which were simply prodigious, -began very soon to show themselves.</p> - -<p>“For whilst,” said he, “Mahs Jimmy has eddication, -you know—whilst he has eddication, I has ’scretion. He -has eddication and I has ’scretion, an’ so we gits -along.”</p> - -<p>He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying -half his length upon the damp board, continued:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span></p> - -<p>“As a p’inciple I discredits de imbimin’ of awjus -liquors. De imbimin’ of awjus liquors, de wiolution of -de Sabbaf, de playin’ of de fiddle, and de usin’ of by-words, -dey is de fo’ sins of de conscience; an’ if -any man sin de fo’ sins of de conscience, de debble -done sharp his fork fo’ dat man.—Ain’t that so, -boss?”</p> - -<p>The grocer was sure it was so.</p> - -<p>“Neberdeless, mind you”—here the orator brimmed -his glass from the bottle and swallowed the contents -with a dry eye—“mind you, a roytious man, sech as -ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take -a <i>leetle</i> for de weak stomach.”</p> - -<p>But the fascinations of Colossus’s eloquence must not -mislead us; this is the story of a true Christian; to wit, -Parson Jones.</p> - -<p>The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee -M. St.-Ange declared he could not touch; it was too -wretchedly bad. At the French Market, near by, there -was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to -be bought, and Parson Jones had scruples.</p> - -<p>“You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to -guide him, which it does so in——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes!” cried St.-Ange, “conscien’; thad is the -bez, Posson Jone’. Certainlee! I am a <i>Catholique</i>, you -is a <i>schismatique</i>; you thing it is wrong to dring some -coffee—well, then, it <i>is</i> wrong; you thing it is wrong to -make the sugah to ged the so large price—well, then, it <i>is</i> -wrong; I thing it is right—well, then, it <i>is</i> right; it is -all ’a’bit; <i>c’est tout</i>. What a man thing is right, <i>is right</i>; -’tis all ’a’bit. A man muz nod go again’ his conscien’. -My faith! do you thing I would go again’ my conscien’? -<i>Mais allons</i>, led us go and ged some coffee.”</p> - -<p>“Jools.”</p> - -<p>“W’at?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Jools, it ain’t the drinkin’ of coffee, but the buyin’ -of it on a Sabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools, -it’s again’ conscience, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said St.-Ange, “<i>c’est</i> very true. For you it -would be a sin, <i>mais</i> for me it is only ’a’bit. Rilligion is -a very strange; I know a man one time, he thing it was -wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening. I thing it is -all ’a’bit. <i>Mais</i>, come, Posson Jone’; I have got one -friend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some -coffee. Come; Miguel have no familie; only him and -Joe—always like to see friend; <i>allons</i>, led us come -yonder.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know,” said the -shame-faced parson, “I never visit on Sundays.”</p> - -<p>“Never w’at?” asked the astounded Creole.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Jones, smiling awkwardly.</p> - -<p>“Never visite?”</p> - -<p>“Exceptin’ sometimes amongst church-members,” -said Parson Jones.</p> - -<p>“<i>Mais</i>,” said the seductive St.-Ange, “Miguel and -Joe is church-member’—certainlee! They love to talk -about rilligion. Come at Miguel and talk about some -rilligion. I am nearly expire for me coffee.”</p> - -<p>Parson Jones took his hat from beneath his chair -and rose up.</p> - -<p>“Jools,” said the weak giant, “I ought to be in -church right now.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Mais</i>, the church is right yonder at Miguel’, yes. -Ah!” continued St.-Ange, as they descended the stairs, -“I thing every man muz have the rilligion he like’ -the bez—me, I like the <i>Catholique</i> rilligion the bez—for -me it <i>is</i> the bez. Every man will sure go to heaven if -he like his rilligion the bez.”</p> - -<p>“Jools,” said the West-Floridian, laying his great -hand tenderly upon the Creole’s shoulder, as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span> -stepped out upon the <i>banquette</i>, “do you think you -have any shore hopes of heaven?”</p> - -<p>“Yass!” replied St.-Ange; “I am sure-sure. I -thing everybody will go to heaven. I thing you will go, -<i>et</i> I thing Miguel will go, <i>et</i> Joe—everybody, I thing—<i>mais</i>, -hof course, not if they not have been christen’. -Even I thing some niggers will go.”</p> - -<p>“Jools,” said the parson, stopping in his walk—“Jools, -I <i>don’t</i> want to lose my niggah.”</p> - -<p>“You will not loose him. With Baptiste he <i>cannot</i> -ged loose.”</p> - -<p>But Colossus’s master was not reassured.</p> - -<p>“Now,” said he, still tarrying, “this is jest the way; -had I of gone to church——”</p> - -<p>“Posson Jone’,” said Jules.</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“I tell you. We goin’ to church!”</p> - -<p>“Will you?” asked Jones, joyously.</p> - -<p>“<i>Allons</i>, come along,” said Jules, taking his elbow.</p> - -<p>They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several -corners, and by and by turned into a cross street. The -parson stopped an instant as they were turning and -looked back up the street.</p> - -<p>“W’at you lookin’?” asked his companion.</p> - -<p>“I thought I saw Colossus,” answered the parson, -with an anxious face; “I reckon ’twa’n’t him, though.” -And they went on.</p> - -<p>The street they now entered was a very quiet one. -The eye of any chance passer would have been at once -drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick edifice on the -lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out like -a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair -of lamps hanging before a large closed entrance. It -was a theatre, honey-combed with gambling-dens. At -this morning hour all was still, and the only sign of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span> -life was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within -its narrow shade, and each carrying an infant relative. -Into this place the parson and M. St.-Ange entered, the -little nurses jumping up from the sills to let them -pass in.</p> - -<p>A half-hour may have passed. At the end of that -time the whole juvenile company were laying alternate -eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather what they could -of an interesting quarrel going on within.</p> - -<p>“I did not, saw! I given you no cause of offence, -saw! It’s not so, saw! Mister Jools simply mistaken -the house, thinkin’ it was a Sabbath-school! No such -thing, saw; I <i>ain’t</i> bound to bet! Yes, I kin git out. -Yes, without bettin’! I hev a right to my <i>o</i>pinion; I -reckon I’m <i>a white man</i>, saw! No, saw! I on’y said I -didn’t think you could get the game on them cards. -’Sno such thing, saw! I do <i>not</i> know how to play! I -wouldn’t hev a rascal’s money ef I should win it! -Shoot, ef you dare! You can kill me, but you cayn’t -scare me! No, I shayn’t bet! I’ll die first! Yes, saw; -Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires to; I ain’t his -mostah.”</p> - -<p>Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St.-Ange.</p> - -<p>“Saw, I don’t understand you, saw. I never said I’d -loan you money to bet for me. I didn’t suspicion this -from you, saw. No, I won’t take any more lemonade; -it’s the most notorious stuff I ever drank, saw!”</p> - -<p>M. St.-Ange’s replies were in <i>falsetto</i> and not without -effect; for presently the parson’s indignation and -anger began to melt. “Don’t ask me, Jools, I can’t -help you. It’s no use; it’s a matter of conscience with -me, Jools.”</p> - -<p>“Mais oui! ’tis a matt’ of conscien’ wid me, the -same.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span></p> - -<p>“But, Jools, the money’s none o’ mine, nohow; it -belongs to Smyrny, you know.”</p> - -<p>“If I could make jus’ <i>one</i> bet,” said the persuasive -St.-Ange, “I would leave this place, fas’-fas’, yes. If -I had thing—<i>mais</i> I did not soupspicion this from you, -Posson Jone’——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t, Jools, don’t!”</p> - -<p>“No! Posson Jone’.”</p> - -<p>“You’re bound to win?” said the parson, wavering.</p> - -<p>“<i>Mais certainement!</i> But it is not to win that I -want; ’tis me conscien’—me honor!”</p> - -<p>“Well, Jools, I hope I’m not a-doin’ no wrong. I’ll -loan you some of this money if you say you’ll come -right out ’thout takin’ your winnin’s.”</p> - -<p>All was still. The peeping children could see the -parson as he lifted his hand to his breast-pocket. There -it paused a moment in bewilderment, then plunged to -the bottom. It came back empty, and fell lifelessly -at his side. His head dropped upon his breast, his -eyes were for a moment closed, his broad palms were -lifted and pressed against his forehead, a tremor seized -him, and he fell all in a lump to the floor. The children -ran off with their infant-loads, leaving Jules St.-Ange -swearing by all his deceased relatives, first to -Miguel and Joe, and then to the lifted parson, that he -did not know what had become of the money “except -if” the black man had got it.</p> - -<p class="p2">In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites -of the old rampart, a trio of Spanish forts, where the -town has since sprung up and grown old, green with -all the luxuriance of the wild Creole summer, lay the -Congo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the historic -Cayetano, who Sunday after Sunday sowed the -sawdust for his circus-ring.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span></p> - -<p>But to-day the great showman had fallen short of -his printed promise. The hurricane had come by night, -and with one fell swash had made an irretrievable -sop of everything. The circus trailed away its bedraggled -magnificence, and the ring was cleared for -the bull.</p> - -<p>Then the sun seemed to come out and work for the -people. “See,” said the Spaniards, looking up at the -glorious sky with its great, white fleets drawn off upon -the horizon—“see—heaven smiles upon the bull-fight!”</p> - -<p>In the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat -the gaily-decked wives and daughters of the Gascons, -from the <i>métaries</i> along the Ridge, and the chattering -Spanish women of the Market, their shining hair unbonneted -to the sun. Next below were their husbands and -lovers in Sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, -black-bearded fishermen, Sicilian fruiterers, swarthy -Portuguese sailors, in little woollen caps, and strangers -of the graver sort; mariners of England, Germany, and -Holland. The lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, -Canadian <i>voyageurs</i>, drinking and singing; -<i>Américains</i>, too—more’s the shame—from the upper -rivers—who will not keep their seats—who ply the bottle, -and who will get home by and by and tell how -wicked Sodom is; broad-brimmed, silver-braided Mexicans, -too, with their copper cheeks and bat’s eyes, and -their tinkling spurred heels. Yonder, in that quieter -section, are the quadroon women in their black lace -shawls—and there is Baptiste; and below them are -the turbaned black women, and there is—but he vanishes—Colossus.</p> - -<p>The afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though -loudly demanded, does not begin. The <i>Américains</i> grow -derisive and find pastime in gibes and raillery. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span> -mock the various Latins with their national inflections, -and answer their scowls with laughter. Some of the -more aggressive shout pretty French greetings to the -women of Gascony, and one bargeman, amid peals of -applause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quad-rooms. -The mariners of England, Germany, and Holland, -as spectators, like the fun, while the Spaniards -look black and cast defiant imprecations upon their -persecutors. Some Gascons, with timely caution, pick -their women out and depart, running a terrible fire of -gallantries.</p> - -<p>In hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull: -“The bull, the bull!—hush!”</p> - -<p>In a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling—standing -head and shoulders above the rest—calling -in the <i>Américaine</i> tongue. Another man, big and -red, named Joe, and a handsome little Creole in elegant -dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but the -flat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it. -Ah, through some shameful knavery of the men, into -whose hands he has fallen, he is drunk! Even the -women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildly -and raises his voice until the whole great circle hears -it. He is preaching!</p> - -<p>Ah! kind Lord, for a special providence now! The -men of his own nation—men from the land of the open -English Bible and temperance cup and song are cheering -him on to mad disgrace. And now another call -for the appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen -singing the ancient tune of Mear. You can hear the -words—</p> - -<p class="ppq6 p1">“Old Grimes is dead, that good old soul”</p> - -<p class="p1">—from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with -laughter, from singers who toss their hats aloft and roll<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span> -in their seats; the chorus swells to the accompaniment -of a thousand brogans—</p> - -<p class="ppq6i p1"> -“He used to wear an old gray coat<br /> -All buttoned down before.”</p> - -<p class="p1">A ribboned man in the arena is trying to be heard, -and the Latins raise one mighty cry for silence. The -big red man gets a hand over the parson’s mouth, and -the ribboned man seizes his moment.</p> - -<p>“They have been endeavoring for hours,” he says, -“to draw the terrible animals from their dens, but -such is their strength and fierceness, that——”</p> - -<p>His voice is drowned. Enough has been heard to -warrant the inference that the beasts cannot be whipped -out of the storm-drenched cages to which menagerie-life -and long starvation have attached them, and from -the roar of indignation the man of ribbons flies. The -noise increases. Men are standing up by hundreds, -and women are imploring to be let out of the turmoil. -All at once, like the bursting of a dam, the whole mass -pours down into the ring. They sweep across the -arena and over the showman’s barriers. Miguel gets -a frightful trampling. Who cares for gates or doors? -They tear the beasts’ houses bar from bar, and, laying -hold of the gaunt buffalo, drag him forth by feet, ears, -and tail; and in the midst of the <i>mêlée</i>, still head and -shoulders above all, wilder, with the cup of the wicked, -than any beast, is the man of God from the Florida -parishes!</p> - -<p>In his arms he bore—and all the people shouted at -once when they saw it—the tiger. He had lifted it high -up with its back to his breast, his arms clasped under -its shoulders; the wretched brute had curled up caterpillar-wise, -with its long tail against its belly, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span> -through its filed teeth grinned a fixed and impotent -wrath. And Parson Jones was shouting:</p> - -<p>“The tiger and the buffler <i>shell</i> lay down together! -You dah to say they shayn’t and I’ll comb you with this -varmint from head to foot! The tiger and the buffler -<i>shell</i> lay down together. They <i>shell</i>! Now, you, Joe! -Behold! I am here to see it done. The lion and the -buffler <i>shell</i> lay down together!”</p> - -<p>Mouthing these words again and again, the parson -forced his way through the surge in the wake of the -buffalo. This creature the Latins had secured by a -lariat over his head, and were dragging across the old -rampart and into a street of the city.</p> - -<p>The northern races were trying to prevent, and there -was pommelling and knocking down, cursing and knife-drawing, -until Jules St.-Ange was quite carried away -with the fun, laughed, clapped his hands, and -swore with delight, and ever kept close to the gallant -parson.</p> - -<p>Joe, contrariwise, counted all this child’s-play an interruption. -He had come to find Colossus and the -money. In an unlucky moment he made bold to lay -hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers -in the hands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the -terrible crowd swept over him, the lariat was cut, and -the giant parson hurled the tiger upon the buffalo’s -back. In another instant both brutes were dead at -the hands of the mob; Jones was lifted from his feet, -and prating of Scripture and the millennium, of Paul -at Ephesus and Daniel in the “buffler’s” den, was -borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing <i>Américains</i>. -Half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on -the floor of a cell in the <i>calaboza</i>.</p> - -<p>When Parson Jones awoke, a bell was somewhere -tolling for midnight. Somebody was at the door of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span> -his cell with a key. The lock grated, the door swung, -the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of -moonlight fell upon M. Jules St.-Ange. The prisoner -sat upon the empty shackles and ring-bolt in the centre -of the floor.</p> - -<p>“Misty Posson Jone’,” said the visitor, softly.</p> - -<p>“O Jools!”</p> - -<p>“<i>Mais</i>, w’at de matter, Posson Jone’?”</p> - -<p>“My sins, Jools, my sins!”</p> - -<p>“Ah! Posson Jone’, is that something to cry, because -a man get sometime a litt’ bit intoxicate? <i>Mais</i>, -if a man keep <i>all the time</i> intoxicate, I think that is -again’ the conscien’.”</p> - -<p>“Jools, Jools, your eyes is darkened—oh! Jools, -where’s my pore old niggah?”</p> - -<p>“Posson Jone’, never min’; he is wid Baptiste.”</p> - -<p>“Where?”</p> - -<p>“I don’ know w’ere—<i>mais</i> he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste -is a beautiful to take care of somebody.”</p> - -<p>“Is he as good as you, Jools?” asked Parson Jones, -sincerely.</p> - -<p>Jules was slightly staggered.</p> - -<p>“You know, Posson Jone’, you know, a nigger cannot -be good as a w’ite man—<i>mais</i> Baptiste is a good -nigger.”</p> - -<p>The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his -hands.</p> - -<p>“I was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on -the Isabella schooner. Pore Smyrny!” He deeply -sighed.</p> - -<p>“Posson Jone’,” said Jules, leaning against the wall -and smiling, “I swear you is the moz funny man I -ever see. If I was you I would say, me, ’Ah! ’ow I am -lucky! the money I los’, it was not mine, anyhow!’ My -faith! shall a man make hisse’f to be the more sorry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span> -because the money he los’ is not his? Me, I would say, -’it is a specious providence.’</p> - -<p>“Ah! Misty Posson Jone’,” he continued, “you make -a so droll sermon ad the bull-ring. Ha! ha! I swear -I think you can make money to preach thad sermon -many time ad the theatre St. Philippe. Hah! you is -the moz brave dat I never see, <i>mais</i> ad the same time -the moz rilligious man. Where I’m goin’ to fin’ one -priest to make like dat? <i>Mais</i>, why you can’t cheer up -an’ be ’a’ppy? Me, if I should be miserabl’ like that I -would kill meself.”</p> - -<p>The countryman only shook his head.</p> - -<p>“<i>Bien</i>, Posson Jone’, I have the so good news for -you.”</p> - -<p>The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry.</p> - -<p>“Las’ evening when they lock’ you, I come right -off at M. De Blanc’s house to get you let out of de -calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge. So soon I was -entering—’Ah! Jules, me boy, juz the man to make -complete the game!’ Posson Jone’, it was a specious -providence! I win in t’ree hours more dan six hundred -dollah! Look.” He produced a mass of bank-notes, -<i>bons</i>, and due-bills.</p> - -<p>“And you got the pass?” asked the parson, regarding -the money with a sadness incomprehensible to -Jules.</p> - -<p>“It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight.”</p> - -<p>“Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain.”</p> - -<p>The Creole’s face became a perfect blank.</p> - -<p>“Because,” said the parson, “for two reasons: -firstly, I have broken the laws, and ought to stand the -penalty; and secondly—you must really excuse me, -Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I’m -afeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in -neither case it don’t become a Christian (which I hope<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span> -I can still say I am one) to ’do evil that good may -come.’ I muss stay.”</p> - -<p>M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment -speechless, at this exhibition of moral heroism; but an -artifice was presently hit upon. “<i>Mais</i>, Posson Jone’!”—in -his old <i>falsetto</i>—“de order—you cannot read it, -it is in French—compel you to go hout, sir!”</p> - -<p>“Is that so?” cried the parson, bounding up with -radiant face—“is that so, Jools?”</p> - -<p>The young man nodded, smiling; but, though he -smiled, the fountain of his tenderness was opened. He -made the sign of the cross as the parson knelt in prayer, -and even whispered “Hail Mary,” etc., quite through, -twice over.</p> - -<p class="p2">Morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of -villas behind the city, nestled under live-oaks and magnolias -on the banks of a deep bayou, and known as -Suburb St. Jean.</p> - -<p>With the first beam came the West-Floridian and -the Creole out upon the bank below the village. Upon -the parson’s arm hung a pair of antique saddle-bags. -Baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes were -encircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone -bore the official impress of every knuckle of Colossus’s -left hand. The “beautiful to take care of somebody” -had lost his charge. At mention of the negro he became -wild, and, half in English, half in the “gumbo” -dialect, said murderous things. Intimidated by Jules -to calmness, he became able to speak confidently on -one point; he could, would, and did swear that Colossus -had gone home to the Florida parishes; he was almost -certain; in fact, he thought so.</p> - -<p>There was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared -upon the bayou’s margin, and Baptiste pointed out,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span> -in the deep shadow of a great oak, the Isabella, moored -among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails for -departure. Moving down to where she lay, the parson -and his friend paused on the bank, loath to say farewell.</p> - -<p>“O Jools!” said the parson, “supposin’ Colossus -ain’t gone home! O Jools, if you’ll look him out for me, -I’ll never forget you—I’ll never forget you, nohow, -Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken that -money. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal”—he set -foot upon the gang-plank—“but Colossus wouldn’t -steal from me. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p>“Misty Posson Jone’,” said St.-Ange, putting his -hand on the parson’s arm with genuine affection, “hol’ -on. You see dis money—w’at I win las’ night? Well, -I win’ it by a specious providence, ain’t it?”</p> - -<p>“There’s no tellin’,” said the humbled Jones. -“Providence</p> - -<p class="ppq6i p1">“‘Moves in a mysterious way<br /> -His wonders to perform.’”</p> - -<p class="p1">“Ah!” cried the Creole, “<i>c’est</i> very true. I ged this -money in the mysterieuze way. <i>Mais</i>, if I keep dis -money, you know where it goin’ be to-night?”</p> - -<p>“I really can’t say,” replied the parson.</p> - -<p>“Goin’ to de dev’,” said the sweetly-smiling young -man.</p> - -<p>The schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, -and even Baptiste, laughed outright.</p> - -<p>“O Jools, you mustn’t!”</p> - -<p>“Well, den, w’at I shall do wid <i>it</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Any thing!” answered the parson; “better donate -it away to some poor man——”</p> - -<p>“Ah! Misty Posson Jone’, dat is w’at I want. You -los’ five hondred dollar’—’twas me fault.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span></p> - -<p>“No, it wa’n’t, Jools.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Mais</i>, it was!”</p> - -<p>“No!”</p> - -<p>“It <i>was</i> me fault! I <i>swear</i> it was me fault! <i>Mais</i>, -here is five hondred dollar’; I wish you shall take it. -Here! I don’t got no use for money.—Oh, my -faith! Posson Jone’, you must not begin to cry some -more.”</p> - -<p>Parson Jones was choked with tears. When he found -voice he said:</p> - -<p>“O Jools, Jools, Jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened -friend! ef you hed of hed a Christian raisin’! -May the Lord show you your errors better’n I kin, -and bless you for your good intentions—oh, no! I -cayn’t touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa’n’t -rightly got; you must really excuse me, my dear friend, -but I cayn’t touch it.”</p> - -<p>St.-Ange was petrified.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, dear Jools,” continued the parson. “I’m -in the Lord’s haynds, and he’s very merciful, which -I hope and trust you’ll find it out. Good-bye!”—the -schooner swang slowly off before the breeze—“good-bye!”</p> - -<p>St.-Ange roused himself.</p> - -<p>“Posson Jone’! make me hany’ow <i>dis</i> promise: you -never, never, <i>never</i> will come back to New Orleans.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Jools, the Lord willin’, I’ll never leave home -again!”</p> - -<p>“All right!” cried the Creole; “I thing he’s willin’. -Adieu, Posson Jone’. My faith’! you are the so fighting -an’ moz rilligious man as I never saw! Adieu! -Adieu!”</p> - -<p>Baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master -toward the schooner, his hands full of clods.</p> - -<p>St.-Ange looked just in time to see the sable form of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span> -Colossus of Rhodes emerge from the vessel’s hold, and -the pastor of Smyrna and Bethesda seize him in his -embrace.</p> - -<p>“O Colossus! you outlandish old nigger! Thank the -Lord! Thank the Lord!”</p> - -<p>The little Creole almost wept. He ran down the -tow-path, laughing and swearing, and making confused -allusion to the entire <i>personnel</i> and furniture of the -lower regions.</p> - -<p>By odd fortune, at the moment that St.-Ange further -demonstrated his delight by tripping his mulatto into -a bog, the schooner came brushing along the reedy bank -with a graceful curve, the sails napped, and the crew -fell to poling her slowly along.</p> - -<p>Parson Jones was on the deck, kneeling once more -in prayer. His hat had fallen before him; behind him -knelt his slave. In thundering tones he was confessing -himself “a plum fool,” from whom “the conceit had -been jolted out,” and who had been made to see that even -his “nigger had the longest head of the two.”</p> - -<p>Colossus clasped his hands and groaned.</p> - -<p>The parson prayed for a contrite heart.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes!” cried Colossus.</p> - -<p>The master acknowledged countless mercies.</p> - -<p>“Dat’s so!” cried the slave.</p> - -<p>The master prayed that they might still be “piled -on.”</p> - -<p>“Glory!” cried the black man, clapping his hands; -“pile on!”</p> - -<p>“An’ now,” continued the parson, “bring this pore, -backslidin’ jackace of a parson and this pore ole fool -nigger back to thar home in peace!”</p> - -<p>“Pray fo’ de money!” called Colossus.</p> - -<p>But the parson prayed for Jules.</p> - -<p>“Pray fo’ de <i>money</i>!” repeated the negro.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span></p> - -<p>“And oh, give thy servant back that there lost -money!”</p> - -<p>Colossus rose stealthily, and tiptoed by his still shouting -master. St.-Ange, the captain, the crew, gazed in -silent wonder at the strategist. Pausing but an instant -over the master’s hat to grin an acknowledgment of his -beholders’ speechless interest, he softly placed in it the -faithfully mourned and honestly prayed-for Smyrna -fund; then, saluted by the gesticulative, silent applause -of St.-Ange and the schooner-men, he resumed his first -attitude behind his roaring master.</p> - -<p>“Amen!” cried Colossus, meaning to bring him to -a close.</p> - -<p>“Onworthy though I be——” cried Jones.</p> - -<p>“<i>Amen!</i>” reiterated the negro.</p> - -<p>“A-a-amen!” said Parson Jones.</p> - -<p>He rose to his feet, and, stooping to take up his hat, -beheld the well-known roll. As one stunned, he gazed -for a moment upon his slave, who still knelt with clasped -hands and rolling eyeballs; but when he became aware -of the laughter and cheers that greeted him from both -deck and shore, he lifted eyes and hands to heaven, and -cried like the veriest babe. And when he looked at the -roll again, and hugged and kissed it, St.-Ange tried to -raise a second shout, but choked, and the crew fell to -their poles.</p> - -<p>And now up runs Baptiste, covered with slime, and -prepares to cast his projectiles. The first one fell wide -of the mark; the schooner swung round into a long reach -of water, where the breeze was in her favor; another -shout of laughter drowned the maledictions of the muddy -man; the sails filled; Colossus of Rhodes, smiling and -bowing as hero of the moment, ducked as the main -boom swept round, and the schooner, leaning slightly -to the pleasant influence, rustled a moment over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span> -bulrushes, and then sped far away down the rippling -bayou.</p> - -<p>M. Jules St.-Ange stood long, gazing at the receding -vessel as it now disappeared, now reappeared beyond -the tops of the high undergrowth; but, when an arm -of the forest hid it finally from sight, he turned townward, -followed by that fagged-out spaniel, his servant, -saying, as he turned, “Baptiste.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Miché?</i>”</p> - -<p>“You know w’at I goin’ do wid dis money?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Non, m’sieur.</i>”</p> - -<p>“Well, you can strike me dead if I don’t goin’ to -pay hall my debts! <i>Allons!</i>”</p> - -<p>He began a merry little song to the effect that his -sweetheart was a wine-bottle, and master and man, leaving -care behind, returned to the picturesque Rue Royale. -The ways of Providence are indeed strange. In all -Parson Jones’s after-life, amid the many painful reminiscences -of his visit to the City of the Plain, the sweet -knowledge was withheld from him that by the light of -the Christian virtue that shone from him even in his -great fall, Jules St.-Ange arose, and went to his father -an honest man.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">OUR AROMATIC UNCLE</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Henry Cuyler Bunner</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">The title of Mr. Bunner’s story is attractive and stimulating -to the imagination. The plot is slight, yet clever -in its use of the surprise element. Its leading character -is a splendid illustration of a hero-worshipper who is -himself the real hero. The atmosphere is especially good. -It is warmed by family affection and fragrant with romance. -This romance, as Mr. Grabo points out in “The -Art of the Short Story,” is suggested rather than recorded. -The running away of the Judge’s son and of -his little admirer, the butcher-boy, really lies outside the -story proper. “With these youthful adventures the -story has not directly to do, but the hints of the antecedent -action envelop the story with a romantic atmosphere. -The reader speculates upon the story suggested, -and thereby is the written story enriched and made a -part of a larger whole.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">OUR AROMATIC UNCLE<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[21]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">It is always with a feeling of personal tenderness and -regret that I recall his story, although it began long before -I was born, and must have ended shortly after that -important date, and although I myself never laid eyes -on the personage of whom my wife and I always speak -as “The Aromatic Uncle.”</p> - -<p>The story begins so long ago, indeed, that I can tell -it only as a tradition of my wife’s family. It goes back -to the days when Boston was so frankly provincial a -town that one of its leading citizens, a man of eminent -position and ancient family, remarked to a young kinsman -whom he was entertaining at his hospitable board, by -way of pleasing and profitable discourse: “Nephew, it -may interest you to know that it is Mr. Everett who has -the <i>other</i> hindquarter of this lamb.” This simple tale -I will vouch for, for I got it from the lips of the -nephew, who has been my uncle for so many years that -I know him to be a trustworthy authority.</p> - -<p>In those days which seem so far away—and yet the -space between them and us is spanned by a lifetime of -threescore years and ten—life was simpler in all its -details; yet such towns as Boston, already old, had well-established -local customs which varied not at all from -year to year; many of which lingered in later phases -of urban growth. In Boston, or at least in that part of -Boston where my wife’s family dwelt, it was the invariable -custom for the head of the family to go to market<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span> -in the early morning with his wife’s list of the day’s -needs. When the list was filled, the articles were placed -in a basket; and the baskets thus filled were systematically -deposited by the market-boys at the back-door of -the house to which they were consigned. Then the -housekeeper came to the back-door at her convenience, -and took the basket in. Exposed as this position must -have been, such a thing as a theft of the day’s edibles -was unknown, and the first authentic account of any -illegitimate handling of the baskets brings me to the -introduction of my wife’s uncle.</p> - -<p>It was on a summer morning, as far as I can find out, -that a little butcher-boy—a very little butcher-boy to -be driving so big a cart—stopped in the rear of two -houses that stood close together in a suburban street. -One of these houses belonged to my wife’s father, who -was, from all I can gather, a very pompous, severe, and -generally objectionable old gentleman; a Judge, and a -very considerable dignitary, who apparently devoted -all his leisure to making life miserable for his family. -The other was owned by a comparatively poor and unimportant -man, who did a shipping business in a small -way. He had bought it during a period of temporary -affluence, and it hung on his hands like a white elephant. -He could not sell it, and it was turning his hair gray -to pay the taxes on it. On this particular morning he -had got up at four o’clock to go down to the wharves to -see if a certain ship in which he was interested had -arrived. It was due and overdue, and its arrival would -settle the question of his domestic comfort for the whole -year; for if it failed to appear, or came home with an -empty bottom, his fate would be hard indeed; but if it -brought him money or marketable goods from its long -Oriental trip, he might take heart of grace and look -forward to better times.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span></p> - -<p>When the butcher’s boy stopped at the house of my -wife’s father, he set down at the back-door a basket -containing fish, a big joint of roast beef, and a generous -load of fruit and vegetables, including some fine, fat -oranges. At the other door he left a rather unpromising-looking -lump of steak and a half-peck of potatoes, -not of the first quality. When he had deposited these -two burdens he ran back and started his cart up the -road.</p> - -<p>But he looked back as he did so, and he saw a sight -familiar to him, and saw the commission of a deed entirely -unfamiliar. A handsome young boy of about his -own age stepped out of the back-door of my wife’s -father’s house and looked carelessly around him. He -was one of the boys who compel the admiration of all -other boys—strong, sturdy, and a trifle arrogant.</p> - -<p>He had long ago compelled the admiration of the little -butcher-boy. They had been playmates together at the -public school, and although the Judge’s son looked down -from an infinite height upon his poor little comrade, the -butcher-boy worshipped him with the deepest and most -fervent adoration. He had for him the admiring reverence -which the boy who can’t lick anybody has for the -boy who can lick everybody. He was a superior being, a -pattern, a model; an ideal never to be achieved, but -perhaps in a crude, humble way to be imitated. And -there is no hero-worship in the world like a boy’s worship -of a boy-hero.</p> - -<p>The sight of this fortunate and adorable youth was -familiar enough to the butcher-boy, but the thing he -did startled and shocked that poor little workingman -almost as much as if his idol had committed a capital -crime right before his very eyes. For the Judge’s son -suddenly let a look into his face that meant mischief, -glanced around him to see whether anybody was observing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span> -him or not, and, failing to notice the butcher-boy, -quickly and dexterously changed the two baskets. Then -he went back into the house and shut the door on himself.</p> - -<p>The butcher-boy reined up his horse and jumped from -his cart. His first impulse, of course, was to undo -the shocking iniquity which the object of his admiration -had committed. But before he had walked back a dozen -yards, it struck him that he was taking a great liberty -in spoiling the other boy’s joke. It was wrong, of -course, he knew it; but was it for him to rebuke the -wrong-doing of such an exalted personage? If the -Judge’s son came out again, he would see that his joke -had miscarried, and then he would be displeased. And -to the butcher-boy it did not seem right in the nature -of things that anything should displease the Judge’s -son. Three times he went hesitatingly backward and -forward, trying to make up his mind, and then he made -it up. The king could do no wrong. Of course he himself -was doing wrong in not putting the baskets back -where they belonged; but then he reflected, he took that -sin on his own humble conscience, and in some measure -took it off the conscience of the Judge’s son—if, indeed, -it troubled that lightsome conscience at all. And, of -course, too, he knew that, being an apprentice, he would -be whipped for it when the substitution was discovered. -But he didn’t mind being whipped for the boy he worshipped. -So he drove out along the road; and the wife -of the poor shipping-merchant, coming to the back-door, -and finding the basket full of good things, and noticing -especially the beautiful China oranges, naturally concluded -that her husband’s ship had come in, and that he -had provided his family with a rare treat. And the -Judge, when he came home to dinner, and Mrs. Judge -introduced him to the rump-steak and potatoes—but I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span> -do not wish to make this story any more pathetic than -is necessary.</p> - -<table id="t07" summary="t07"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>A few months after this episode, perhaps indirectly -in consequence of it—I have never been able to find out -exactly—the Judge’s son, my wife’s uncle, ran away -to sea, and for many years his recklessness, his strength, -and his good looks were only traditions in the family, -but traditions which he himself kept alive by remembrances -than which none could have been more effective.</p> - -<p>At first he wrote but seldom, later on more regularly, -but his letters—I have seen many of them—were the -most uncommunicative documents that I ever saw in -my life. His wanderings took him to many strange -places on the other side of the globe, but he never wrote -of what he saw or did. His family gleaned from them -that his health was good, that the weather was such-and-such, -and that he wished to have his love, duty, and -respects conveyed to his various relatives. In fact, the -first positive bit of personal intelligence that they received -from him was five years after his departure, when -he wrote them from a Chinese port on letter-paper whose -heading showed that he was a member of a commercial -firm. The letter itself made no mention of the fact. -As the years passed on, however, the letters came more -regularly and they told less about the weather, and were -slightly—very slightly—more expressive of a kind regard -for his relatives. But at the best they were cramped by -the formality of his day and generation, and we of to-day -would have called them cold and perfunctory.</p> - -<p>But the practical assurances that he gave of his undiminished—nay, -his steadily increasing—affection for -the people at home, were of a most satisfying character, -for they were convincing proof not only of his love but -of his material prosperity. Almost from his first time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span> -of writing he began to send gifts to all the members of -the family. At first these were mere trifles, little curios -of travel such as he was able to purchase out of a seaman’s -scanty wages; but as the years went on they grew -richer and richer, till the munificence of the runaway -son became the pride of the whole family.</p> - -<p>The old house that had been in the suburbs of Boston -was fairly in the heart of the city when I first made -its acquaintance, and one of the famous houses of the -town. And it was no wonder it was famous, for such a -collection of Oriental furniture, bric-à-brac, and objects -of art never was seen outside of a museum. There were -ebony cabinets, book-cases, tables, and couches wonderfully -carved and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. There -were beautiful things in bronze and jade and ivory. -There were all sorts of strange rugs and curtains and -portières. As to the china-ware and the vases, no house -was ever so stocked; and as for such trifles as shawls -and fans and silk handkerchiefs, why such things were -sent not singly but by dozens.</p> - -<p>No one could forget his first entrance into that house. -The great drawing-room was darkened by heavy curtains, -and at first you had only a dim vision of the -strange and graceful shapes of its curious furnishing. -But you could not but be instantly conscious of the -delicate perfume that pervaded the apartment, and, for -the matter of that, the whole house. It was a combination -of all the delightful Eastern smells—not sandal-wood -only, nor teak, nor couscous, but all these odors -and a hundred others blent in one. Yet it was not heavy -nor overpowering, but delightfully faint and sweet, diffused -through those ample rooms. There was good reason, -indeed, for the children of the generation to which -my wife belonged to speak of the generous relative -whom they had never seen as “Our Aromatic Uncle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span>” -There were other uncles, and I have no doubt they gave -presents freely, for it was a wealthy and free-handed -family; but there was no other uncle who sent such a -delicate and delightful reminder with every gift, to -breathe a soft memory of him by day and by night.</p> - -<table id="t09" summary="t09"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>I did my courting in the sweet atmosphere of that -house, and, although I had no earthly desire to live in -Boston, I could not help missing that strangely blended -odor when my wife and I moved into an old house -in an old part of New York, whose former owners had -no connections in the Eastern trade. It was a charming -and home-like old house; but at first, although my -wife had brought some belongings from her father’s -house, we missed the pleasant flavor of our aromatic -uncle, for he was now my uncle, as well as my wife’s. -I say at first, for we did not miss it long. Uncle David—that -was his name—not only continued to send his -fragrant gifts to my wife at Christmas and upon her -birthday, but he actually adopted me, too, and sent me -Chinese cabinets and Chinese gods in various minerals -and metals, and many articles designed for a smoker’s -use, which no smoker would ever want to touch with a -ten-foot pole. But I cared very little about the utility -of these presents, for it was not many years before, -among them all, they set up that exquisite perfume in -the house, which we had learned to associate with our -aromatic uncle.</p> - -<div class="pbq"> - -<p class="pr4 p1">“<span class="smcap">Foo-choo-li, China</span>, January—, 18—.</p> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Nephew and Niece</span>: The Present is to inform you that -I have this day shipped to your address, per Steamer Ocean -Queen, one marble and ebony Table, six assorted gods, and a -blue Dinner set; also that I purpose leaving this Country for a -visit to the Land of my Nativity on the 6th of March next, and -will, if same is satisfactory to you, take up my Abode temporarily -in your household. Should same not be satisfactory,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span> -please cable at my charge. Messrs. Smithson & Smithson, my -Customs Brokers, will attend to all charges on the goods, and -will deliver them at your readiness. The health of this place -is better than customary by reason of the cool weather, which -Health I am as usual enjoying. Trusting that you both are at -present in possession of the same Blessing, and will so continue, -I remain, dear nephew and niece,</p> - -<p class="pr4">“Your affectionate<br /></p> -<p class="pr2">“<span class="smcap">Uncle</span>.”</p></div> - -<table id="t16" summary="t16"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>This was, I believe, by four dozen words—those which -he used to inform us of his intention of visiting America—the -longest letter that Uncle David had ever written -to any member of his family. It also conveyed more -information about himself than he had ever given since -the day he ran away to sea. Of course we cabled the -old gentleman that we should be delighted to see him.</p> - -<p>And, late that spring, at some date at which he could -not possibly have been expected to arrive, he turned up -at our house.</p> - -<p>Of course we had talked a great deal about him, and -wondered what manner of a man we should find him. -Between us, my wife and I had got an idea of his personal -appearance which I despair of conveying in words. -Vaguely, I should say that we had pictured him as -something mid-way between an abnormally tall Chinese -mandarin and a benevolent Quaker. What we found -when we got home and were told that our uncle from -India was awaiting us, was a shrunken and bent old -gentleman, dressed very cleanly and neatly in black -broadcloth, with a limp, many-pleated shirt-front of old-fashioned -style, and a plain black cravat. If he had -worn an old-time stock we could have forgiven him -the rest of the disappointment he cost us; but we had -to admit to ourselves that he had the most absolutely -commonplace appearance of all our acquaintance. In -fact, we soon discovered that, except for a taciturnity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span> -the like of which we had never encountered, our aromatic -uncle had positively not one picturesque characteristic -about him. Even his aroma was a disappointment. He -had it, but it was patchouly or some other cheap perfume -of the sort, wherewith he scented his handkerchief, -which was not even a bandanna, but a plain decent -white one of the unnecessarily large sort which clergymen -and old gentlemen affect.</p> - -<p>But, even if we could not get one single romantic association -to cluster about him, we very soon got to like -the old gentleman. It is true that at our first meeting, -after saying “How d’ye do” to me and receiving in impassive -placidity the kiss which my wife gave him, he -relapsed into dead silence, and continued to smoke a clay -pipe with a long stem and a short bowl. This instrument -he filled and re-filled every few minutes, and it -seemed to be his only employment. We plied him with -questions, of course, but to these he responded with a -wonderful brevity. In the course of an hour’s conversation -we got from him that he had had a pleasant voyage, -that it was not a long voyage, that it was not a short -voyage, that it was about the usual voyage, that he had -not been seasick, that he was glad to be back, and that -he was not surprised to find the country very much -changed. This last piece of information was repeated -in the form of a simple “No,” given in reply to the -direct question; and although it was given politely, and -evidently without the least unamiable intent, it made us -both feel very cheap. After all, it was absurd to ask a -man if he were surprised to find the country changed -after fifty or sixty years of absence. Unless he was an -idiot, and unable to read at that, he must have expected -something of the sort.</p> - -<p>But we grew to like him. He was thoroughly kind and -inoffensive in every way. He was entirely willing to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span> -talked to, but he did not care to talk. If it was absolutely -necessary, he <i>could</i> talk, and when he did talk he -always made me think of the “French-English Dictionary -for the Pocket,” compiled by the ingenious Mr. -John Bellows; for nobody except that extraordinary -Englishman could condense a greater amount of information -into a smaller number of words. During the -time of his stay with us I think I learned more about -China than any other man in the United States knew, -and I do not believe that the aggregate of his utterances -in the course of that six months could have -amounted to one hour’s continuous talk. Don’t ask -me for the information. I had no sort of use for it, and -I forgot it as soon as I could. I like Chinese bric-à-brac, -but my interest in China ends there.</p> - -<p>Yet it was not long before Uncle David slid into his -own place in the family circle. We soon found that -he did not expect us to entertain him. He wanted only -to sit quiet and smoke his pipe, to take his two daily -walks by himself, and to read the daily paper one afternoon -and Macaulay’s “History of England” the next. -He was never tired of sitting and gazing amiably but -silently at my wife; and, to head the list of his good -points, he would hold the baby by the hour, and for -some mysterious reason that baby, who required the exhibition -of seventeen toys in a minute to be reasonably -quiet in the arms of anybody else, would sit placidly in -Uncle David’s lap, teething away steadily on the old -gentleman’s watch-chain, as quiet and as solemn and as -aged in appearance as any one of the assorted gods of -porcelain and jade and ivory which our aromatic uncle -had sent us.</p> - -<table id="t10" summary="t10"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>The old house in Boston was a thing of the past. My -wife’s parents had been dead for some years, and no one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span> -remained of her immediate family except a certain Aunt -Lucretia, who had lived with them until shortly before -our marriage, when the breaking up of the family sent -her West to find a home with a distant relative in -California. We asked Uncle Davy if he had stopped -to see Aunt Lucretia as he came through California. -He said he had not. We asked him if he wanted to have -Aunt Lucretia invited on to pass a visit during his -stay with us. He answered that he did not. This did -not surprise us at all. You might think that a brother -might long to see a sister from whom he had been separated -nearly all of a long lifetime, but then you might -never have met Aunt Lucretia. My wife made the offer -only from a sense of duty; and only after a contest -with me which lasted three days and nights. Nothing -but loss of sleep during an exceptionally busy time at -my office induced me to consent to her project of inviting -Aunt Lucretia. When Uncle David put his veto -upon the proposition I felt that he might have taken -back all his rare and costly gifts, and I could still have -loved him.</p> - -<p>But Aunt Lucretia came, all the same. My wife is -afflicted with a New England conscience, originally of a -most uncomfortable character. It has been much modified -and ameliorated, until it is now considerably less -like a case of moral hives; but some wretched lingering -remnant of the original article induced her to write -to Aunt Lucretia that Uncle David was staying with us, -and of course Aunt Lucretia came without invitation -and without warning, dropping in on us with ruthless -unexpectedness.</p> - -<table id="t11" summary="t11"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>You may not think, from what I have said, that Aunt -Lucretia’s visit was a pleasant event. But it was, in -some respects; for it was not only the shortest visit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span> -she ever paid us, but it was the last with which she -ever honored us.</p> - -<p>She arrived one morning shortly after breakfast, just -as we were preparing to go out for a drive. She would -not have been Aunt Lucretia if she had not upset somebody’s -calculations at every turn of her existence. We -welcomed her with as much hypocrisy as we could summon -to our aid on short notice, and she was not more -than usually offensive, although she certainly did herself -full justice in telling us what she thought of us for not -inviting her as soon as we even heard of Uncle David’s -intention to return to his native land. She said she -ought to have been the first to embrace her beloved -brother—to whom I don’t believe she had given one -thought in more years than I have yet seen.</p> - -<p>Uncle David was dressing for his drive. His long -residence in tropical countries had rendered him sensitive -to the cold, and although it was a fine, clear September -day, with the thermometer at about sixty, he was -industriously building himself up with a series of overcoats. -On a really snappy day I have known him to get -into six of these garments; and when he entered the room -on this occasion I think he had on five, at least.</p> - -<p>My wife had heard his familiar foot on the stairs, -and Aunt Lucretia had risen up and braced herself -for an outburst of emotional affection. I could see that -it was going to be such a greeting as is given only once -in two or three centuries, and then on the stage. I -felt sure it would end in a swoon, and I was looking -around for a sofa-pillow for the old lady to fall upon, -for from what I knew of Aunt Lucretia I did not believe -she had ever swooned enough to be able to go through -the performance without danger to her aged person.</p> - -<p>But I need not have troubled myself. Uncle David -toddled into the room, gazed at Aunt Lucretia without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span> -a sign of recognition in his features, and toddled out -into the hall, where he got his hat and gloves, and went -out to the front lawn, where he always paced up and -down for a few minutes before taking a drive, in order -to stimulate his circulation. This was a surprise, but -Aunt Lucretia’s behavior was a greater surprise. The -moment she set eyes on Uncle David the theatrical fervor -went out of her entire system, literally in one instant; -and an absolutely natural, unaffected astonishment displayed -itself in her expressive and strongly marked -features. For almost a minute, until the sound of Uncle -David’s footsteps had died away, she stood absolutely -rigid; while my wife and I gazed at her spellbound.</p> - -<p>Then Aunt Lucretia pointed one long bony finger -at me, and hissed out with a true feminine disregard of -grammar:</p> - -<p>“That ain’t <i>him</i>!”</p> - -<table id="t12" summary="t12"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>“David,” said Aunt Lucretia, impressively, “had -only one arm. He lost the other in Madagascar.”</p> - -<p>I was too dumbfounded to take in the situation. I -remember thinking, in a vague sort of way, that Madagascar -was a curious sort of place to go for the purpose -of losing an arm; but I did not apprehend the full significance -of this disclosure until I heard my wife’s distressed -protestations that Aunt Lucretia must be mistaken; -there must be some horrible mistake somewhere.</p> - -<p>But Aunt Lucretia was not mistaken, and there was -no mistake anywhere. The arm had been lost, and lost -in Madagascar, and she could give the date of the occurrence, -and the circumstances attendant. Moreover, she -produced her evidence on the spot. It was an old -daguerreotype, taken in Calcutta a year or two after -the Madagascar episode. She had it in her hand-bag, -and she opened it with fingers trembling with rage and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span> -excitement. It showed two men standing side by side -near one of those three-foot Ionic pillars that were an -indispensable adjunct of photography in its early stages. -One of the men was large, broad-shouldered, and handsome—unmistakably -a handsome edition of Aunt Lucretia. -His empty left sleeve was pinned across his breast. -The other man was, making allowance for the difference -in years, no less unmistakably the Uncle David who was -at that moment walking to and fro under our windows. -For one instant my wife’s face lighted up.</p> - -<p>“Why, Aunt Lucretia,” she cried, “there he is! -That’s Uncle David, dear Uncle David.”</p> - -<p>“There he is <i>not</i>,” replied Aunt Lucretia. “That’s -his business partner—some common person that he -picked up on the ship he first sailed in—and, upon my -word, I do believe it’s that wretched creature outside. -And I’ll Uncle David <i>him</i>.”</p> - -<p>She marched out like a grenadier going to battle, and -we followed her meekly. There was, unfortunately, no -room for doubt in the case. It only needed a glance to -see that the man with one arm was a member of my -wife’s family, and that the man by his side, <i>our</i> Uncle -David, bore no resemblance to him in stature or features.</p> - -<p>Out on the lawn Aunt Lucretia sailed into the dear -old gentleman in the five overcoats with a volley of vituperation. -He did not interrupt her, but stood patiently -to the end, listening, with his hands behind his back; -and when, with her last gasp of available breath, Aunt -Lucretia demanded:</p> - -<p>“Who—who—who <i>are</i> you, you wretch?” he responded, -calmly and respectfully:</p> - -<p>“I’m Tommy Biggs, Miss Lucretia.”</p> - -<p>But just here my wife threw herself on his neck and -hugged him, and cried:</p> - -<p>“You’re my own dear Uncle David, <i>anyway</i>!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was a fortunate, a gloriously fortunate, inspiration. -Aunt Lucretia drew herself up in speechless -scorn, stretched forth her bony finger, tried to say something -and failed, and then she and her hand-bag went -out of my gates, never to come in again.</p> - -<table id="t13" summary="t13"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>When she had gone, our aromatic uncle—for we shall -always continue to think of him in that light, or rather -in that odor—looked thoughtfully after her till she disappeared, -and then made one of the few remarks I ever -knew him to volunteer.</p> - -<p>“Ain’t changed a mite in forty-seven years.”</p> - -<p>Up to this time I had been in a dazed condition of -mind. As I have said, my wife’s family was extinct -save for herself and Aunt Lucretia, and she remembered -so little of her parents, and she looked herself so -little like Aunt Lucretia, that it was small wonder that -neither of us remarked Uncle David’s unlikeness to the -family type. We knew that he did not resemble the -ideal we had formed of him; and that had been the only -consideration we had given to his looks. Now, it took -only a moment of reflection to recall the fact that all -the members of the family had been tall and shapely, -and that even between the ugly ones, like Aunt Lucretia, -and the pretty ones, like my wife, there was a -certain resemblance. Perhaps it was only the nose—the -nose is the brand in most families, I believe—but -whatever it was, I had only to see my wife and Aunt -Lucretia together to realize that the man who had -passed himself off as our Uncle David had not one -feature in common with either of them—nor with the -one-armed man in the daguerreotype. I was thinking -of this, and looking at my wife’s troubled face, when -our aromatic uncle touched me on the arm.</p> - -<p>“I’ll explain,” he said, “to you. <i>You</i> tell <i>her</i>.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span></p> - -<p>We dismissed the carriage, went into the house, and -sat down. The old gentleman was perfectly cool and -collected, but he lit his clay pipe, and reflected for a -good five minutes before he opened his mouth. Then he -began:</p> - -<p>“Finest man in the world, sir. Finest <i>boy</i> in the -world. Never anything like him. But, peculiarities. -Had ’em. Peculiarities. Wouldn’t write home. -Wouldn’t”—here he hesitated—“send things home. I -had to do it. Did it for him. Didn’t want his folks to -know. Other peculiarities. Never had any money. -Other peculiarities. Drank. Other peculiarities. Ladies. -Finest man in the world, all the same. Nobody like him. -Kept him right with his folks for thirty-one years. Then -died. Fever. Canton. Never been myself since. Kept -right on writing, all the same. Also”—here he hesitated -again—“sending things. Why? Don’t know. -Been a fool all my life. Never could do anything but -make money. No family, no friends. Only <i>him</i>. Ran -away to sea to look after him. Did look after him. -Thought maybe your wife would be some like him. Barring -peculiarities, she is. Getting old. Came here for -company. Meant no harm. Didn’t calculate on Miss -Lucretia.”</p> - -<p>Here he paused and smoked reflectively for a minute -or two.</p> - -<p>“Hot in the collar—Miss Lucretia. Haughty. Like -him, some. Just like she was forty-seven years ago. -Slapped my face one day when I was delivering meat, -because my jumper wasn’t clean. Ain’t changed a -mite.”</p> - -<p>This was the first condensed statement of the case -of our aromatic uncle. It was only in reply to patient, -and, I hope, loving, gentle, and considerate, questioning -that the whole story came out—at once pitiful and noble—of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span> -the poor little butcher-boy who ran away to sea to be -body-guard, servant, and friend to the splendid, showy, -selfish youth whom he worshipped; whose heartlessness -he cloaked for many a long year, who lived upon his -bounty, and who died in his arms, nursed with a tenderness -surpassing that of a brother. And as far as I -could find out, ingratitude and contempt had been his -only reward.</p> - -<table id="t14" summary="t14"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<p>I need not tell you that when I repeated all this to -my wife she ran to the old gentleman’s room and told -him all the things that I should not have known how to -say—that we cared for him; that we wanted him to -stay with us; that he was far, far more our uncle than -the brilliant, unprincipled scapegrace who had died -years before, dead for almost a lifetime to the family -who idolized him; and that we wanted him to stay with -us as long as kind heaven would let him. But it was -of no use. A change had come over our aromatic uncle -which we could both of us see, but could not understand. -The duplicity of which he had been guilty weighed on -his spirit. The next day he went out for his usual walk, -and he never came back. We used every means of search -and inquiry, but we never heard from him until we got -this letter from Foo-choo-li:</p> - -<table id="t15" summary="t15"> - - <tr> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - <td class="tdc">·</td> - </tr> - -</table> - -<div class="pbq"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Nephew and Niece</span>: The present is to inform you that -I am enjoying the Health that might be expected at my Age, and -in my condition of Body, which is to say bad. I ship you by -to-day’s steamer, Pacific Monarch, four dozen jars of ginger, and -two dozen ditto preserved oranges, to which I would have added -some other Comfits, which I purposed offering for your acceptance, -if it wore not that my Physician has forbidden me to leave my -Bed. In case of Fatal Results from this trying Condition, my -Will, duly attested, and made in your favor, will be placed in -your hands by Messrs. Smithson & Smithson, my Customs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span> -Brokers, who will also pay all charges on goods sent. The -Health of this place being unfavorably affected by the Weather, -you are unlikely to hear more from,</p> - -<p class="pr8">“Dear Nephew and Niece,</p> -<p class="pr4">“Your affectionate</p> -<p class="pr2">“<span class="smcap">Uncle</span>.”</p></div> - -<p class="p1">And we never did hear more—except for his will—from -Our Aromatic Uncle; but our whole house still -smells of his love.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">QUALITY</h2> - -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> - -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">John Galsworthy</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">Here the emphasis is upon character. The plot is -negligible—hardly exists. The setting is carefully -worked out because it is essential to the characterization. -By means of the shoemaker the author reveals at least -a part of his philosophy of life—that there is a subtle -relation between a man and his work. Each reacts on -the other. If a man recognizes the Soul of Things and -strives to give it proper expression, he becomes an -Artist and influences for good all who come into contact -with him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">QUALITY<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[22]</span></a></p> - -<p class="p2">I knew him from the days of my extreme youth, because -he made my father’s boots; inhabiting with his -elder brother two little shops let into one, in a small -by-street—now no more, but then most fashionably -placed in the West End.</p> - -<p>That tenement had a certain quiet distinction; there -was no sign upon its face that he made for any of the -Royal Family—merely his own German name of Gessler -Brothers; and in the window a few pairs of boots. I -remember that it always troubled me to account for -those unvarying boots in the window, for he made only -what was ordered, reaching nothing down, and it seemed -so inconceivable that what he made could ever have -failed to fit. Had he bought them to put there? That, -too, seemed inconceivable. He would never have tolerated -in his house leather on which he had not worked -himself. Besides, they were too beautiful—the pair of -pumps, so inexpressibly slim, the patent leathers with -cloth tops, making water come into one’s mouth, the -tall brown riding boots with marvellous sooty glow, as -if, though new, they had been worn a hundred years. -Those pairs could only have been made by one who -saw before him the Soul of Boot—so truly were they -prototypes incarnating the very spirit of all foot-gear. -These thoughts, of course, came to me later, though even -when I was promoted to him, at the age of perhaps fourteen, -some inkling haunted me of the dignity of himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span> -and brother. For to make boots—such boots as he made—seemed -to me then, and still seems to me, mysterious -and wonderful.</p> - -<p>I remember well my shy remark, one day, while -stretching out to him my youthful foot:</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?”</p> - -<p>And his answer, given with a sudden smile from out -of the sardonic redness of his beard: “Id is an Ardt!”</p> - -<p>Himself, he was a little as if made from leather, with -his yellow crinkly face, and crinkly reddish hair and -beard, and neat folds slanting down his checks to the -corners of his mouth, and his guttural and one-toned -voice; for leather is a sardonic substance, and stiff and -slow of purpose. And that was the character of his face, -save that his eyes, which were gray-blue, had in them -the simple gravity of one secretly possessed by the Ideal. -His elder brother was so very like him—though watery, -paler in every way, with a great industry—that sometimes -in early days I was not quite sure of him until -the interview was over. Then I knew that it was he, if -the words, “I will ask my brudder,” had not been -spoken; and that, if they had, it was his elder brother.</p> - -<p>When one grew old and wild and ran up bills, one -somehow never ran them up with Gessler Brothers. It -would not have seemed becoming to go in there and -stretch out one’s foot to that blue iron-spectacled glance, -owing him for more than—say—two pairs, just the comfortable -reassurance that one was still his client.</p> - -<p>For it was not possible to go to him very often—his -boots lasted terribly, having something beyond the temporary—some, -as it were, essence of boot stitched into -them.</p> - -<p>One went in, not as into most shops, in the mood of: -“Please serve me, and let me go!” but restfully, as -one enters a church; and, sitting on the single wooden<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span> -chair, waited—for there was never anybody there. Soon, -over the top edge of that sort of well—rather dark, and -smelling soothingly of leather—which formed the shop, -there would be seen his face, or that of his elder brother, -peering down. A guttural sound, and the tip-tap of bast -slippers beating the narrow wooden stairs, and he would -stand before one without coat, a little bent, in leather -apron, with sleeves turned back, blinking—as if awakened -from some dream of boots, or like an owl surprised -in daylight and annoyed at this interruption.</p> - -<p>And I would say: “How do you do, Mr. Gessler? -Could you make me a pair of Russia leather boots?”</p> - -<p>Without a word he would leave me, retiring whence -he came, or into the other portion of the shop, and I -would continue to rest in the wooden chair, inhaling the -incense of his trade. Soon he would come back, holding -in his thin, veined hand a piece of gold-brown leather. -With eyes fixed on it, he would remark: “What a -beaudiful biece!” When I, too, had admired it, he -would speak again. “When do you wand dem?” And -I would answer: “Oh! As soon as you conveniently -can.” And he would say: “To-morrow fordnighd?” -Or if he were his elder brother: “I will ask my -brudder!”</p> - -<p>Then I would murmur: “Thank you! Good-morning, -Mr. Gessler.” “Goot-morning!” he would reply, -still looking at the leather in his hand. And as I moved -to the door, I would hear the tip-tap of his bast slippers -restoring him, up the stairs, to his dream of boots. But -if it were some new kind of foot-gear that he had not -yet made me, then indeed he would observe ceremony—divesting -me of my boot and holding it long in his hand, -looking at it with eyes at once critical and loving, as if -recalling the glow with which he had created it, and rebuking -the way in which one had disorganized this masterpiece.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span> -Then, placing my foot on a piece of paper, he -would two or three times tickle the outer edges with a -pencil and pass his nervous fingers over my toes, feeling -himself into the heart of my requirements.</p> - -<p>I cannot forget that day on which I had occasion to -say to him: “Mr. Gessler, that last pair of town -walking-boots creaked, you know.”</p> - -<p>He looked at me for a time without replying, as if -expecting me to withdraw or qualify the statement, then -said:</p> - -<p>“Id shouldn’d ’a’ve greaked.”</p> - -<p>“It did, I’m afraid.”</p> - -<p>“You goddem wed before dey found demselves?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so.”</p> - -<p>At that he lowered his eyes, as if hunting for memory -of those boots, and I felt sorry I had mentioned this -grave thing.</p> - -<p>“Zend dem back!” he said; “I will look at dem.”</p> - -<p>A feeling of compassion for my creaking boots surged -up in me, so well could I imagine the sorrowful long -curiosity of regard which he would bend on them.</p> - -<p>“Zome boods,” he said slowly, “are bad from birdt. -If I can do noding wid dem, I dake dem off your bill.”</p> - -<p>Once (once only) I went absent-mindedly into his shop -in a pair of boots bought in an emergency at some large -firm’s. He took my order without showing me any -leather, and I could feel his eyes penetrating the inferior -integument of my foot. At last he said:</p> - -<p>“Dose are nod my boods.”</p> - -<p>The tone was not one of anger, nor of sorrow, not -even of contempt, but there was in it something quiet -that froze the blood. He put his hand down and pressed -a finger on the place where the left boot, endeavoring -to be fashionable, was not quite comfortable.</p> - -<p>“Id ’urds you dere,” he said. “Dose big virms ’a’ve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span> -no self-respect. Drash!” And then, as if something -had given way within him, he spoke long and bitterly. -It was the only time I ever heard him discuss the conditions -and hardships of his trade.</p> - -<p>“Dey get id all,” he said, “dey get id by adverdisement, -nod by work. Dey dake it away from us, who -lofe our boods. Id gomes to this—bresently I haf no -work. Every year id gets less—you will see.” And -looking at his lined face I saw things I had never noticed -before, bitter things and bitter struggle—and what a lot -of gray hairs there seemed suddenly in his red beard!</p> - -<p>As best I could, I explained the circumstances of the -purchase of those ill-omened boots. But his face and -voice made so deep impression that during the next -few minutes I ordered many pairs. Nemesis fell! They -lasted more terribly than ever. And I was not able -conscientiously to go to him for nearly two years.</p> - -<p>When at last I went I was surprised to find that outside -one of the two little windows of his shop another -name was painted, also that of a bootmaker—making, -of course, for the Royal Family. The old familiar boots, -no longer in dignified isolation, were huddled in the -single window. Inside, the now contracted well of the -one little shop was more scented and darker than ever. -And it was longer than usual, too, before a face peered -down, and the tip-tap of the bast slippers began. At -last he stood before me, and, gazing through those rusty -iron spectacles, said:</p> - -<p>“Mr.——, isn’d it?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! Mr. Gessler,” I stammered, “but your boots -are really <i>too</i> good, you know! See, these are quite -decent still!” And I stretched out to him my foot. He -looked at it.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “beople do nod wand good boods, id -seems.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span></p> - -<p>To get away from his reproachful eyes and voice I -hastily remarked: “What have you done to your -shop?”</p> - -<p>He answered quietly: “Id was too exbensif. Do you -wand some boods?”</p> - -<p>I ordered three pairs, though I had only wanted two, -and quickly left. I had, I do not know quite what feeling -of being part, in his mind, of a conspiracy against him; -or not perhaps so much against him as against his idea -of boot. One does not, I suppose, care to feel like that; -for it was again many months before my next visit to -his shop, paid, I remember, with the feeling: “Oh! -well, I can’t leave the old boy—so here goes! Perhaps -it’ll be his elder brother!”</p> - -<p>For his elder brother, I knew, had not character -enough to reproach me, even dumbly.</p> - -<p>And, to my relief, in the shop there did appear to be -his elder brother, handling a piece of leather.</p> - -<p>“Well, Mr. Gessler,” I said, “how are you?”</p> - -<p>He came close, and peered at me.</p> - -<p>“I am breddy well,” he said slowly; “but my elder -brudder is dead.”</p> - -<p>And I saw that it was indeed himself—but how aged -and wan! And never before had I heard him mention -his brother. Much shocked, I murmured: “Oh! I am -sorry!”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he answered, “he was a good man, he made -a good bood; but he is dead.” And he touched the top -of his head, where the hair had suddenly gone as thin -as it had been on that of his poor brother, to indicate, -I suppose, the cause of death. “He could nod ged -over losing de oder shop. Do you wand any boods?” -And he held up the leather in his hand: “Id’s a beaudiful -biece.”</p> - -<p>I ordered several pairs. It was very long before they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span> -came—but they were better than ever. One simply -could not wear them out. And soon after that I went -abroad.</p> - -<p>It was over a year before I was again in London. And -the first shop I went to was my old friend’s. I had left -a man of sixty, I came back to one of seventy-five, -pinched and worn and tremulous, who genuinely, this -time, did not at first know me.</p> - -<p>“Oh! Mr. Gessler,” I said, sick at heart; “how -splendid your boots are! See, I’ve been wearing this -pair nearly all the time I’ve been abroad; and they’re -not half worn out, are they?”</p> - -<p>He looked long at my boots—a pair of Russia leather, -and his face seemed to regain steadiness. Putting his -hand on my instep, he said:</p> - -<p>“Do dey vid you here? I ’a’d drouble wid dat bair, I -remember.”</p> - -<p>I assured him that they had fitted beautifully.</p> - -<p>“Do you wand any boods?” he said. “I can make -dem quickly; id is a slack dime.”</p> - -<p>I answered: “Please, please! I want boots all round—every -kind!”</p> - -<p>“I will make a vresh model. Your food must be -bigger.” And with utter slowness, he traced round my -foot, and felt my toes, only once looking up to say:</p> - -<p>“Did I dell you my brudder was dead?”</p> - -<p>To watch him was painful, so feeble had he grown; -I was glad to get away.</p> - -<p>I had given those boots up, when one evening they -came. Opening the parcel, I set the four pairs out in -a row. Then one by one I tried them on. There was -no doubt about it. In shape and fit, in finish and quality -of leather, they were the best he had ever made me. -And in the mouth of one of the town walking-boots I -found his bill. The amount was the same as usual, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[370]</a></span> -it gave me quite a shock. He had never before sent it -in till quarter day. I flew downstairs, and wrote a -check, and posted it at once with my own hand.</p> - -<p>A week later, passing the little street, I thought I -would go in and tell him how splendidly the new boots -fitted. But when I came to where his shop had been, his -name was gone. Still there, in the window, were the -slim pumps, the patent leathers with cloth tops, the -sooty riding boots.</p> - -<p>I went in, very much disturbed. In the two little -shops—again made into one—was a young man with an -English face.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Gessler in?” I said.</p> - -<p>He gave me a strange, ingratiating look.</p> - -<p>“No, sir,” he said, “no. But we can attend to anything -with pleasure. We’ve taken the shop over. -You’ve seen our name, no doubt, next door. We make -for some very good people.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” I said; “but Mr. Gessler?”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” he answered; “dead.”</p> - -<p>Dead! But I only received these boots from him -last Wednesday week.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” he said; “a shockin’ go. Poor old man -starved ‘imself.”</p> - -<p>“Good God!”</p> - -<p>“Slow starvation, the doctor called it! You see he -went to work in such a way! Would keep the shop -on; wouldn’t have a soul touch his boots except himself. -When he got an order, it took him such a time. -People won’t wait. He lost everybody. And there -he’d sit, goin’ on and on—I will say that for him—not -a man in London made a better boot! But look at the -competition! He never advertised! Would ’a’ve the -best leather, too, and do it all ‘imself. Well, there it is. -What could you expect with his ideas?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[371]</a></span></p> - -<p>“But starvation——!”</p> - -<p>“That may be a bit flowery, as the sayin’ is—but I -know myself he was sittin’ over his boots day and night, -to the very last. You see I used to watch him. Never -gave ‘imself time to eat; never had a penny in the -house. All went in rent and leather. How he lived -so long I don’t know. He regular let his fire go out. -He was a character. But he made good boots.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said, “he made good boots.”</p> - -<p>And I turned and went out quickly, for I did not -want that youth to know that I could hardly see.</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[372]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[373]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT</h2> - -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> - -<p class="pc1 large"><span class="smcap">Edith Wharton</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[374]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">This is a mystery plot in which the supernatural furnishes -the interest. In dealing with the supernatural -Mrs. Wharton does not allow it to become horrible or -grotesque. She secures plausibility by having for its -leading characters practical business men—not a woman, -hysterical or otherwise, really appears—and by placing -them in a perfectly conventional setting. The apparition -is not accompanied by blood stains, shroud, or uncanny -noises. Sometimes the writer of the supernatural -feels that he must explain his mystery by material agencies. -The effect is to disappoint the reader who has -yielded himself to the conditions imposed by the author, -and is willing, for the time at least, to believe in ghosts. -Mrs. Wharton makes no such mistake. She does not -spoil the effect by commonplace explanation.</p> - -<p>In characterization Mrs. Wharton reveals the power -not only to analyze subtly temperaments and motives, -but also to describe vividly with a few words. This -phrasal power is illustrated when she says of Faxon that -he “had a healthy face, but dying hands,” and of -Lavington that “his pinched smile was screwed to his -blank face like a gas-light to a white-washed wall.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[375]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[23]</span></a></p> - -<h3>I</h3> - -<p class="p2">It was clear that the sleigh from Weymore had not -come; and the shivering young traveller from Boston, -who had so confidently counted on jumping into it when -he left the train at Northridge Junction, found himself -standing alone on the open platform, exposed to the full -assault of night-fall and winter.</p> - -<p>The blast that swept him came off New Hampshire -snow-fields and ice-hung forests. It seemed to have -traversed interminable leagues of frozen silence, filling -them with the same cold roar and sharpening its edge -against the same bitter black-and-white landscape. -Dark, searching, and sword-like, it alternately muffled -and harried its victim, like a bull-fighter now whirling -his cloak and now planting his darts. This analogy -brought home to the young man the fact that he himself -had no cloak, and that the overcoat in which he -had faced the relatively temperate airs of Boston seemed -no thicker than a sheet of paper on the bleak heights -of Northridge. George Faxon said to himself that the -place was uncommonly well-named. It clung to an exposed -ledge over the valley from which the train had -lifted him, and the wind combed it with teeth of steel -that he seemed actually to hear scraping against the -wooden sides of the station. Other building there was -none: the village lay far down the road, and thither—since -the Weymore sleigh had not come—Faxon saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[376]</a></span> -himself under the immediate necessity of plodding -through several feet of snow.</p> - -<p>He understood well enough what had happened at -Weymore: his hostess had forgotten that he was coming. -Young as Faxon was, this sad lucidity of soul had -been acquired as the result of long experience, and he -knew that the visitors who can least afford to hire a -carriage are almost always those whom their hosts forget -to send for. Yet to say Mrs. Culme had forgotten -him was perhaps too crude a way of putting it. Similar -incidents led him to think that she had probably told -her maid to tell the butler to telephone the coachman to -tell one of the grooms (if no one else needed him) to -drive over to Northridge to fetch the new secretary; but -on a night like this what groom who respected his rights -would fail to forget the order?</p> - -<p>Faxon’s obvious course was to struggle through the -drifts to the village, and there rout out a sleigh to convey -him to Weymore; but what if, on his arrival at Mrs. -Culme’s, no one remembered to ask him what this devotion -to duty had cost? That, again, was one of the contingencies -he had expensively learned to look out for, -and the perspicacity so acquired told him it would be -cheaper to spend the night at the Northridge inn, and -advise Mrs. Culme of his presence there by telephone. -He had reached this decision, and was about to entrust -his luggage to a vague man with a lantern who seemed -to have some loose connection with the railway company, -when his hopes were raised by the sound of sleigh-bells.</p> - -<p>Two vehicles were just dashing up to the station, and -from the foremost there sprang a young man swathed -in furs.</p> - -<p>“Weymore?—No, these are not the Weymore -sleighs.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[377]</a></span></p> - -<p>The voice was that of the youth who had jumped to -the platform—a voice so agreeable that, in spite of the -words, it fell reassuringly on Faxon’s ears. At the -same moment the wandering station-lantern, casting a -transient light on the speaker, showed his features to be -in the pleasantest harmony with his voice. He was -very fair and very young—hardly in the twenties, Faxon -thought—but his face, though full of a morning freshness, -was a trifle too thin and fine-drawn, as though -a vivid spirit contended in him with a strain of physical -weakness. Faxon was perhaps the quicker to notice -such delicacies of balance because his own temperament -hung on lightly vibrating nerves, which yet, as he believed, -would never quite swing him beyond the arc of a -normal sensibility.</p> - -<p>“You expected a sleigh from Weymore?” the youth -continued, standing beside Faxon like a slender column -of fur.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Culme’s secretary explained his difficulty, and -the new-comer brushed it aside with a contemptuous -“Oh, <i>Mrs. Culme</i>!” that carried both speakers a long -way toward reciprocal understanding.</p> - -<p>“But then you must be——” The youth broke off -with a smile of interrogation.</p> - -<p>“The new secretary? Yes. But apparently there -are no notes to be answered this evening.” Faxon’s -laugh deepened the sense of solidarity which had so -promptly established itself between the two.</p> - -<p>The new-comer laughed also. “Mrs. Culme,” he explained, -“was lunching at my uncle’s to-day, and she -said you were due this evening. But seven hours is a -long time for Mrs. Culme to remember anything.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Faxon philosophically, “I suppose -that’s one of the reasons why she needs a secretary. And -I’ve always the inn at Northridge,” he concluded.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[378]</a></span></p> - -<p>The youth laughed again. He was at the age when -predicaments are food for gaiety.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you haven’t, though! It burned down last -week.”</p> - -<p>“The deuce it did!” said Faxon; but the humor -of the situation struck him also before its inconvenience. -His life, for years past, had been mainly a succession -of resigned adaptations, and he had learned, before -dealing practically with his embarrassments, to extract -from most of them a small tribute of amusement.</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, there’s sure to be somebody in the place -who can put me up.”</p> - -<p>“No one <i>you</i> could put up with. Besides, Northridge -is three miles off, and our place—in the opposite -direction—is a little nearer.” Through the darkness, -Faxon saw his friend sketch a gesture of self-introduction. -“My name’s Frank Rainer, and I’m staying with -my uncle at Overdale. I’ve driven over to meet two -friends of his, who are due in a few minutes from New -York. If you don’t mind waiting till they arrive I’m -sure Overdale can do you better than Northridge. -We’re only down from town for a few days, but the -house is always ready for a lot of people.”</p> - -<p>“But your uncle——?” Faxon could only object, -with the odd sense, through his embarrassment, that -it would be magically dispelled by his invisible friend’s -next words.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my uncle—you’ll see! I answer for <i>him</i>! I -dare say you’ve heard of him—John Lavington?”</p> - -<p>John Lavington! There was a certain irony in asking -if one had heard of John Lavington! Even from -a post of observation as obscure as that of Mrs. Culme’s -secretary, the rumor of John Lavington’s money, of his -pictures, his politics, his charities and his hospitality, -was as difficult to escape as the roar of a cataract in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[379]</a></span> -mountain solitude. It might almost have been said that -the one place in which one would not have expected -to come upon him was in just such a solitude as now -surrounded the speakers—at least in this deepest hour -of its desertedness. But it was just like Lavington’s -brilliant ubiquity to put one in the wrong even there.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of your uncle.”</p> - -<p>“Then you <i>will</i> come, won’t you? We’ve only five -minutes to wait,” young Rainer urged, in the tone that -dispels scruples by ignoring them; and Faxon found -himself accepting the invitation as simply as it was offered.</p> - -<p>A delay in the arrival of the New York train lengthened -their five minutes to fifteen; and as they paced -the icy platform Faxon began to see why it had seemed -the most natural thing in the world to accede to his -new acquaintance’s suggestion. It was because Frank -Rainer was one of the privileged beings who simplify -human intercourse by the atmosphere of confidence and -good humor they diffuse. He produced this effect, -Faxon noted, by the exercise of no gift save his youth, -of no art save his sincerity; but these qualities were -revealed in a smile of such appealing sweetness that -Faxon felt, as never before, what Nature can achieve -when she deigns to match the face with the mind.</p> - -<p>He learned that the young man was the ward, and -only nephew, of John Lavington, with whom he had -made his home since the death of his mother, the great -man’s sister. Mr. Lavington, Rainer said, had been “a -regular brick” to him—“But then he is to every one. -you know”—and the young fellow’s situation seemed, -in fact to be perfectly in keeping with his person. Apparently -the only shade that had ever rested on him -was cast by the physical weakness which Faxon had -already detected. Young Rainer had been threatened<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[380]</a></span> -with a disease of the lungs which, according to the -highest authorities, made banishment to Arizona or New -Mexico inevitable. “But luckily my uncle didn’t pack -me off, as most people would have done, without getting -another opinion. Whose? Oh, an awfully clever chap, -a young doctor with a lot of new ideas, who simply -laughed at my being sent away, and said I’d do perfectly -well in New York if I didn’t dine out too much, -and if I dashed off occasionally to Northridge for a little -fresh air. So it’s really my uncle’s doing that I’m not -in exile—and I feel no end better since the new chap -told me I needn’t bother.” Young Rainer went on to -confess that he was extremely fond of dining out, -dancing, and other urban distractions; and Faxon, listening -to him, concluded that the physician who had -refused to cut him off altogether from these pleasures -was probably a better psychologist than his seniors.</p> - -<p>“All the same you ought to be careful, you know.” -The sense of elder-brotherly concern that forced the -words from Faxon made him, as he spoke, slip his arm -impulsively through Frank Rainer’s.</p> - -<p>The latter met the movement with a responsive pressure. -“Oh, I <i>am</i>: awfully, awfully. And then my -uncle has such an eye on me!”</p> - -<p>“But if your uncle has such an eye on you, what -does he say to your swallowing knives out here in -this Siberian wild?”</p> - -<p>Rainer raised his fur collar with a careless gesture. -“It’s not that that does it—the cold’s good for me.”</p> - -<p>“And it’s not the dinners and dances? What is it, -then?” Faxon good-humoredly insisted; to which his -companion answered with a laugh: “Well, my uncle -says it’s being bored; and I rather think he’s right!”</p> - -<p>His laugh ended in a spasm of coughing and a struggle -for breath that made Faxon, still holding his arm,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[381]</a></span> -guide him hastily into the shelter of the fireless waiting-room.</p> - -<p>Young Rainer had dropped down on the bench against -the wall and pulled off one of his fur gloves to grope -for a handkerchief. He tossed aside his cap and drew -the handkerchief across his forehead, which was intensely -white, and beaded with moisture, though his face -retained a healthy glow. But Faxon’s gaze remained -fastened to the hand he had uncovered: it was so long, -so colorless, so wasted, so much older than the brow he -passed it over.</p> - -<p>“It’s queer—a healthy face but dying hands,” the -secretary mused; he somehow wished young Rainer had -kept on his glove.</p> - -<p>The whistle of the express drew the young men -to their feet, and the next moment two heavily-furred -gentlemen had descended to the platform and were -breasting the rigor of the night. Frank Rainer introduced -them as Mr. Grisben and Mr. Balch, and Faxon, -while their luggage was being lifted into the second -sleigh, discerned them, by the roving lantern-gleam, to -be an elderly gray-headed pair, apparently of the average -prosperous business cut.</p> - -<p>They saluted their host’s nephew with friendly familiarity, -and Mr. Grisben, who seemed the spokesman of -the two, ended his greeting with a genial—“and many -many more of them, dear boy!” which suggested to -Faxon that their arrival coincided with an anniversary. -But he could not press the inquiry, for the seat allotted -him was at the coachman’s side, while Frank Rainer -joined his uncle’s guests inside the sleigh.</p> - -<p>A swift flight (behind such horses as one could be -sure of John Lavington’s having) brought them to tall -gate-posts, an illuminated lodge, and an avenue on -which the snow had been levelled to the smoothness of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[382]</a></span> -marble. At the end of the avenue the long house -loomed through trees, its principal bulk dark but one -wing sending out a ray of welcome; and the next moment -Faxon was receiving a violent impression of -warmth and light, of hot-house plants, hurrying servants, -a vast spectacular oak hall like a stage-setting, -and, in its unreal middle distance, a small concise figure, -correctly dressed, conventionally featured, and utterly -unlike his rather florid conception of the great John -Lavington.</p> - -<p>The shock of the contrast remained with him through -his hurried dressing in the large impersonally luxurious -bedroom to which he had been shown. “I don’t see -where he comes in,” was the only way he could put it, -so difficult was it to fit the exuberance of Lavington’s -public personality into his host’s contracted frame and -manner. Mr. Lavington, to whom Faxon’s case had -been rapidly explained by young Rainer, had welcomed -him with a sort of dry and stilted cordiality that exactly -matched his narrow face, his stiff hand, the whiff of -scent on his evening handkerchief. “Make yourself at -home—at home!” he had repeated, in a tone that suggested, -on his own part, a complete inability to perform -the feat he urged on his visitor. “Any friend of -Frank’s ... delighted ... make yourself thoroughly -at home!”</p> - -<h3>II</h3> - -<p>In spite of the balmy temperature and complicated -conveniences of Faxon’s bedroom, the injunction was -not easy to obey. It was wonderful luck to have found -a night’s shelter under the opulent roof of Overdale, and -he tasted the physical satisfaction to the full. But the -place, for all its ingenuities of comfort, was oddly cold -and unwelcoming. He couldn’t have said why, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[383]</a></span> -could only suppose that Mr. Lavington’s intense personality—intensely -negative, but intense all the same—must, -in some occult way, have penetrated every corner -of his dwelling. Perhaps, though, it was merely that -Faxon himself was tired and hungry, more deeply chilled -than he had known till he came in from the cold, -and unutterably sick of all strange houses, and of -the prospect of perpetually treading other people’s -stairs.</p> - -<p>“I hope you’re not famished?” Rainer’s slim figure -was in the doorway. “My uncle has a little business to -attend to with Mr. Grisben, and we don’t dine for half -an hour. Shall I fetch you, or can you find your way -down? Come straight to the dining-room—the second -door on the left of the long gallery.”</p> - -<p>He disappeared, leaving a ray of warmth behind him, -and Faxon, relieved, lit a cigarette and sat down by the -fire.</p> - -<p>Looking about with less haste, he was struck by a -detail that had escaped him. The room was full of -flowers—a mere “bachelor’s room,” in the wing of a -house opened only for a few days, in the dead middle of -a New Hampshire winter! Flowers were everywhere, -not in senseless profusion, but placed with the same -conscious art he had remarked in the grouping of the -blossoming shrubs that filled the hall. A vase of arums -stood on the writing-table, a cluster of strange-hued -carnations on the stand at his elbow, and from wide -bowls of glass and porcelain clumps of freesia-bulbs diffused -their melting fragrance. The fact implied acres -of glass—but that was the least interesting part of it. -The flowers themselves, their quality, selection and arrangement, -attested on some one’s part—and on whose -but John Lavington’s?—a solicitous and sensitive passion -for that particular embodiment of beauty. Well,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[384]</a></span> -it simply made the man, as he had appeared to Faxon, -all the harder to understand!</p> - -<p>The half-hour elapsed, and Faxon, rejoicing at the -near prospect of food, set out to make his way to the -dining-room. He had not noticed the direction he had -followed in going to his room, and was puzzled, when -he left it, to find that two staircases, of apparently equal -importance, invited him. He chose the one to his right, -and reached, at its foot, a long gallery such as Rainer -had described. The gallery was empty, the doors down -its length were closed; but Rainer had said: “The second -to the left,” and Faxon, after pausing for some -chance enlightenment which did not come, laid his hand -on the second knob to the left.</p> - -<p>The room he entered was square, with dusky picture-hung -walls. In its centre, about a table lit by veiled -lamps, he fancied Mr. Lavington and his guests to be -already seated at dinner; then he perceived that the -table was covered not with viands but with papers, and -that he had blundered into what seemed to be his host’s -study. As he paused in the irresolution of embarrassment -Frank Rainer looked up.</p> - -<p>“Oh, here’s Mr. Faxon. Why not ask him——?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Lavington, from the end of the table, reflected -his nephew’s smile in a glance of impartial benevolence.</p> - -<p>“Certainly. Come in, Mr. Faxon. If you won’t -think it a liberty——”</p> - -<p>Mr. Grisben, who sat opposite his host, turned his -solid head toward the door. “Of course Mr. Faxon’s -an American citizen?”</p> - -<p>Frank Rainer laughed. “That’s all right!... Oh, -no, not one of your pin-pointed pens, Uncle Jack! -Haven’t you got a quill somewhere?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Balch, who spoke slowly and as if reluctantly, in a -muffled voice of which there seemed to be very little left,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[385]</a></span> -raised his hand to say: “One moment: you acknowledge -this to be——?”</p> - -<p>“My last will and testament?” Rainer’s laugh -redoubled. “Well, I won’t answer for the ’last.’ It’s -the first one, anyway.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a mere formula,” Mr. Balch explained.</p> - -<p>“Well, here goes.” Rainer dipped his quill in the -inkstand his uncle had pushed in his direction, and -dashed a gallant signature across the document.</p> - -<p>Faxon, understanding what was expected of him, and -conjecturing that the young man was signing his will -on the attainment of his majority, had placed himself -behind Mr. Grisben, and stood awaiting his turn to affix -his name to the instrument. Rainer, having signed, was -about to push the paper across the table to Mr. Balch; -but the latter, again raising his hand, said in his sad -imprisoned voice: “The seal——?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, does there have to be a seal?”</p> - -<p>Faxon, looking over Mr. Grisben at John Lavington, -saw a faint frown between his impassive eyes. “Really, -Frank!” He seemed, Faxon thought, slightly irritated -by his nephew’s frivolity.</p> - -<p>“Who’s got a seal?” Frank Rainer continued, glancing -about the table. “There doesn’t seem to be one -here.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Grisben interposed. “A wafer will do. Lavington, -you have a wafer?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Lavington had recovered his serenity. “There -must be some in one of the drawers. But I’m ashamed -to say I don’t know where my secretary keeps these -things. He ought, of course, to have seen to it that a -wafer was sent with the document.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hang it——” Frank Rainer pushed the paper -aside: “It’s the hand of God—and I’m hungry as a -wolf. Let’s dine first, Uncle Jack.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[386]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I think I’ve a seal upstairs,” said Faxon suddenly.</p> - -<p>Mr. Lavington sent him a barely perceptible smile. -“So sorry to give you the trouble——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I say, don’t send him after it now. Let’s -wait till after dinner!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Lavington continued to smile on his guest, and -the latter, as if under the faint coercion of the smile, -turned from the room and ran upstairs. Having taken -the seal from his writing-case he came down again, and -once more opened the door of the study. No one was -speaking when he entered—they were evidently awaiting -his return with the mute impatience of hunger, and he -put the seal in Rainer’s reach, and stood watching while -Mr. Grisben struck a match and held it to one of the -candles flanking the inkstand. As the wax descended on -the paper Faxon remarked again the singular emaciation, -the premature physical weariness, of the hand that, -held it: he wondered if Mr. Lavington had ever noticed -his nephew’s hand, and if it were not poignantly visible -to him now.</p> - -<p>With this thought in his mind, Faxon raised his eyes -to look at Mr. Lavington. The great man’s gaze rested -on Frank Rainer with an expression of untroubled -benevolence; and at the same instant Faxon’s attention -was attracted by the presence in the room of another -person, who must have joined the group while he was -upstairs searching for the seal. The new-comer was a -man of about Mr. Lavington’s age and figure, who stood -directly behind his chair, and who, at the moment when -Faxon first saw him, was gazing at young Rainer with -an equal intensity of attention. The likeness between -the two men—perhaps increased by the fact that the -hooded lamps on the table left the figure behind the -chair in shadow—struck Faxon the more because of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[387]</a></span> -the strange contrast in their expression. John Lavington, -during his nephew’s blundering attempt to drop -the wax and apply the seal, continued to fasten on him -a look of half-amused affection; while the man behind -the chair, so oddly reduplicating the lines of his features -and figure, turned on the boy a face of pale hostility.</p> - -<p>The impression was so startling Faxon forgot what -was going on about him. He was just dimly aware of -young Rainer’s exclaiming: “Your turn, Mr. Grisben!” -of Mr. Grisben’s ceremoniously protesting: -“No—no; Mr. Faxon first,” and of the pen’s being -thereupon transferred to his own hand. He received it -with a deadly sense of being unable to move, or even to -understand what was expected of him, till he became -conscious of Mr. Grisben’s paternally pointing out the -precise spot on which he was to leave his autograph. -The effort to fix his attention and steady his hand prolonged -the process of signing, and when he stood up—a -strange weight of fatigue on all his limbs—the figure -behind Mr. Lavington’s chair was gone.</p> - -<p>Faxon felt an immediate sense of relief. It was puzzling -that the man’s exit should have been so rapid -and noiseless, but the door behind Mr. Lavington was -screened by a tapestry hanging, and Faxon concluded -that the unknown looker-on had merely had to raise it -to pass out. At any rate, he was gone, and with his -withdrawal the strange weight was lifted. Young Rainer -was lighting a cigarette, Mr. Balch meticulously inscribing -his name at the foot of the document, Mr. Lavington—his -eyes no longer on his nephew—examining a -strange white-winged orchid in the vase at his elbow. -Everything suddenly seemed to have grown natural and -simple again, and Faxon found himself responding with -a smile to the affable gesture with which his host declared: -“And now, Mr. Faxon, we’ll dine.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[388]</a></span></p> - -<h3>III</h3> - -<p>“I wonder how I blundered into the wrong room -just now; I thought you told me to take the second -door to the left,” Faxon said to Frank Rainer as they -followed the older men down the gallery.</p> - -<p>“So I did; but I probably forgot to tell you which -staircase to take. Coming from your bedroom, I ought -to have said the fourth door to the right. It’s a puzzling -house, because my uncle keeps adding to it from year -to year. He built this room last summer for his modern -pictures.”</p> - -<p>Young Rainer, pausing to open another door, touched -an electric button which sent a circle of light about the -walls of a long room hung with canvases of the French -impressionist school.</p> - -<p>Faxon advanced, attracted by a shimmering Monet, -but Rainer laid a hand on his arm.</p> - -<p>“He bought that last week for a thundering price. -But come along—I’ll show you all this after dinner. Or -<i>he</i> will rather—he loves it.”</p> - -<p>“Does he really love things?”</p> - -<p>Rainer stared, clearly perplexed at the question. -“Rather! Flowers and pictures especially! Haven’t -you noticed the flowers? I suppose you think his manner’s -cold; it seems so at first; but he’s really awfully -keen about things.”</p> - -<p>Faxon looked quickly at the speaker. “Has your -uncle a brother?”</p> - -<p>“Brother? No—never had. He and my mother were -the only ones.”</p> - -<p>“Or any relation who—who looks like him? Who -might be mistaken for him?”</p> - -<p>“Not that I ever heard of. Does he remind you of -some one?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[389]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“That’s queer. We’ll ask him if he’s got a double. -Come on!”</p> - -<p>But another picture had arrested Faxon, and some -minutes elapsed before he and his young host reached -the dining-room. It was a large room, with the same -conventionally handsome furniture and delicately -grouped flowers; and Faxon’s first glance showed him -that only three men were seated about the dining-table. -The man who had stood behind Mr. Lavington’s chair -was not present, and no seat awaited him.</p> - -<p>When the young men entered, Mr. Grisben was speaking, -and his host, who faced the door, sat looking down -at his untouched soup-plate and turning the spoon -about in his small dry hand.</p> - -<p>“It’s pretty late to call them rumors—they were devilish -close to facts when we left town this morning,” Mr. -Grisben was saying, with an unexpected incisiveness of -tone.</p> - -<p>Mr. Lavington laid down his spoon and smiled interrogatively. -“Oh, facts—what <i>are</i> facts? Just the way -a thing happens to look at a given minute.”</p> - -<p>“You haven’t heard anything from town?” Mr. -Grisben persisted.</p> - -<p>“Not a syllable. So you see ... Balch, a little more -of that <i>petite marmite</i>. Mr. Faxon ... between Frank -and Mr. Grisben, please.”</p> - -<p>The dinner progressed through a series of complicated -courses, ceremoniously dispensed by a stout butler attended -by three tall footmen, and it was evident that -Mr. Lavington took a somewhat puerile satisfaction in -the pageant. That, Faxon reflected, was probably the -joint in his armor—that and the flowers. He had -changed the subject—not abruptly but firmly—when the -young men entered, but Faxon perceived that it still<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[390]</a></span> -possessed the thoughts of the two elderly visitors, and -Mr. Balch presently observed, in a voice that seemed to -come from the last survivor down a mine-shaft: “If -it <i>does</i> come, it will be the biggest crash since ’93.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Lavington looked bored but polite. “Wall Street -can stand crashes better than it could then. It’s got a -robuster constitution.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but——”</p> - -<p>“Speaking of constitutions,” Mr. Grisben intervened: -“Frank, are you taking care of yourself?”</p> - -<p>A flush rose to young Rainer’s cheeks.</p> - -<p>“Why, of course! Isn’t that what I’m here for?”</p> - -<p>“You’re here about three days in the month, aren’t -you? And the rest of the time it’s crowded restaurants -and hot ballrooms in town. I thought you were to be -shipped off to New Mexico?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ve got a new man who says that’s rot.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you don’t look as if your new man were right,” -said Mr. Grisben bluntly.</p> - -<p>Faxon saw the lad’s color fade, and the rings of -shadow deepen under his gay eyes. At the same moment -his uncle turned to him with a renewed intensity of -attention. There was such solicitude in Mr. Lavington’s -gaze that it seemed almost to fling a tangible shield between -his nephew and Mr. Grisben’s tactless scrutiny.</p> - -<p>“We think Frank’s a good deal better,” he began; -“this new doctor——”</p> - -<p>The butler, coming up, bent discreetly to whisper a -word in his ear, and the communication caused a sudden -change in Mr. Lavington’s expression. His face -was naturally so colorless that it seemed not so much -to pale as to fade, to dwindle and recede into something -blurred and blotted-out. He half rose, sat down -again and sent a rigid smile about the table.</p> - -<p>“Will you excuse me? The telephone. Peters, go<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[391]</a></span> -on with the dinner.” With small precise steps he walked -out of the door which one of the footmen had hastened -to throw open.</p> - -<p>A momentary silence fell on the group; then Mr. -Grisben once more addressed himself to Rainer. “You -ought to have gone, my boy; you ought to have gone.”</p> - -<p>The anxious look returned to the youth’s eyes. “My -uncle doesn’t think so, really.”</p> - -<p>“You’re not a baby, to be always governed on your -uncle’s opinion. You came of age to-day, didn’t you? -Your uncle spoils you ... that’s what’s the matter....”</p> - -<p>The thrust evidently went home, for Rainer laughed -and looked down with a slight accession of color.</p> - -<p>“But the doctor——”</p> - -<p>“Use your common sense, Frank! You had to try -twenty doctors to find one to tell you what you wanted -to be told.”</p> - -<p>A look of apprehension overshadowed Rainer’s -gaiety. “Oh, come—I say!... What would <i>you</i> -do?” he stammered.</p> - -<p>“Pack up and jump on the first train.” Mr. Grisben -leaned forward and laid a firm hand on the young man’s -arm. “Look here: my nephew Jim Grisben is out -there ranching on a big scale. He’ll take you in and be -glad to have you. You say your new doctor thinks it -won’t do you any good; but he doesn’t pretend to say -it will do you harm, does he? Well, then—give it a trial. -It’ll take you out of hot theatres and night restaurants, -anyhow.... And all the rest of it.... Eh, -Balch?”</p> - -<p>“Go!” said Mr. Balch hollowly. “Go <i>at once</i>,” he -added, as if a closer look at the youth’s face had impressed -on him the need of backing up his friend.</p> - -<p>Young Rainer had turned ashy-pale. He tried to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[392]</a></span> -stiffen his mouth into a smile. “Do I look as bad as -all that?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Grisben was helping himself to terrapin. “You -look like the day after an earthquake,” he said concisely.</p> - -<p>The terrapin had encircled the table, and been deliberately -enjoyed by Mr. Lavington’s three visitors -(Rainer, Faxon noticed, left his plate untouched) before -the door was thrown open to re-admit their host.</p> - -<p>Mr. Lavington advanced with an air of recovered -composure. He seated himself, picked up his napkin, -and consulted the gold-monogrammed menu. “No, -don’t bring back the filet.... Some terrapin; -yes....” He looked affably about the table. “Sorry -to have deserted you, but the storm has played the -deuce with the wires, and I had to wait a long time -before I could get a good connection. It must be blowing -up for a blizzard.”</p> - -<p>“Uncle Jack,” young Rainer broke out, “Mr. Grisben’s -been lecturing me.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Lavington was helping himself to terrapin. “Ah—what -about?”</p> - -<p>“He thinks I ought to have given New Mexico a -show.”</p> - -<p>“I want him to go straight out to my nephew at -Santa Paz and stay there till his next birthday.” Mr. -Lavington signed to the butler to hand the terrapin to -Mr. Grisben, who, as he took a second helping, addressed -himself again to Rainer. “Jim’s in New York now, -and going back the day after to-morrow in Olyphant’s -private car. I’ll ask Olyphant to squeeze you in if -you’ll go. And when you’ve been out there a week or -two, in the saddle all day and sleeping nine hours a -night, I suspect you won’t think much of the doctor -who prescribed New York.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[393]</a></span></p> - -<p>Faxon spoke up, he knew not why. “I was out -there once: it’s a splendid life. I saw a fellow—oh, a -really <i>bad</i> case—who’d been simply made over by it.”</p> - -<p>“It <i>does</i> sound jolly,” Rainer laughed, a sudden -eagerness of anticipation in his tone.</p> - -<p>His uncle looked at him gently. “Perhaps Grisben’s -right. It’s an opportunity——”</p> - -<p>Faxon looked up with a start: the figure dimly perceived -in the study was now more visibly and tangibly -planted behind Mr. Lavington’s chair.</p> - -<p>“That’s right, Frank: you see your uncle approves. -And the trip out there with Olyphant isn’t a thing to -be missed. So drop a few dozen dinners and be at the -Grand Central the day after to-morrow at five.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Grisben’s pleasant gray eye sought corroboration -of his host, and Faxon, in a cold anguish of suspense, -continued to watch him as he turned his glance on -Mr. Lavington. One could not look at Lavington without -seeing the presence at his back, and it was clear -that, the next minute, some change in Mr. Grisben’s expression -must give his watcher a clue.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Grisben’s expression did not change: the -gaze he fixed on his host remained unperturbed, and -the clue he gave was the startling one of not seeming -to see the other figure.</p> - -<p>Faxon’s first impulse was to look away, to look anywhere -else, to resort again to the champagne glass the -watchful butler had already brimmed; but some fatal -attraction, at war in him with an overwhelming physical -resistance, held his eyes upon the spot they feared.</p> - -<p>The figure was still standing, more distinctly, and -therefore more resemblingly, at Mr. Lavington’s back; -and while the latter continued to gaze affectionately at -his nephew, his counterpart, as before, fixed young -Rainer with eyes of deadly menace.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[394]</a></span></p> - -<p>Faxon, with what felt like an actual wrench of the -muscles, dragged his own eyes from the sight to scan -the other countenances about the table; but not one revealed -the least consciousness of what he saw, and a -sense of mortal isolation sank upon him.</p> - -<p>“It’s worth considering, certainly——” he heard Mr. -Lavington continue; and as Rainer’s face lit up, the -face behind his uncle’s chair seemed to gather into its -look all the fierce weariness of old unsatisfied hates. -That was the thing that, as the minutes labored by, -Faxon was becoming most conscious of. The watcher behind -the chair was no longer merely malevolent: he -had grown suddenly, unutterably tired. His hatred -seemed to well up out of the very depths of balked -effort and thwarted hopes, and the fact made him more -pitiable, and yet more dire.</p> - -<p>Faxon’s look reverted to Mr. Lavington, as if to surprise -in him a corresponding change. At first none was -visible: his pinched smile was screwed to his blank face -like a gas-light to a white-washed wall. Then the fixity -of the smile became ominous: Faxon saw that its wearer -was afraid to let it go. It was evident that Mr. Lavington -was unutterably tired too, and the discovery sent -a colder current through Faxon’s veins. Looking down -at his untouched plate, he caught the soliciting twinkle -of the champagne glass; but the sight of the wine turned -him sick.</p> - -<p>“Well, we’ll go into the details presently,” he heard -Mr. Lavington say, still on the question of his nephew’s -future. “Let’s have a cigar first. No—not here, -Peters.” He turned his smile on Faxon. “When we’ve -had coffee I want to show you my pictures.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, by the way, Uncle Jack—Mr. Faxon wants to -know if you’ve got a double?”</p> - -<p>“A double?” Mr. Lavington, still smiling, continued<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[395]</a></span> -to address himself to his guest. “Not that I know of. -Have you seen one, Mr. Faxon?”</p> - -<p>Faxon thought: “My God, if I look up now they’ll -<i>both</i> be looking at me!” To avoid raising his eyes he -made as though to lift the glass to his lips; but his hand -sank inert, and he looked up. Mr. Lavington’s glance -was politely bent on him, but with a loosening of the -strain about his heart he saw that the figure behind -the chair still kept its gaze on Rainer.</p> - -<p>“Do you think you’ve seen my double, Mr. Faxon?”</p> - -<p>Would the other face turn if he said yes? Faxon -felt a dryness in his throat. “No,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Ah? It’s possible I’ve a dozen. I believe I’m -extremely usual-looking,” Mr. Lavington went on -conversationally; and still the other face watched -Rainer.</p> - -<p>“It was ... a mistake ... a confusion of memory ...” -Faxon heard himself stammer. Mr. Lavington -pushed back his chair, and as he did so Mr. Grisben -suddenly leaned forward.</p> - -<p>“Lavington! What have we been thinking of? We -haven’t drunk Frank’s health!”</p> - -<p>Mr. Lavington reseated himself. “My dear boy!... -Peters, another bottle....” He turned to his nephew. -“After such a sin of omission I don’t presume to -propose the toast myself ... but Frank knows.... -Go ahead, Grisben!”</p> - -<p>The boy shone on his uncle. “No, no, Uncle Jack! -Mr. Grisben won’t mind. Nobody but <i>you</i>—to-day!”</p> - -<p>The butler was replenishing the glasses. He filled -Mr. Lavington’s last, and Mr. Lavington put out his -small hand to raise it.... As he did so, Faxon looked -away.</p> - -<p>“Well, then—All the good I’ve wished you in all the -past years.... I put it into the prayer that the coming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[396]</a></span> -ones may be healthy and happy and many ... and -<i>many</i>, dear boy!”</p> - -<p>Faxon saw the hands about him reach out for their -glasses. Automatically, he made the same gesture. His -eyes were still on the table, and he repeated to himself -with a trembling vehemence: “I won’t look up! I -won’t.... I won’t....”</p> - -<p>His fingers clasped the stem of the glass, and raised -it to the level of his lips. He saw the other hands making -the same motion. He heard Mr. Grisben’s genial -“Hear! Hear!” and Mr. Balch’s hollow echo. He said -to himself, as the rim of the glass touched his lips:</p> - -<p>“I won’t look up! I swear I won’t!——” and he -looked.</p> - -<p>The glass was so full that it required an extraordinary -effort to hold it there, brimming and suspended, -during the awful interval before he could trust his -hand to lower it again, untouched, to the table. It was -this merciful preoccupation which saved him, kept him -from crying out, from losing his hold, from slipping -down into the bottomless blackness that gaped for him. -As long as the problem of the glass engaged him he -felt able to keep his seat, manage his muscles, fit unnoticeably -into the group; but as the glass touched the -table his last link with safety snapped. He stood up -and dashed out of the room.</p> - -<h3>IV</h3> - -<p>In the gallery, the instinct of self-preservation helped -him to turn back and sign to young Rainer not to follow. -He stammered out something about a touch of -dizziness, and joining them presently; and the boy -waved an unsuspecting hand and drew back.</p> - -<p>At the foot of the stairs Faxon ran against a servant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[397]</a></span> -“I should like to telephone to Weymore,” he said with -dry lips.</p> - -<p>“Sorry, sir; wires all down. We’ve been trying the -last hour to get New York again for Mr. Lavington.”</p> - -<p>Faxon shot on to his room, burst into it, and bolted -the door. The mild lamplight lay on furniture, flowers, -books, in the ashes a log still glimmered. He dropped -down on the sofa and hid his face. The room was utterly -silent, the whole house was still: nothing about -him gave a hint of what was going on, darkly and -dumbly, in the horrible room he had flown from, and -with the covering of his eyes oblivion and reassurance -seemed to fall on him. But they fell for a moment -only; then his lids opened again to the monstrous -vision. There it was, stamped on his pupils, a part of -him forever, an indelible horror burnt into his body -and brain. But why into his—just his? Why had he -alone been chosen to see what he had seen? What business -was it of <i>his</i>, in God’s name? Any one of the -others, thus enlightened, might have exposed the horror -and defeated it; but <i>he</i>, the one weaponless and defenceless -spectator, the one whom none of the others would -believe or understand if he attempted to reveal what -he knew—<i>he</i> alone had been singled out as the victim of -this atrocious initiation!</p> - -<p>Suddenly he sat up, listening: he had heard a step -on the stairs. Some one, no doubt, was coming to see -how he was—to urge him, if he felt better, to go down -and join the smokers. Cautiously he opened his door; -yes, it was young Rainer’s step. Faxon looked down the -passage, remembered the other stairway, and darted to -it. All he wanted was to get out of the house. Not -another instant would he breathe its abominable air! -What business was it of <i>his</i>, in God’s name?</p> - -<p>He reached the opposite end of the lower gallery, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[398]</a></span> -beyond it saw the hall by which he had entered. It -was empty, and on a long table he recognized his coat -and cap among the furs of the other travellers. He got -into his coat, unbolted the door, and plunged into the -purifying night.</p> - -<p class="p2">The darkness was deep, and the cold so intense that -for an instant it stopped his breathing. Then he perceived -that only a thin snow was falling, and resolutely -set his face for flight. The trees along the avenue -dimly marked his way as he hastened with long strides -over the beaten snow. Gradually, while he walked, the -tumult in his brain subsided. The impulse to fly still -drove him forward, but he began to feel that he was -flying from a terror of his own creating, and that the -most urgent reason for escape was the need of hiding -his state, of shunning other eyes’ scrutiny till he should -regain his balance.</p> - -<p>He had spent the long hours in the train in fruitless -broodings on a discouraging situation, and he remembered -how his bitterness had turned to exasperation -when he found that the Weymore sleigh was not -awaiting him. It was absurd, of course; but, though -he had joked with Rainer over Mrs. Culme’s forgetfulness, -to confess it had cost a pang. That was what -his rootless life had brought him to: for lack of a personal -stake in things his sensibility was at the mercy -of such trivial accidents.... Yes; that, and the cold -and fatigue, the absence of hope and the haunting sense -of starved aptitudes, all these had brought him to the -perilous verge over which, once or twice before, his terrified -brain had hung.</p> - -<p>Why else, in the name of any imaginable logic, human -or devilish, should he, a stranger, be singled out for -this experience? What could it mean to him, how was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[399]</a></span> -he related to it, what bearing had it on his case?... -Unless, indeed, it was just because he was a stranger—a -stranger everywhere—because he had no personal life, -no warm strong screen of private egotisms to shield -him from exposure, that he had developed this abnormal -sensitiveness to the vicissitudes of others. The thought -pulled him up with a shudder. No! Such a fate was -too abominable; all that was strong and sound in him -rejected it. A thousand times better regard himself -as ill, disorganized, deluded, than as the predestined -victim of such warnings!</p> - -<p>He reached the gates and paused before the darkened -lodge. The wind had risen and was sweeping the -snow into his face in lacerating streamers. The cold had -him in its grasp again, and he stood uncertain. Should -he put his sanity to the test and go back? He turned -and looked down the dark drive to the house. A single -ray shone through the trees, evoking a picture of the -lights, the flowers, the faces grouped about that fatal -room. He turned and plunged out into the road.</p> - -<p>He remembered that, about a mile from Overdale, -the coachman had pointed out the road to Northridge; -and he began to walk in that direction. Once in the -road, he had the gale in his face, and the wet snow on -his moustache and eye-lashes instantly hardened to -metal. The same metal seemed to be driving a million -blades into his throat and lungs, but he pushed on, -desperately determined, the vision of the warm room -pursuing him.</p> - -<p>The snow in the road was deep and uneven. He -stumbled across ruts and sank into drifts, and the wind -rose before him like a granite cliff. Now and then he -stopped, gasping, as if an invisible hand had tightened -an iron band about his body; then he started again, -stiffening himself against the stealthy penetration of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[400]</a></span> -cold. The snow continued to descend out of a pall of -inscrutable darkness, and once or twice he paused, fearing -he had missed the road to Northridge; but, seeing -no sign of a turn, he ploughed on doggedly.</p> - -<p>At last, feeling sure that he had walked for more -than a mile, he halted and looked back. The act of -turning brought immediate relief, first because it put -his back to the wind, and then because, far down the -road, it showed him the advancing gleam of a lantern. -A sleigh was coming—a sleigh that might perhaps give -him a lift to the village! Fortified by the hope, he began -to walk back toward the light. It seemed to come -forward very slowly, with unaccountable zigzags and -waverings; and even when he was within a few yards -of it he could catch no sound of sleigh-bells. Then the -light paused and became stationary by the roadside, as -though carried by a pedestrian who had stopped, exhausted -by the cold. The thought made Faxon hasten -on, and a moment later he was stooping over a motionless -figure huddled against the snow-bank. The lantern -had dropped from its bearer’s hand, and Faxon, -fearfully raising it, threw its light into the face of -Frank Rainer.</p> - -<p>“Rainer! What on earth are you doing here?”</p> - -<p>The boy smiled back through his pallor. “What are -<i>you</i>, I’d like to know?” he retorted; and, scrambling -to his feet with a clutch on Faxon’s arm, he added -gaily: “Well, I’ve run you down, anyhow!”</p> - -<p>Faxon stood confounded, his heart sinking. The lad’s -face was gray.</p> - -<p>“What madness——” he began.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it <i>is</i>. What on earth did you do it for?”</p> - -<p>“I? Do what?... Why, I ... I was just taking -a walk.... I often walk at night....”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[401]</a></span></p> - -<p>Frank Rainer burst into a laugh. “On such nights? -Then you hadn’t bolted?”</p> - -<p>“Bolted?”</p> - -<p>“Because I’d done something to offend you? My -uncle thought you had.”</p> - -<p>Faxon grasped his arm. “Did your uncle send you -after me?”</p> - -<p>“Well, he gave me an awful rowing for not going -up to your room with you when you said you were ill. -And when we found you’d gone we were frightened—and -he was awfully upset—so I said I’d catch you.... -You’re <i>not</i> ill, are you?”</p> - -<p>“Ill? No. Never better.” Faxon picked up the -lantern. “Come; let’s go back. It was awfully hot in -that dining-room,” he added.</p> - -<p>“Yes; I hoped it was only that.”</p> - -<p>They trudged on in silence for a few minutes; then -Faxon questioned: “You’re not too done up?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. It’s a lot easier with the wind behind us.”</p> - -<p>“All right. Don’t talk any more.”</p> - -<p>They pushed ahead, walking, in spite of the light -that guided them, more slowly than Faxon had walked -alone into the gale. The fact of his companion’s stumbling -against a drift gave him a pretext for saying: -“Take hold of my arm,” and Rainer, obeying, gasped -out: “I’m blown!”</p> - -<p>“So am I. Who wouldn’t be?”</p> - -<p>“What a dance you led me! If it hadn’t been for -one of the servants’ happening to see you——”</p> - -<p>“Yes: all right. And now, won’t you kindly shut -up?”</p> - -<p>Rainer laughed and hung on him. “Oh, the cold -doesn’t hurt me....”</p> - -<p>For the first few minutes after Rainer had overtaken -him, anxiety for the lad had been Faxon’s only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[402]</a></span> -thought. But as each laboring step carried them nearer -to the spot he had been fleeing, the reasons for his flight -grew more ominous and more insistent. No, he was -not ill; he was not distraught and deluded—he was the -instrument singled out to warn and save; and here he -was, irresistibly driven, dragging the victim back to -his doom!</p> - -<p>The intensity of the conviction had almost checked his -steps. But what could he do or say? At all costs -he must get Rainer out of the cold, into the house and -into his bed. After that he would act.</p> - -<p>The snow-fall was thickening, and as they reached a -stretch of the road between open fields the wind took -them at an angle, lashing their faces with barbed -thongs. Rainer stopped to take breath, and Faxon felt -the heavier pressure of his arm.</p> - -<p>“When we get to the lodge, can’t we telephone to -the stable for a sleigh?”</p> - -<p>“If they’re not all asleep at the lodge.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ll manage. Don’t talk!” Faxon ordered; and -they plodded on....</p> - -<p>At length the lantern ray showed ruts that curved -away from the road under tree-darkness.</p> - -<p>Faxon’s spirits rose. “There’s the gate! We’ll be -there in five minutes.”</p> - -<p>As he spoke he caught, above the boundary hedge, -the gleam of a light at the farther end of the dark avenue. -It was the same light that had shone on the scene -of which every detail was burnt into his brain; and -he felt again its overpowering reality. No—he couldn’t -let the boy go back!</p> - -<p>They were at the lodge at last, and Faxon was -hammering on the door. He said to himself: “I’ll -get him inside first, and make them give him a hot -drink. Then I’ll see—I’ll find an argument....”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[403]</a></span></p> - -<p>There was no answer to his knocking, and after an -interval Rainer said: “Look here—we’d better go on.”</p> - -<p>“No!”</p> - -<p>“I can, perfectly——”</p> - -<p>“You sha’n’t go to the house, I say!” Faxon furiously -redoubled his blows, and at length steps sounded -on the stairs. Rainer was leaning against the lintel, -and as the door opened the light from the hall flashed -on his pale face and fixed eyes. Faxon caught him by -the arm and drew him in.</p> - -<p>“It <i>was</i> cold out there,” he sighed; and then, abruptly, -as if invisible shears at a single stroke had cut -every muscle in his body, he swerved, drooped on -Faxon’s arm, and seemed to sink into nothing at his -feet.</p> - -<p>The lodge-keeper and Faxon bent over him, and somehow, -between them, lifted him into the kitchen and laid -him on a sofa by the stove.</p> - -<p>The lodge-keeper, stammering: “I’ll ring up the -house,” dashed out of the room. But Faxon heard the -words without heeding them: omens mattered nothing -now, beside this woe fulfilled. He knelt down to undo -the fur collar about Rainer’s throat, and as he did so -he felt a warm moisture on his hands. He held them -up, and they were red....</p> - -<h3>V</h3> - -<p>The palms threaded their endless line along the yellow -river. The little steamer lay at the wharf, and George -Faxon, sitting in the veranda of the wooden hotel, -idly watched the coolies carrying the freight across the -gang-plank.</p> - -<p>He had been looking at such scenes for two months. -Nearly five had elapsed since he had descended from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[404]</a></span> -train at Northridge and strained his eyes for the sleigh -that was to take him to Weymore: Weymore, which he -was never to behold!... Part of the interval—the -first part—was still a great gray blur. Even now he -could not be quite sure how he had got back to Boston, -reached the house of a cousin, and been thence transferred -to a quiet room looking out on snow under bare -trees. He looked out a long time at the same scene, -and finally one day a man he had known at Harvard -came to see him and invited him to go out on a business -trip to the Malay Peninsula.</p> - -<p>“You’ve had a bad shake-up, and it’ll do you no end -of good to get away from things.”</p> - -<p>When the doctor came the next day it turned out -that he knew of the plan and approved it. “You ought -to be quiet for a year. Just loaf and look at the landscape,” -he advised.</p> - -<p>Faxon felt the first faint stirrings of curiosity.</p> - -<p>“What’s been the matter with me, anyhow?”</p> - -<p>“Well, over-work, I suppose. You must have been -bottling up for a bad breakdown before you started -for New Hampshire last December. And the shock of -that poor boy’s death did the rest.”</p> - -<p>Ah, yes—Rainer had died. He remembered....</p> - -<p>He started for the East, and gradually, by imperceptible -degrees, life crept back into his weary bones -and leaden brain. His friend was very considerate and -forbearing, and they travelled slowly and talked little. -At first Faxon had felt a great shrinking from whatever -touched on familiar things. He seldom looked at a -newspaper, he never opened a letter without a moment’s -contraction of the heart. It was not that he had any -special cause for apprehension, but merely that a great -trail of darkness lay on everything. He had looked too -deep down into the abyss.... But little by little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[405]</a></span> -health and energy returned to him, and with them the -common promptings of curiosity. He was beginning to -wonder how the world was going, and when, presently, -the hotel-keeper told him there were no letters for him -in the steamer’s mail-bag, he felt a distinct sense of disappointment. -His friend had gone into the jungle on a -long excursion, and he was lonely, unoccupied, and -wholesomely bored. He got up and strolled into the -stuffy reading-room.</p> - -<p>There he found a game of dominoes, a mutilated picture-puzzle, -some copies of <i>Zion’s Herald</i>, and a pile of -New York and London newspapers.</p> - -<p>He began to glance through the papers, and was disappointed -to find that they were less recent than he had -hoped. Evidently the last numbers had been carried -off by luckier travellers. He continued to turn them -over, picking out the American ones first. These, as it -happened, were the oldest: they dated back to December -and January. To Faxon, however, they had all the -flavor of novelty, since they covered the precise period -during which he had virtually ceased to exist. It had -never before occurred to him to wonder what had happened -in the world during that interval of obliteration; -but now he felt a sudden desire to know.</p> - -<p>To prolong the pleasure, he began by sorting the -papers chronologically, and as he found and spread out -the earliest number, the date at the top of the page entered -into his consciousness like a key slipping into a -lock. It was the seventeenth of December: the date -of the day after his arrival at Northridge. He glanced -at the first page and read in blazing characters: “Reported -Failure of Opal Cement Company. Lavington’s -Name Involved. Gigantic Exposure of Corruption -Shakes Wall Street to Its Foundations.”</p> - -<p>He read on, and when he had finished the first paper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[406]</a></span> -he turned to the next. There was a gap of three days, -but the Opal Cement “Investigation” still held the -centre of the stage. From its complex revelations of -greed and ruin his eye wandered to the death notices, -and he read: “Rainer. Suddenly, at Northridge, New -Hampshire, Francis John, only son of the late....”</p> - -<p>His eyes clouded, and he dropped the newspaper and -sat for a long time with his face in his hands. When -he looked up again he noticed that his gesture had -pushed the other papers from the table and scattered -them on the floor at his feet. The uppermost lay spread -out before him, and heavily his eyes began their search -again. “John Lavington comes forward with plan for -reconstructing Company. Offers to put in ten millions -of his own—The proposal under consideration by the -District Attorney.”</p> - -<p>Ten millions ... ten millions of his own. But if -John Lavington was ruined?... Faxon stood up with -a cry. That was it, then—that was what the warning -meant! And if he had not fled from it, dashed wildly -away from it into the night, he might have broken the -spell of iniquity, the powers of darkness might not have -prevailed! He caught up the pile of newspapers and -began to glance through each in turn for the headline: -“Wills Admitted to Probate.” In the last of -all he found the paragraph he sought, and it stared up -at him as if with Rainer’s dying eyes.</p> - -<p>That—<i>that</i> was what he had done! The powers of -pity had singled him out to warn and save, and he had -closed his ears to their call, had washed his hands of it, -and fled. Washed his hands of it! That was the word. -It caught him back to the dreadful moment in the lodge -when, raising himself up from Rainer’s side, he had -looked at his hands and seen that they were red....</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[407]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">A MESSENGER</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY<br /></p> -<p class="pc1 mid"><span class="smcap">Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[408]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">The Berserker of the North, because he believed in -the directing power of the gods, knew no fear. Death -or life—it was meted out by a destiny that could not err. -In song and story he has been one of the most attractive -figures of the past; far more attractive in his savage virtues -than the more sensuous heroes of Greece and Rome. -In this story he lives again in the American boy who -has his ancestor’s inexplicable uplift of spirit in the -presence of danger and his implicit faith in “the God of -battles and the beauty of holiness.” The ideal of Miles -Morgan is such a man as Chinese Gordon, who, not only -in youth but all through life, had eyes for “the vision -splendid.”</p> - -<p>The ethical value of “A Messenger” may be summed -up in the words of the General: “There is nothing in -Americanism to prevent either inspiration or heroism.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">[409]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">A MESSENGER<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[24]</span></a></p> - -<p class="pp6 p1">How oft do they their silver bowers leave,<br /> -To come to succour us that succour want!<br /> -How oft do they with golden pineons cleave<br /> -The flitting skyes, like flying Pursuivant,<br /> -Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant!<br /> -They for us fight, they watch and dewly ward,<br /> -And their bright Squadrons round about us plant;<br /> -And all for love, and nothing for reward.<br /> -O! Why should heavenly God to men have such regard?</p> -<p class="pr4">—<i>Spenser’s “Faerie Queene.”</i></p> - -<p class="p1">That the other world of our hope rests on no distant, -shining star, but lies about us as an atmosphere, unseen -yet near, is the belief of many. The veil of material -life shades earthly eyes, they say, from the glories in -which we ever are. But sometimes when the veil wears -thin in mortal stress, or is caught away by a rushing, -mighty wind of inspiration, the trembling human soul, -so bared, so purified, may look down unimagined heavenly -vistas, and messengers may steal across the shifting -boundary, breathing hope and the air of a brighter -world. And of him who speaks his vision, men say -“He is mad,” or “He has dreamed.”</p> - -<p class="p2">The group of officers in the tent was silent for a long -half minute after Colonel Wilson’s voice had stopped. -Then the General spoke.</p> - -<p>“There is but one thing to do,” he said. “We must -get word to Captain Thornton at once.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">[410]</a></span></p> - -<p>The Colonel thought deeply a moment, and glanced -at the orderly outside the tent. “Flannigan!” The -man, wheeling swiftly, saluted. “Present my compliments -to Lieutenant Morgan and say that I should like -to see him here at once,” and the soldier went off, with -the quick military precision in which there is no haste -and no delay.</p> - -<p>“You have some fine, powerful young officers, -Colonel,” said the General casually. “I suppose we -shall see in Lieutenant Morgan one of the best. It will -take strength and brains both, perhaps, for this message.”</p> - -<p>A shadow of a smile touched the Colonel’s lips. “I -think I have chosen a capable man, General,” was all he -said.</p> - -<p>Against the doorway of the tent the breeze blew the -flap lazily back and forth. A light rain fell with muffled -gentle insistence on the canvas over their heads, -and out through the opening the landscape was blurred—the -wide stretch of monotonous, billowy prairie, the -sluggish, shining river, bending in the distance about -the base of Black Wind Mountain—Black Wind Mountain, -whose high top lifted, though it was almost June, -a white point of snow above dark pine ridges of the -hills below. The five officers talked a little as they -waited, but spasmodically, absent-mindedly. A shadow -blocked the light of the entrance, and in the doorway -stood a young man, undersized, slight, blond. He -looked inquiringly at the Colonel.</p> - -<p>“You sent for me, sir?” and the General and his -aide, and the grizzled old Captain, and the big, fresh-faced -young one, all watched him.</p> - -<p>In direct, quiet words—words whose bareness made -them dramatic for the weight of possibility they carried—the -Colonel explained. Black Wolf and his band<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">[411]</a></span> -were out on the war-path. A soldier coming in -wounded, escaped from the massacre of the post at -Devil’s Hoof Gap, had reported it. With the large -command known to be here camped on Sweetstream -Fork, they would not come this way; they would swerve -up the Gunpowder River twenty miles away, destroying -the settlement and Little Fort Slade, and would sweep -on, probably for a general massacre, up the Great Horn -as far as Fort Doncaster. He himself, with the regiment, -would try to save Fort Slade, but in the meantime -Captain Thornton’s troop, coming to join him, -ignorant that Black Wolf had taken the war-path, would -be directly in their track. Some one must be sent to -warn them, and of course the fewer the quicker. Lieutenant -Morgan would take a sergeant, the Colonel ordered -quietly, and start at once.</p> - -<p>In the misty light inside the tent, the young officer -looked hardly more than seventeen years old as he stood -listening. His small figure was light, fragile; his hair -was blond to an extreme, a thick thatch of pale gold; -and there was about him, among these tanned, stalwart -men in uniform, a presence, an effect of something unusual, -a simplicity out of place yet harmonious, which -might have come with a little child into a scene like -this. His large blue eyes were fixed on the Colonel as -he talked, and in them was just such a look of innocent, -pleased wonder, as might be in a child’s eyes, who -had been told to leave studying and go pick violets. -But as the Colonel ended he spoke, and the few words -he said, the few questions he asked, were full of poise, -of crisp directness. As the General volunteered a word -or two, he turned to him and answered with a very -charming deference, a respect that was yet full of -gracious ease, the unconscious air of a man to whom -generals are first as men, and then as generals. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">[412]</a></span> -slight figure in its dark uniform was already beyond -the tent doorway when the Colonel spoke again, with a -shade of hesitation in his manner.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Morgan!” and the young officer turned -quickly. “I think it may be right to warn you that -there is likely to be more than usual danger in your -ride.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.” The fresh, young voice had a note of inquiry.</p> - -<p>“You will—you will”—what was it the Colonel -wanted to say? He finished abruptly. “Choose the -man carefully who goes with you.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Colonel,” Morgan responded heartily, -but with a hint of bewilderment. “I shall take Sergeant -O’Hara,” and he was gone.</p> - -<p>There was a touch of color in the Colonel’s face, and -he sighed as if glad to have it over. The General -watched him, and slowly, after a pause, he demanded:</p> - -<p>“May I ask, Colonel, why you chose that blond baby -to send on a mission of uncommon danger and importance?”</p> - -<p>The Colonel answered quietly: “There were several -reasons, General—good ones. The blond baby”—that -ghost of a smile touched the Colonel’s lips again—“the -blond baby has some remarkable qualities. He never -loses his head; he has uncommon invention and facility -of getting out of bad holes; he rides light and so can -make a horse last longer than most, and”—the Colonel -considered a moment—“I may say he has no fear of -death. Even among my officers he is known for the -quality of his courage. There is one more reason: he is -the most popular man I have, both with officers and -men; if anything happened to Morgan the whole command -would race into hell after the devils that did it, -before they would miss their revenge.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">[413]</a></span></p> - -<p>The General reflected, pulling at his moustache. “It -seems a bit like taking advantage of his popularity,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“It is,” the Colonel threw back quickly. “It’s just -that. But that’s what one must do—a commanding officer—isn’t -it so, General? In this war music we play -on human instruments, and if a big chord comes out -stronger for the silence of a note, the note must be -silenced—that’s all. It’s cruel, but it’s fighting; it’s -the game.”</p> - -<p>The General, as if impressed with the tense words, -did not respond, and the other officers stared at the -Colonel’s face, as carved, as stern as if done in marble—a -face from which the warm, strong heart seldom shone, -held back always by the stronger will.</p> - -<p>The big, fresh-colored young Captain broke the silence. -“Has the General ever heard of the trick Morgan -played on Sun Boy, sir?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Tell the General, Captain Booth,” the Colonel said -briefly, and the Captain turned toward the higher officer.</p> - -<p>“It was apropos of what the Colonel said of his inventive -faculties, General,” he began. “A year ago -the youngster with a squad of ten men walked into Sun -Boy’s camp of seventy-five warriors. Morgan had made -quite a pet of a young Sioux, who was our prisoner -for five months, and the boy had taught him a lot of -the language, and assured him that he would have the -friendship of the band in return for his kindness to -Blue Arrow—that was the chap’s name. So he thought -he was safe; but it turned out that Blue Arrow’s father, -a chief, had got into a row with Sun Boy, and the latter -would not think of ratifying the boy’s promise. So -there was Morgan with his dozen men, in a nasty enough -fix. He knew plenty of Indian talk to understand that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">[414]</a></span> -they were discussing what they would do with him, and -it wasn’t pleasant.</p> - -<p>“All of a sudden he had an inspiration. He tells -the story himself, sir, and I assure you he’d make you -laugh—Morgan is a wonderful mimic. Well, he remembered -suddenly, as I said, that he was a mighty good -ventriloquist, and he saw his chance. He gave a great -jump like a startled fawn, and threw up his arms and -stared like one demented into the tree over their heads. -There was a mangy-looking crow sitting up there on a -branch, and Morgan pointed at him as if at something -marvellous, supernatural, and all those fool Indians -stopped pow-wowing and stared up after him, as curious -as monkeys. Then to all appearances, the crow -began to talk. Morgan said they must have thought -that spirits didn’t speak very choice Sioux, but he did -his best. The bird cawed out: -“‘Oh, Sun Boy, great chief, beware what you do!’</p> - -<p>“And then the real bird flapped its wings and Morgan -thought it was going to fly, and he was lost. But -it settled back again on the branch, and Morgan proceeded -to caw on:</p> - -<p>“‘Hurt not the white man, or the curses of the gods -will come upon Sun Boy and his people.’</p> - -<p>“And he proceeded to give a list of what would -happen if the Indians touched a hair of their heads. By -this time the red devils were all down on their stomachs, -moaning softly whenever Morgan stopped cawing. He -said he quite got into the spirit of it, and would -have liked to go on some time, but he was beginning -to get hoarse, and besides he was in deadly terror -for fear the crow would fly before he got to the point. -So he had the spirit order them to give the white men -their horses and turn them loose instanter; and just -as he got all through, off went the thing with a big<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">[415]</a></span> -flap and a parting caw on its own account. I wish I -could tell it as Morgan does—you’d think he was a bird -and an Indian rolled together. He’s a great actor -spoiled, that lad.”</p> - -<p>“You leave out a fine point, to my mind, Captain -Booth,” the Colonel said quickly. “About his going -back.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! certainly that ought to be told,” said the Captain, -and the General’s eyes turned to him again. -“Morgan forgot to see young Blue Arrow, his friend, -before he got away, and nothing would do but that he -should go back and speak to him. He said the boy would -be disappointed. The men were visibly uneasy at his -going, but that didn’t affect him. He ordered them to -wait, and back he went, pell-mell, all alone into that -horde of fiends. They hadn’t got over their funk, -luckily, and he saw Blue Arrow and made his party -call and got out again all right. He didn’t tell that -himself, but Sergeant O’Hara made the camp ring with -it. He adores Morgan, and claims that he doesn’t know -what fear is. I believe it’s about so. I’ve seen him in a -fight three times now. His cap always goes off—he loses -a cap every blessed scrimmage—and with that yellow -mop of hair, and a sort of rapt expression he gets, he -looks like a child saying its prayers all the time he is -slashing and shooting like a berserker.” Captain Booth -faced abruptly toward the Colonel. “I beg your pardon -for talking so long, sir,” he said. “You know -we’re all rather keen about little Miles Morgan.”</p> - -<p>The General lifted his head suddenly. “Miles Morgan?” -he demanded. “Is his name Miles Morgan?”</p> - -<p>The Colonel nodded. “Yes. The grandson of the -old Bishop—named for him.”</p> - -<p>“Lord!” ejaculated the General. “Miles Morgan -was my earliest friend, my friend until he died! This<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">[416]</a></span> -must be Jim’s son—Miles’s only child. And Jim is -dead these ten years,” he went on rapidly. “I’ve lost -track of him since the Bishop died, but I knew Jim left -children. Why, he married”—he searched rapidly -in his memory—“he married a daughter of General -Fitzbrian’s. This boy’s got the church and the army -both in him. I knew his mother,” he went on, talking -to the Colonel, garrulous with interest. “Irish and -fascinating she was—believed in fairies and ghosts and -all that, as her father did before her. A clever woman, -but with the superstitious, wild Irish blood strong in -her. Good Lord! I wish I’d known that was Miles -Morgan’s grandson.”</p> - -<p>The Colonel’s voice sounded quiet and rather cold -after the General’s impulsive enthusiasm. “You have -summed him up by his antecedents, General,” he said. -“The church and the army—both strains are strong. -He is deeply religious.”</p> - -<p>The General looked thoughtful. “Religious, eh? -And popular? They don’t always go together.”</p> - -<p>Captain Booth spoke quickly. “It’s not that kind, -General,” he said. “There’s no cant in the boy. He’s -more popular for it—that’s often so with the genuine -thing, isn’t it? I sometimes think”—the young Captain -hesitated and smiled a trifle deprecatingly—“that -Morgan is much of the same stuff as Gordon—Chinese -Gordon; the martyr stuff, you know. But it seems a -bit rash to compare an every-day American youngster -to an inspired hero.”</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing in Americanism to prevent either -inspiration or heroism that I know of,” the General affirmed -stoutly, his fine old head up, his eyes gleaming -with pride of his profession.</p> - -<p>Out through the open doorway, beyond the slapping -tent-flap, the keen, gray eyes of the Colonel were fixed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">[417]</a></span> -musingly on two black points which crawled along the -edge of the dulled silver of the distant river—Miles -Morgan and Sergeant O’Hara had started.</p> - -<p class="p2">“Sergeant!” They were eight miles out now, and -the camp had disappeared behind the elbow of Black -Wind Mountain. “There’s something wrong with your -horse. Listen! He’s not loping evenly.” The soft -cadence of eight hoofs on earth had somewhere a lighter -and then a heavier note; the ear of a good horseman -tells in a minute, as a musician’s ear at a false note, -when an animal saves one foot ever so slightly, to come -down harder on another.</p> - -<p>“Yessirr. The Lieutenant’ll remimber ’tis the horrse -that had a bit of a spavin. Sure I thot ’twas cured, and -’tis the kindest baste in the rigiment f’r a pleasure ride, -sorr—that willin’ ’tis. So I tuk it. I think ’tis only -the stiffness at furrst aff. ’Twill wurruk aff later. -Plaze God, I’ll wallop him.” And the Sergeant walloped -with a will.</p> - -<p>But the kindest beast in the regiment failed to respond -except with a plunge and increased lameness. Soon -there was no more question of his incapacity.</p> - -<p>Lieutenant Morgan halted his mount, and, looking at -the woe-begone O’Hara, laughed. “A nice trick this is, -Sergeant,” he said, “to start out on a trip to dodge -Indians with a spavined horse. Why didn’t you get a -broomstick? Now go back to camp as fast as you can go; -and that horse ought to be blistered when you get there. -See if you can’t really cure him. He’s too good to be -shot.” He patted the gray’s nervous head, and the -beast rubbed it gently against his sleeve, quiet under his -hand.</p> - -<p>“Yessirr. The Lieutenant’ll ride slow, sorr, f’r me -to catch up on ye, sorr?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">[418]</a></span></p> - -<p>Miles Morgan smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, -Sergeant, but there’ll be no slow riding in this. I’ll have -to press right on without you; I must be at Massacre -Mountain to-night to catch Captain Thornton to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Sergeant O’Hara’s chin dropped. “Sure the Lieutenant’ll -niver be thinkin’ to g’wan alone—widout -<i>me</i>?” and with all the Sergeant’s respect for his superiors, -it took the Lieutenant ten valuable minutes to -get the man started back, shaking his head and muttering -forebodings, to the camp.</p> - -<p>It was quiet riding on alone. There were a few miles -to go before there was any chance of Indians, and no -particular lookout to be kept, so he put the horse -ahead rapidly while he might, and suddenly he found -himself singing softly as he galloped. How the words -had come to him he did not know, for no conscious train -of thought had brought them; but they surely fitted to -the situation, and a pleasant sense of companionship, of -safety, warmed him as the swing of an old hymn carried -his voice along with it.</p> - -<p class="ppq6i p1">“God shall charge His angel legions<br /> -Watch and ward o’er thee to keep;</p> -<p class="pp6i">Though thou walk through hostile regions,<br /> -Though in desert wilds thou sleep.”</p> - -<p class="p1">Surely a man riding toward—perhaps through—skulking -Indian hordes, as he must, could have no better -message reach him than that. The bent of his mind -was toward mysticism, and while he did not think the -train of reasoning out, could not have said that he believed -it so, yet the familiar lines flashing suddenly, -clearly, on the curtain of his mind, seemed to him, very -simply, to be sent from a larger thought than his own. -As a child might take a strong hand held out as it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">[419]</a></span> -walked over rough country, so he accepted this quite -readily and happily, as from that Power who was never -far from him, and in whose service, beyond most people, -he lived and moved. Low but clear and deep his voice -went on, following one stanza with its mate:</p> - -<p class="ppq6i p1">“Since with pure and firm affection<br /> -Thou on God hast set thy love,</p> -<p class="pp6i">With the wings of His protection<br /> -He will shield thee from above.”</p> - -<p class="p1">The simplicity of his being sheltered itself in the -broad promise of the words.</p> - -<p>Light-heartedly he rode on and on, though now more -carefully; lying flat and peering over the crests of hills -a long time before he crossed their tops; going miles -perhaps through ravines; taking advantage of every bit -of cover where a man and a horse might be hidden; -travelling as he had learned to travel in three years of -experience in this dangerous Indian country, where a -shrub taken for granted might mean a warrior, and that -warrior a hundred others within signal. It was his -plan to ride until about twelve—to reach Massacre -Mountain, and there rest his horse and himself till gray -daylight. There was grass there and a spring—two -good and innocent things that had been the cause of -the bad, dark thing which had given the place its name. -A troop under Captain James camping at this point, -because of the water and grass, had been surprised and -wiped out by five hundred Indian braves of the wicked -and famous Red Crow. There were ghastly signs about -the place yet; Morgan had seen them, but soldiers may -not have nerves, and it was good camping ground.</p> - -<p>On through the valleys and half-way up the slopes, -which rolled here far away into a still wilder world, the -young man rode. Behind the distant hills in the east a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">[420]</a></span> -glow like fire flushed the horizon. A rim of pale gold -lifted sharply over the ridge; a huge round ball of light -pushed faster, higher, and lay, a bright world on the -edge of the world, great against the sky—the moon had -risen. The twilight trembled as the yellow rays struck -into its depths, and deepened, dying into purple -shadows. Across the plain zigzagged the pools of a level -stream, as if a giant had spilled handfuls of quicksilver -here and there.</p> - -<p>Miles Morgan, riding, drank in all the mysterious, wild, -beauty, as a man at ease; as open to each fair impression -as if he were not riding each moment into deeper -danger, as if his every sense were not on guard. On -through the shining moonlight and in the shadow of -the hills he rode, and, where he might, through the -trees, and stopped to listen often, to stare at the hill-tops, -to question a heap of stones or a bush.</p> - -<p>At last, when his leg-weary horse was beginning to -stumble a bit, he saw, as he came around a turn, Massacre -Mountain’s dark head rising in front of him, only -half a mile away. The spring trickled its low song, as -musical, as limpidly pure as if it had never run scarlet. -The picketed horse fell to browsing and Miles sighed -restfully as he laid his head on his saddle and fell instantly -to sleep with the light of the moon on his damp, -fair hair. But he did not sleep long. Suddenly with -a start he awoke, and sat up sharply, and listened. He -heard the horse still munching grass near him, and -made out the shadow of its bulk against the sky; he -heard the stream, softly falling and calling to the waters -where it was going. That was all. Strain his hearing -as he might he could hear nothing else in the still night. -Yet there was something. It might not be sound or -sight, but there was a presence, a something—he could -not explain. He was alert in every nerve. Suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">[421]</a></span> -the words of the hymn he had been singing in the afternoon -flashed again into his mind, and, with his cocked -revolver in his hand, alone, on guard, in the midnight -of the savage wilderness, the words came that were not -even a whisper:</p> - -<p class="ppq6i p1">“God shall charge His angel legions<br /> -Watch and ward o’er thee to keep;</p> -<p class="pp6i">Though thou walk through hostile regions,<br /> -Though in desert wilds thou sleep.”</p> - -<p class="p1">He gave a contented sigh and lay down. What was -there to worry about? It was just his case for which -the hymn was written. “Desert wilds”—that surely -meant Massacre Mountain, and why should he not sleep -here quietly, and let the angels keep their watch and -ward? He closed his eyes with a smile. But sleep -did not come, and soon his eyes were open again, staring -into blackness, thinking, thinking.</p> - -<p>It was Sunday when he started out on this mission, -and he fell to remembering the Sunday nights at home—long, -long ago they seemed now. The family sang hymns -after supper always; his mother played, and the children -stood around her—five of them, Miles and his -brothers and sisters. There was a little sister with -brown hair about her shoulders, who always stood by -Miles, leaned against him, held his hand, looked up at -him with adoring eyes—he could see those uplifted -eyes now, shining through the darkness of this lonely -place. He remembered the big, home-like room; the -crackling fire; the peaceful atmosphere of books and -pictures; the dumb things about its walls that were yet -eloquent to him of home and family; the sword that his -great-grandfather had worn under Washington; the old -ivories that another great-grandfather, the Admiral, had -brought from China; the portraits of Morgans of half a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">[422]</a></span> -dozen generations which hung there; the magazine -table, the books and books and books. A pang of desperate -homesickness suddenly shook him. He wanted -them—his own. Why should he, their best-beloved, -throw away his life—a life filled to the brim with hope -and energy and high ideals—on this futile quest? He -knew quite as well as the General or the Colonel that -his ride was but a forlorn hope. As he lay there, longing -so, in the dangerous dark, he went about the library -at home in his thought and placed each familiar belonging -where he had known it all his life. And as he finished, -his mother’s head shone darkly golden by the -piano; her fingers swept over the keys; he heard all -their voices, the dear never-forgotten voices. Hark! -They were singing his hymn—little Alice’s reedy note -lifted above the others—“God shall charge His angel -legions——”</p> - -<p>Now! He was on his feet with a spring, and his revolver -pointed steadily. This time there was no mistaking—something -had rustled in the bushes. There -was but one thing for it to be—Indians. Without realizing -what he did, he spoke sharply.</p> - -<p>“Who goes there?” he demanded, and out of the -darkness a voice answered quietly:</p> - -<p>“A friend.”</p> - -<p>“A friend?” With a shock of relief the pistol -dropped by his side, and he stood tense, waiting. How -might a friend be here, at midnight in this desert? As -the thought framed itself swiftly the leaves parted, and -his straining eyes saw the figure of a young man standing -before him.</p> - -<p>“How came you here?” demanded Miles sternly. -“Who are you?”</p> - -<p>Even in the dimness he could see the radiant smile -that answered him. The calm voice spoke again: “You<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">[423]</a></span> -will understand that later. I am here to help -you.”</p> - -<p>As if a door had suddenly opened into that lighted -room of which he dreamed, Miles felt a sense of tranquillity, -of happiness stirring through him. Never in -his life had he known such a sudden utter confidence in -any one, such a glow of eager friendliness as this half-seen, -mysterious stranger inspired. “It is because I -was lonelier than I knew,” he said mentally. “It is because -human companionship gives courage to the -most self-reliant of us;” and somewhere in the words -he was aware of a false note, but he did not stop to -place it.</p> - -<p>The low, even voice of the stranger spoke again. -“There are Indians on your trail,” he said. “A small -band of Black Wolf’s scouts. But don’t be troubled. -They will not hurt you.”</p> - -<p>“You escaped from them?” demanded Miles eagerly, -and again the light of a swift smile shone into the night. -“You came to save me—how was it? Tell me, so that -we can plan. It is very dark yet, but hadn’t we better -ride? Where is your horse?”</p> - -<p>He threw the earnest questions rapidly across the -black night, and the unhurried voice answered him. -“No,” it said, and the verdict was not to be disputed. -“You must stay here.”</p> - -<p>Who this man might be or how he came Miles could -not tell, but this much he knew, without reason for -knowing it; it was some one stronger than he, in whom -he could trust. As the new-comer had said, it would be -time enough later to understand the rest. Wondering -a little at his own swift acceptance of an unknown authority, -wondering more at the peace which wrapped -him as an atmosphere at the sound of the stranger’s -voice, Miles made a place for him by his side, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">[424]</a></span> -two talked softly to the plashing undertone of the -stream.</p> - -<p>Easily, naturally, Miles found himself telling how he -had been homesick, longing for his people. He told him -of the big familiar room, and of the old things that -were in it, that he loved; of his mother; of little Alice, -and her baby adoration for the big brother; of how -they had always sung hymns together Sunday night; -he never for a moment doubted the stranger’s interest -and sympathy—he knew that he cared to hear.</p> - -<p>“There is a hymn,” Miles said, “that we used to -sing a lot—it was my favorite; ’Miles’s hymn,’ the -family called it. Before you came to-night, while I -lay there getting lonelier every minute, I almost thought -I heard them singing it. You may not have heard it, -but it has a grand swing. I always think”—he hesitated—“it -always seems to me as if the God of battles -and the beauty of holiness must both have filled the -man’s mind who wrote it.” He stopped, surprised at -his own lack of reserve, at the freedom with which, to -this friend of an hour, he spoke his inmost heart.</p> - -<p>“I know,” the stranger said gently. There was silence -for a moment, and then the wonderful low tones, -beautiful, clear, beyond any voice Miles had ever heard, -began again, and it was as if the great sweet notes of -an organ whispered the words:</p> - -<p class="ppq6i p1">“God shall charge His angel legions<br /> -Watch and ward o’er thee to keep;</p> -<p class="pp6i">Though thou walk through hostile regions,<br /> -Though in desert wilds thou sleep.”</p> - -<p class="p1">“Great Heavens!” gasped Miles. “How could you -know I meant that? Why, this is marvellous—why, -this”—he stared, speechless, at the dim outlines of the -face which he had never seen before to-night, but which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">[425]</a></span> -seemed to him already familiar and dear beyond all -reason. As he gazed the tall figure rose, lightly towering -above him. “Look!” he said, and Miles was on -his feet. In the east, beyond the long sweep of the -prairie, was a faint blush against the blackness; already -threads of broken light, of pale darkness, stirred -through the pall of the air; the dawn was at hand.</p> - -<p>“We must saddle,” Miles said, “and be off. Where -is your horse picketed?” he demanded again.</p> - -<p>But the strange young man stood still; and now his -arm was stretched pointing. “Look,” he said again, and -Miles followed the direction with his eyes.</p> - -<p>From the way he had come, in that fast-growing glow -at the edge of the sky, sharp against the mist of the -little river, crept slowly half a dozen pin points, and -Miles, watching their tiny movement, knew that they -were ponies bearing Indian braves. He turned hotly to -his companion.</p> - -<p>“It’s your fault,” he said. “If I’d had my way -we’d have ridden from here an hour ago. Now here -we are caught like rats in a trap; and who’s to do my -work and save Thornton’s troop—who’s to save them—God!” -The name was a prayer, not an oath.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the quiet voice at his side, “God,”—and -for a second there was a silence that was like an -Amen.</p> - -<p>Quickly, without a word, Miles turned and began to -saddle. Then suddenly, as he pulled at the girth, he -stopped. “It’s no use,” he said. “We can’t get -away except over the rise, and they’ll see us there;” -he nodded at the hill which rose beyond the camping -ground three hundred yards away, and stretched in a -long, level sweep into other hills and the west. “Our -chance is that they’re not on my trail after all—it’s -quite possible.” There was a tranquil unconcern about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">[426]</a></span> -the figure near him; his own bright courage caught the -meaning of its relaxed lines with a bound of pleasure. -“As you say, it’s best to stay here,” he said, and as if -thinking aloud—“I believe you must always be right.” -Then he added, as if his very soul would speak itself -to this wonderful new friend: “We can’t be killed, -unless the Lord wills it, and if he does it’s right. Death -is only the step into life; I suppose when we know that -life, we will wonder how we could have cared for this -one.”</p> - -<p>Through the gray light the stranger turned his face -swiftly, bent toward Miles, and smiled once again, and -the boy thought suddenly of the martyrdom of St. Stephen, -and how those who were looking “saw his face -as it had been the face of an angel.”</p> - -<p>Across the plain, out of the mist-wreaths, came rushing, -scurrying, the handful of Indian braves. Pale light -streamed now from the east, filtering over a hushed -world. Miles faced across the plain, stood close to the -tall stranger whose shape, as the dawn touched it, seemed -to rise beyond the boy’s slight figure wonderfully large -and high. There was a sense of unending power, of -alertness of great, easy movement about him; one might -have looked at him, and looking away again, have said -that wings were folded about him. But Miles did not -see him. His eyes were on the fast-nearing, galloping -ponies, each with its load of filthy, cruel savagery. This -was his death coming; there was disgust, but not dread -in the thought for the boy. In a few minutes he should -be fighting hopelessly, fiercely against this froth of a -lower world; in a few minutes after that he should be -lying here still—for he meant to be killed; he had that -planned. They should not take him—a wave of sick repulsion -at that thought shook him. Nearer, nearer, right -on his track came the riders pell-mell. He could hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">[427]</a></span> -their weird, horrible cries; now he could see gleaming -through the dimness the huge head-dress of the foremost, -the white coronet of feathers, almost the stripes of paint -on the fierce face.</p> - -<p>Suddenly a feeling that he knew well caught him, -and he laughed. It was the possession that had held -in him in every action which he had so far been in. It -lifted his high-strung spirit into an atmosphere where -there was no dread and no disgust, only a keen rapture -in throwing every atom of soul and body into physical -intensity; it was as if he himself were a bright blade, -dashing, cutting, killing, a living sword rejoicing to -destroy. With the coolness that may go with such a -frenzy he felt that his pistols were loose; saw with -satisfaction that he and his new ally were placed on the -slope to the best advantage, then turned swiftly, eager -now for the fight to come, toward the Indian band. As -he looked, suddenly in mid-career, pulling in their plunging -ponies with a jerk that threw them, snorting, on -their haunches, the warriors halted. Miles watched in -amazement. The bunch of Indians, not more than a -hundred yards away, were staring, arrested, startled, -back of him to his right, where the lower ridge of Massacre -Mountain stretched far and level over the valley -that wound westward beneath it on the road to Fort -Rain-and-Thunder. As he gazed, the ponies had swept -about and were galloping back as they had come, across -the plain.</p> - -<p>Before he knew if it might be true, if he were not -dreaming this curious thing, the clear voice of his companion -spoke in one word again, like the single note of -a deep bell. “Look!” he said, and Miles swung about -toward the ridge behind, following the pointing finger.</p> - -<p>In the gray dawn the hill-top was clad with the still -strength of an army. Regiment after regiment, silent,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">[428]</a></span> -motionless, it stretched back into silver mist, and the -mist rolled beyond, above, about it; and through it he -saw, as through rifts in broken gauze, lines interminable -of soldiers, glitter of steel. Miles, looking, knew.</p> - -<p>He never remembered how long he stood gazing, earth -and time and self forgotten, at a sight not meant for -mortal eyes; but suddenly, with a stab it came to him, -that if the hosts of heaven fought his battle it was that -he might do his duty, might save Captain Thornton and -his men; he turned to speak to the young man who had -been with him. There was no one there. Over the -bushes the mountain breeze blew damp and cold; they -rustled softly under its touch; his horse stared at -him mildly; away off at the foot-hills he could see -the diminishing dots of the fleeing Indian ponies; as he -wheeled again and looked, the hills that had been covered -with the glory of heavenly armies, lay hushed and -empty. And his friend was gone.</p> - -<p>Clatter of steel, jingle of harness, an order ringing -out far but clear—Miles threw up his head sharply and -listened. In a second he was pulling at his horse’s -girth, slipping the bit swiftly into its mouth—in a moment -more he was off and away to meet them, as a body -of cavalry swung out of the valley where the ridge had -hidden them.</p> - -<p>“Captain Thornton’s troop?” the officer repeated -carelessly. “Why, yes; they are here with us. We -picked them up yesterday, headed straight for Black -Wolf’s war-path. Mighty lucky we found them. How -about you—seen any Indians, have you?”</p> - -<p>Miles answered slowly: “A party of eight were -on my trail; they were riding for Massacre Mountain, -where I camped, about an hour—about half an hour—awhile -ago.” He spoke vaguely, rather oddly, the officer -thought. “Something—stopped them about a hundred<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">[429]</a></span> -yards from the mountain. They turned, and rode -away.”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said the officer. “They saw us down the -valley.”</p> - -<p>“I couldn’t see you,” said Miles.</p> - -<p>The officer smiled. “You’re not an Indian, Lieutenant. -Besides, they were out on the plain and had a -farther view behind the ridge.” And Miles answered -not a word.</p> - -<p>General Miles Morgan, full of years and of honors, -has never but twice told the story of that night of forty -years ago. But he believes that when his time comes, -and he goes to join the majority, he will know again -the presence which guarded him through the blackness -of it, and among the angel legions he looks to find an -angel, a messenger, who was his friend.</p> - -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">[430]</a></span></p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">[431]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">MARKHEIM</h2> -<p class="pc1 mid">BY</p> -<p class="pc1 mid"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis Stevenson</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">[432]</a></span></p> - -<p class="p2">In one of the old Greek tragedies, after the actors on -the stage have played their parts and the chorus in the -orchestra below has hinted mysteriously of crime and -retribution, the doors of the palace in the background -suddenly fly apart. There stands the criminal queen. -She confesses her crime and explains the reason for it. -So sometimes a story opens the doors of a character’s -heart and mind, and invites us to look within. Such -a story is called psychological. Sometimes there is action, -not for action’s sake, but for its revelation of character. -Sometimes nothing happens. “This,” says Bliss -Perry, “may be precisely what most interests us, because -we are made to understand what it is that inhibits -action.” In the story of this type we see the moods of -the character; we watch motives appear, encounter other -motives, and retreat or advance. In short, we are allowed -to observe the man’s mental processes until we -understand him.</p> - -<p>The emotional value of this story may be stated in -the words of C. T. Winchester:</p> - -<p>“We may lay it down as a rule that those emotions -which are intimately related to the conduct of life are -of higher rank than those which are not; and that, consequently, -the emotions highest of all are those related -to the deciding forces of life the affections, and the -conscience.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_433" id="Page_433">[433]</a></span></p> - -<p class="pc4 large">MARKHEIM<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor"><span class="small">[25]</span></a></p> - - -<p class="p2">“Yes,” said the dealer, “our windfalls are of various -kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I -touch a dividend on my superior knowledge. Some are -dishonest,” and here he held up the candle, so that the -light fell strongly on his visitor, “and in that case,” he -continued, “I profit by my virtue.”</p> - -<p>Markheim had but just entered from the daylight -streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with -the mingled shine and darkness in the shop. At these -pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, -he blinked painfully and looked aside.</p> - -<p>The dealer chuckled. “You come to me on Christmas -Day,” he resumed, “when you know that I am -alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make a -point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay -for that; you will have to pay for my loss of time, -when I should be balancing my books; you will have -to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in -you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, -and ask no awkward questions; but when a customer -cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for it.” -The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to -his usual business voice, though still with a note of -irony, “You can give, as usual, a clear account of how -you came into the possession of the object?” he continued. -“Still your uncle’s cabinet? A remarkable -collector, sir!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_434" id="Page_434">[434]</a></span></p> - -<p>And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost -on tip-toe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, -and nodding his head with every mark of disbelief. -Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite -pity, and a touch of horror.</p> - -<p>“This time,” said he, “you are in error. I have not -come to sell, but to buy. I have no curios to dispose -of; my uncle’s cabinet is bare to the wainscot; even -were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock Exchange, -and should more likely add to it than otherwise, -and my errand to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a -Christmas present for a lady,” he continued, waxing -more fluent as he struck into the speech he had prepared; -“and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus -disturbing you upon so small a matter. But the thing -was neglected yesterday; I must produce my little compliment -at dinner; and, as you very well know, a rich -marriage is not a thing to be neglected.”</p> - -<p>There followed a pause, during which the dealer -seemed to weigh this statement incredulously. The -ticking of many clocks among the curious lumber of -the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near -thoroughfare, filled up the interval of silence.</p> - -<p>“Well, sir,” said the dealer, “be it so. You are an -old customer after all; and if, as you say, you have the -chance of a good marriage, far be it from me to be an -obstacle. Here is a nice thing for a lady now,” he -went on, “this hand glass—fifteenth century, warranted; -comes from a good collection, too; but I reserve -the name, in the interests of my customer, who -was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole -heir of a remarkable collector.”</p> - -<p>The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and biting -voice, had stooped to take the object from its place; -and, as he had done so, a shock had passed through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_435" id="Page_435">[435]</a></span> -Markheim, a start both of hand and foot, a sudden leap -of many tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as -swiftly as it came, and left no trace beyond a certain -trembling of the hand that now received the glass.</p> - -<p>“A glass,” he said hoarsely, and then paused, and -repeated it more clearly. “A glass? For Christmas? -Surely not?”</p> - -<p>“And why not?” cried the dealer. “Why not a -glass?”</p> - -<p>Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable -expression. “You ask me why not?” he said. “Why, -look here—look in it—look at yourself! Do you like -to see it? No! nor I—nor any man.”</p> - -<p>The little man had jumped back when Markheim had -so suddenly confronted him with the mirror; but now, -perceiving there was nothing worse on hand, he chuckled. -“Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favored,” -said he.</p> - -<p>“I ask you,” said Markheim, “for a Christmas present, -and you give me this—this damned reminder of -years, and sins, and follies—this hand-conscience! Did -you mean it? Had you a thought in your mind? Tell -me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me -about yourself. I hazard a guess now, that you are in -secret a very charitable man?”</p> - -<p>The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was -very odd, Markheim did not appear to be laughing; -there was something in his face like an eager sparkle of -hope, but nothing of mirth.</p> - -<p>“What are you driving at?” the dealer asked.</p> - -<p>“Not charitable?” returned the other, gloomily. -“Not charitable; not pious; not scrupulous; unloving, -unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe to keep it. Is -that all? Dear God, man, is that all?”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you what it is,” began the dealer, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_436" id="Page_436">[436]</a></span> -some sharpness, and then broke off again into a chuckle. -“But I see this is a love match of yours, and you have -been drinking the lady’s health.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. -“Ah, have you been in love? Tell me about that.”</p> - -<p>“I,” cried the dealer. “I in love! I never had the -time, nor have I the time to-day for all this nonsense. -Will you take the glass?”</p> - -<p>“Where is the hurry?” returned Markheim. “It -is very pleasant to stand here talking; and life is so -short and insecure that I would not hurry away from -any pleasure—no, not even from so mild a one as this. -We should rather cling, cling to what little we can get, -like a man at a cliff’s edge. Every second is a cliff, if -you think upon it—a cliff a mile high—high enough, -if we fall, to dash us out of every feature of humanity. -Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of each -other; why should we wear this mask? Let us be confidential. -Who knows, we might become friends?”</p> - -<p>“I have just one word to say to you,” said the -dealer. “Either make your purchase, or walk out of -my shop.”</p> - -<p>“True, true,” said Markheim. “Enough fooling. -To business. Show me something else.”</p> - -<p>The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace -the glass upon the shelf, his thin blond hair falling over -his eyes as he did so. Markheim moved a little nearer, -with one hand in the pocket of his great-coat; he drew -himself up and filled his lungs; at the same time many -different emotions were depicted together on his face—terror, -horror, and resolve, fascination and a physical -repulsion; and through a haggard lift of his upper lip, -his teeth looked out.</p> - -<p>“This, perhaps, may suit,” observed the dealer; and -then, as he began to re-arise, Markheim bounded from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_437" id="Page_437">[437]</a></span> -behind upon his victim. The long, skewerlike dagger -flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, striking -his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the -floor in a heap.</p> - -<p>Time had some score of small voices in that shop, -some stately and slow as was becoming to their great -age; others garrulous and hurried. All these told out -the seconds in an intricate chorus of tickings. Then -the passage of a lad’s feet, heavily running on the pavement, -broke in upon these smaller voices and startled -Markheim into the consciousness of his surroundings. -He looked about him awfully. The candle stood on the -counter, its flame solemnly wagging in a draught; and -by that inconsiderable movement, the whole room was -filled with noiseless bustle and kept heaving like a sea: -the tall shadows nodding, the gross blots of darkness -swelling and dwindling as with respiration, the faces -of the portraits and the china gods changing and wavering -like images in water. The inner door stood ajar, -and peered into that leaguer of shadows with a long -slit of daylight like a pointing finger.</p> - -<p>From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim’s eyes -returned to the body of his victim, where it lay both -humped and sprawling, incredibly small and strangely -meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in -that ungainly attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. -Markheim had feared to see it, and, lo! it was -nothing. And yet, as he gazed, this bundle of old -clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent voices. -There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning -hinges or direct the miracle of locomotion—there it -must lie till it was found. Found! ay, and then? Then -would this dead flesh lift up a cry that would ring -over England, and fill the world with the echoes of pursuit. -Ay, dead or not, this was still the enemy. “Time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_438" id="Page_438">[438]</a></span> -was that when the brains were out,” he thought; and the -first word struck into his mind. Time, now that the deed -was accomplished—time, which had closed for the victim, -had become instant and momentous for the slayer.</p> - -<p>The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and -then another, with every variety of pace and voice—one -deep as the bell from a cathedral turret, another -ringing on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz—the -clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon.</p> - -<p>The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that -dumb chamber staggered him. He began to bestir himself, -going to and fro with the candle, beleaguered by -moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance reflections. -In many rich mirrors, some of home designs, -some from Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated -and repeated, as it were an army of spies; his -own eyes met and detected him; and the sound of his -own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the surrounding -quiet. And still as he continued to fill his pockets, his -mind accused him, with a sickening iteration, of the -thousand faults of his design. He should have chosen -a more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi; -he should not have used a knife; he should have been -more cautious, and only bound and gagged the dealer, -and not killed him; he should have been more bold, -and killed the servant also; he should have done all -things otherwise; poignant regrets, weary, incessant -toiling of the mind to change what was unchangeable, -to plan what was now useless, to be the architect of the -irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all this activity, -brute terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted -attic, filled the more remote chambers of his brain with -riot; the hand of the constable would fall heavy on his -shoulder, and his nerves would jerk like a hooked fish;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_439" id="Page_439">[439]</a></span> -or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, the prison, -the gallows, and the black coffin.</p> - -<p>Terror of the people in the street sat down before his -mind like a besieging army. It was impossible, he -thought, but that some rumor of the struggle must -have reached their ears and set on edge their curiosity; -and now, in all the neighboring houses, he divined them -sitting motionless and with uplifted ear—solitary -people, condemned to spend Christmas dwelling alone -on memories of the past, and now startlingly recalled -from that tender exercise; happy family parties, struck -into silence round the table, the mother still with raised -finger: every degree and age and humor, but all, by -their own hearts, prying and hearkening and weaving -the rope that was to hang him. Sometimes it seemed -to him he could not move too softly; the clink of the -tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell; and -alarmed by the bigness of the ticking, he was tempted -to stop the clocks. And then, again, with a swift transition -of his terrors, the very silence of the place appeared -a source of peril, and a thing to strike and freeze the -passer-by; and he would step more boldly, and bustle -aloud among the contents of the shop, and imitate, with -elaborate bravado, the movements of a busy man at ease -in his own house.</p> - -<p>But he was now so pulled about by different alarms -that, while one portion of his mind was still alert and -cunning, another trembled on the brink of lunacy. One -hallucination in particular took a strong hold on his -credulity. The neighbor hearkening with white face beside -his window, the passer-by arrested by a horrible -surmise on the pavement—these could at worst suspect, -they could not know; through the brick walls and -shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate. But -here, within the house, was he alone? He knew he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_440" id="Page_440">[440]</a></span> -was; he had watched the servant set forth sweethearting, -in her poor best, “out for the day” written in every -ribbon and smile. Yes, he was alone, of course; and -yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he could -surely hear a stir of delicate footing—he was surely -conscious, inexplicably conscious of some presence. -Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the house his -imagination followed it; and now it was a faceless -thing, and yet had eyes to see with; and again it was a -shadow of himself; and yet again behold the image of -the dead dealer, reinspired with cunning and hatred.</p> - -<p>At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at -the open door which still seemed to repel his eyes. -The house was tall, the skylight small and dirty, the -day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to -the ground story was exceedingly faint, and showed -dimly on the threshold of the shop. And yet, in that -strip of doubtful brightness, did there not hang wavering -a shadow?</p> - -<p>Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentleman -began to beat with a staff on the shop-door, accompanying -his blows with shouts and railleries in which -the dealer was continually called upon by name. Markheim, -smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But -no! he lay quite still; he was fled away far beyond earshot -of these blows and shoutings; he was sunk beneath -seas of silence; and his name, which would once have -caught his notice above the howling of a storm, had become -come an empty sound. And presently the jovial gentleman -desisted from his knocking and departed.</p> - -<p>Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to be -done, to get forth from this accusing neighborhood, -to plunge into a bath of London multitudes, and to -reach, on the other side of day, that haven of safety and -apparent innocence—his bed. One visitor had come:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_441" id="Page_441">[441]</a></span> -at any moment another might follow and be more obstinate. -To have done the deed, and yet not to reap -the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. The money, -that was now Markheim’s concern; and as a means to -that, the keys.</p> - -<p>He glanced over his shoulder at the open door, where -the shadow was still lingering and shivering; and with -no conscious repugnance of the mind, yet with a tremor -of the belly, he drew near the body of his victim. The -human character had quite departed. Like a suit half-stuffed -with bran, the limbs lay scattered, the trunk -doubled, on the floor; and yet the thing repelled him. -Although so dingy and inconsiderable to the eye, he -feared it might have more significance to the touch. He -took the body by the shoulders, and turned it on its back. -It was strangely light and supple, and the limbs, as if -they had been broken, fell into the oddest postures. The -face was robbed of all expression; but it was as pale as -wax, and shockingly smeared with blood about one -temple. That was, for Markheim, the one displeasing -circumstance. It carried him back, upon the instant, -to a certain day in a fishers’ village: a gray day, a -piping wind, a crowd upon the street, the blare of -brasses, the booming of drums, the nasal voice of a -ballad singer; and a boy going to and fro, buried over -head in the crowd and divided between interest and fear, -until, coming out upon the chief place of concourse, he -beheld a booth and a great screen with pictures, dismally -designed, garishly colored: Brownrigg with her -apprentice; the Mannings with their murdered guest; -Weare in the death-grip of Thurtell; and a score besides -of famous crimes. The thing was as clear as an -illusion; he was once again that little boy; he was looking -once again, and with the same sense of physical -revolt, at these vile pictures; he was still stunned by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_442" id="Page_442">[442]</a></span> -thumping of the drums. A bar of that day’s music returned -upon his memory; and at that, for the first time, -a qualm came over him, a breath of nausea, a sudden -weakness of the joints, which he must instantly resist -and conquer.</p> - -<p>He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee -from these considerations; looking the more hardily in -the dead face, bending his mind to realize the nature -and greatness of his crime. So little a while ago that -face had moved with every change of sentiment, that -pale mouth had spoken, that body had been all on fire -with governable energies; and now, and by his act, that -piece of life had been arrested, as the horologist, with -interjected finger, arrests the beating of the clock. So -he reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more remorseful -consciousness; the same heart which had shuddered -before the painted effigies of crime, looked on its reality -unmoved. At best, he felt a gleam of pity for one who -had been endowed in vain with all those faculties that -can make the world a garden of enchantment, one who -had never lived and who was now dead. But of penitence, -no, not a tremor.</p> - -<p>With that, shaking himself clear of these considerations, -he found the keys and advanced towards the open -door of the shop. Outside, it had begun to rain smartly; -and the sound of the shower upon the roof had -banished silence. Like some dripping cavern, the -chambers of the house were haunted by an incessant -echoing, which filled the ear and mingled with the ticking -of the clocks. And, as Markheim approached the -door, he seemed to hear, in answer to his own cautious -tread, the steps of another foot withdrawing up the -stair. The shadow still palpitated loosely on the -threshold. He threw a ton’s weight of resolve upon -his muscles, and drew back the door.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_443" id="Page_443">[443]</a></span></p> - -<p>The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the -bare floor and stairs; on the bright suit of armor posted, -halbert in hand, upon the landing; and on the dark -wood-carvings, and framed pictures that hung against -the yellow panels of the wainscot. So loud was the -beating of the rain through all the house that, in Markheim’s -ears, it began to be distinguished into many -different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the tread of regiments -marching in the distance, the chink of money in -the counting, and the creaking of doors held stealthily -ajar, appeared to mingle with the patter of the drops -upon the cupola and the gushing of the water in the -pipes. The sense that he was not alone grew upon -him to the verge of madness. On every side he was -haunted and begirt by presences. He heard them moving -in the upper chambers; from the shop, he heard the -dead man getting to his legs; and as he began with a -great effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before -him and followed stealthily behind. If he were but -deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he would possess his -soul! And then again, and hearkening with ever fresh -attention, he blessed himself for that unresting sense -which held the outposts and stood a trusty sentinel upon -his life. His head turned continually on his neck; his -eyes, which seemed starting from their orbits, scouted -on every side, and on every side were half-rewarded as -with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The -four-and-twenty steps to the first floor were four-and-twenty -agonies.</p> - -<p>On that first story, the doors stood ajar, three of -them like three ambushes, shaking his nerves like the -throats of cannon. He could never again, he felt, be -sufficiently immured and fortified from men’s observing -eyes; he longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried -among bedclothes, and invisible to all but God. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_444" id="Page_444">[444]</a></span> -at that thought he wondered a little, recollecting tales -of other murderers and the fear they were said to entertain -of heavenly avengers. It was not so, at least, with -him. He feared the laws of nature, lest, in their callous -and immutable procedure, they should preserve some -damning evidence of his crime. He feared tenfold -more, with a slavish, superstitious terror, some scission -in the continuity of man’s experience, some wilful illegality -of nature. He played a game of skill, depending -on the rules, calculating consequence from cause; and -what if nature, as the defeated tyrant overthrew the -chess-board, should break the mould of their succession? -The like had befallen Napoleon (so writers said) -when the winter changed the time of its appearance. -The like might befall Markheim: the solid walls might -become transparent and reveal his doings like those of -bees in a glass hive; the stout planks might yield under -his foot like quicksands and detain him in their clutch; -ay, and there were soberer accidents that might destroy -him: if, for instance, the house should fall and imprison -him beside the body of his victim; or the house next -door should fly on fire, and the firemen invade him from -all sides. These things he feared; and, in a sense, these -things might be called the hands of God reached forth -against sin. But about God himself he was at ease; his -act was doubtless exceptional, but so were his excuses, -which God knew; it was there, and not among men, -that he felt sure of justice.</p> - -<p>When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and -shut the door behind him, he was aware of a respite from -alarms. The room was quite dismantled, uncarpeted -besides, and strewn with packing-cases and incongruous -furniture; several great pier-glasses, in which he -beheld himself at various angles, like an actor on a stage; -many pictures, framed and unframed, standing, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_445" id="Page_445">[445]</a></span> -their faces to the wall; a fine Sheraton sideboard, a -cabinet of marquetry, and a great old bed, with tapestry -hangings. The windows opened to the floor; but -by great good fortune the lower part of the shutters had -been closed, and this concealed him from the neighbors. -Here, then, Markheim drew in a packing-case -before the cabinet, and began to search among the keys. -It was a long business, for there were many; and it was -irksome, besides; for, after all, there might be nothing -in the cabinet, and time was on the wing. But the -closeness of the occupation sobered him. With the tail -of his eye he saw the door—even glanced at it from -time to time directly, like a besieged commander pleased -to verify the good estate of his defences. But in truth -he was at peace. The rain falling in the street sounded -natural and pleasant. Presently, on the other side, the -notes of a piano were wakened to the music of a hymn, -and the voices of many children took up the air and -words. How stately, how comfortable was the melody! -How fresh the youthful voices! Markheim gave ear -to it smilingly, as he sorted out the keys; and his mind -was thronged with answerable ideas and images; -church-going children and the pealing of the high organ; -children afield, bathers by the brookside, ramblers -on the brambly common, kite-fliers in the windy and -cloud-navigated sky; and then, at another cadence of -the hymn, back again to church, and the somnolence -of summer Sundays, and the high genteel voice -of the parson (which he smiled a little to recall) -and the painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim lettering -of the Ten Commandments in the chancel.</p> - -<p>And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was -startled to his feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a -bursting gush of blood, went over him, and then he -stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_446" id="Page_446">[446]</a></span> -stair slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid -upon the knob, and the lock clicked, and the door -opened.</p> - -<p>Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he -knew not, whether the dead man walking, or the official -ministers of human justice, or some chance witness -blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows. -But when a face was thrust into the aperture, glanced -round the room, looked at him, nodded and smiled as -if in friendly recognition, and then withdrew again, and -the door closed behind it, his fear broke loose from his -control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this the visitant -returned.</p> - -<p>“Did you call me?” he asked, pleasantly, and with -that he entered the room and closed the door behind -him.</p> - -<p>Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. -Perhaps there was a film upon his sight, but the outlines -of the new-comer seemed to change and waver -like those of the idols in the wavering candle-light of -the shop; and at times he thought he knew him; and at -times he thought he bore a likeness to himself; and always, -like a lump of living terror, there lay in his bosom -the conviction that this thing was not of the earth and -not of God.</p> - -<p>And yet the creature had a strange air of the commonplace, -as he stood looking on Markheim with a -smile; and when he added: “You are looking for the -money, I believe?” it was in the tones of every-day -politeness.</p> - -<p>Markheim made no answer.</p> - -<p>“I should warn you,” resumed the other, “that the -maid has left her sweetheart earlier than usual and will -soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be found in this house, -I need not describe to him the consequences.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_447" id="Page_447">[447]</a></span></p> - -<p>“You know me?” cried the murderer.</p> - -<p>The visitor smiled. “You have long been a favorite -of mine,” he said; “and I have long observed and often -sought to help you.”</p> - -<p>“What are you?” cried Markheim: “the devil?”</p> - -<p>“What I may be,” returned the other, “cannot affect -the service I propose to render you.”</p> - -<p>“It can,” cried Markheim; “it does! Be helped by -you? No, never; not by you! You do not know me -yet; thank God, you do not know me!”</p> - -<p>“I know you,” replied the visitant, with a sort of -kind severity or rather firmness. “I know you to the -soul.”</p> - -<p>“Know me!” cried Markheim. “Who can do so? -My life is but a travesty and slander on myself. I have -lived to belie my nature. All men do; all men are better -than this disguise that grows about and stifles them. -You see each dragged away by life, like one whom -bravos have seized and muffled in a cloak. If they had -their own control—if you could see their faces, they -would be altogether different, they would shine out for -heroes and saints! I am worse than most; my self is -more overlaid; my excuse is known to me and God. -But, had I the time, I could disclose myself.”</p> - -<p>“To me?” inquired the visitant.</p> - -<p>“To you before all,” returned the murderer. “I -supposed you were intelligent. I thought—since you -exist—you would prove a reader of the heart. And yet -you would propose to judge me by my acts! Think of -it; my acts! I was born and I have lived in a land of -giants; giants have dragged me by the wrists since I -was born out of my mother—the giants of circumstance. -And you would judge me by my acts! But -can you not look within? Can you not understand that -evil is hateful to me? Can you not see within me the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_448" id="Page_448">[448]</a></span> -clear writing of conscience, never blurred by any wilful -sophistry, although too often disregarded? Can you not -read me for a thing that surely must be common as -humanity—the unwilling sinner?”</p> - -<p>“All this is very feelingly expressed,” was the reply, -“but it regards me not. These points of consistency -are beyond my province, and I care not in the least by -what compulsion you may have been dragged away, so -as you are but carried in the right direction. But time -flies; the servant delays, looking in the faces of the -crowd and at the pictures on the hoardings, but still -she keeps moving nearer; and remember, it is as if the -gallows itself was striding towards you through the -Christmas streets! Shall I help you; I, who know all? -Shall I tell you where to find the money?”</p> - -<p>“For what price?” asked Markheim.</p> - -<p>“I offer you the service for a Christmas gift,” returned -the other.</p> - -<p>Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind -of bitter triumph. “No,” said he, “I will take nothing -at your hands; if I were dying of thirst, and it was -your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should find -the courage to refuse. It may be credulous, but I will -do nothing to commit myself to evil.”</p> - -<p>“I have no objection to a death-bed repentance,” observed -the visitant.</p> - -<p>“Because you disbelieve their efficacy!” Markheim -cried.</p> - -<p>“I do not say so,” returned the other; “but I look -on these things from a different side, and when the life -is done my interest falls. The man has lived to serve -me, to spread black looks under color of religion, or to -sow tares in the wheat-field, as you do, in a course of -weak compliance with desire. Now that he draws so -near to his deliverance, he can add but one act of service—to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_449" id="Page_449">[449]</a></span> -repent, to die smiling, and thus to build up in confidence -and hope the more timorous of my surviving -followers. I am not so hard a master. Try me. Accept -my help. Please yourself in life as you have done -hitherto; please yourself more amply, spread your elbows -at the board; and when the night begins to fall and -the curtains to be drawn, I tell you, for your greater -comfort, that you will find it even easy to compound -your quarrel with your conscience, and to make a -truckling peace with God. I came but now from such -a death-bed, and the room was full of sincere mourners, -listening to the man’s last words: and when I looked -into that face, which had been set as a flint against -mercy, I found it smiling with hope.”</p> - -<p>“And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?” -asked Markheim. “Do you think I have no more -generous aspirations than to sin, and sin, and sin, and, -at last, sneak into heaven? My heart rises at the -thought. Is this, then, your experience of mankind? -or is it because you find me with red hands that you -presume such baseness? and is this crime of murder -indeed so impious as to dry up the very springs of -good?”</p> - -<p>“Murder is to me no special category,” replied the -other. “All sins are murder, even as all life is war. -I behold your race, like starving mariners on a raft, -plucking crusts out of the hands of famine and feeding -on each other’s lives. I follow sins beyond the moment -of their acting; I find in all that the last consequence -is death; and to my eyes, the pretty maid who -thwarts her mother with such taking graces on a question -of a ball, drips no less visibly with human gore -than such a murderer as yourself. Do I say that I follow -sins? I follow virtues also; they differ not by the -thickness of a nail, they are both scythes for the reaping<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_450" id="Page_450">[450]</a></span> -angel of Death. Evil, for which I live, consists not -in action but in character. The bad man is dear to me; -not the bad act, whose fruits, if we could follow them -far enough down the hurtling cataract of the ages, might -yet be found more blessed than those of the rarest -virtues. And it is not because you have killed a dealer, -but because you are Markheim, that I offered to forward -your escape.”</p> - -<p>“I will lay my heart open to you,” answered Markheim. -“This crime on which you find me is my last. -On my way to it I have learned many lessons; itself -is a lesson, a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have been -driven with revolt to what I would not; I was a bond-slave -to poverty, driven and scourged. There are robust -virtues that can stand in these temptations; mine -was not so: I had a thirst of pleasure. But to-day, -and out of this deed, I pluck both warning and riches—both -the power and a fresh resolve to be myself. I become -in all things a free actor in the world; I begin to -see myself all changed, these hands the agents of good, -this heart at peace. Something comes over me out of -the past; something of what I have dreamed on Sabbath -evenings to the sound of the church organ, of -what I forecast when I shed tears over noble books, or -talked, an innocent child, with my mother. There lies -my life; I have wandered a few years, but now I see -once more my city of destination.”</p> - -<p>“You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, -I think?” remarked the visitor; “and there, if I mistake -not, you have already lost some thousands?”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Markheim, “but this time I have a sure -thing.”</p> - -<p>“This time, again, you will lose,” replied the visitor -quietly.</p> - -<p>“Ah, but I keep back the half!” cried Markheim.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_451" id="Page_451">[451]</a></span></p> - -<p>“That also you will lose,” said the other.</p> - -<p>The sweat started upon Markheim’s brow. “Well, -then, what matter?” he exclaimed. “Say it be lost, -say I am plunged again in poverty, shall one part of me, -and that the worst, continue until the end to override -the better? Evil and good run strong in me, haling -me both ways. I do not love the one thing, I love all. -I can conceive great deeds, renunciations, martyrdoms; -and though I be fallen to such a crime as murder, pity -is no stranger to my thoughts. I pity the poor; who -knows their trials better than myself? I pity and help -them; I prize love, I love honest laughter; there is no -good thing nor true thing on earth but I love it from my -heart. And are my vices only to direct my life, and my -virtues to lie without effect, like some passive lumber -of the mind? Not so; good, also, is a spring of acts.”</p> - -<p>But the visitant raised his finger. “For six-and-thirty -years that you have been in this world,” said he, -“through many changes of fortune and varieties of -humor, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen -years ago you would have started at a theft. Three -years back you would have blenched at the name of -murder. Is there any crime, is there any cruelty or -meanness, from which you still recoil?—five years from -now I shall detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, -lies your way; nor can anything but death avail -to stop you.”</p> - -<p>“It is true,” Markheim said huskily, “I have in -some degree complied with evil. But it is so with all: -the very saints, in the mere exercise of living, grow less -dainty, and take on the tone of their surroundings.”</p> - -<p>“I will propound to you one simple question,” said -the other; “and as you answer, I shall read to you your -moral horoscope. You have grown in many things more -lax; possibly you do right to be so; and at any account,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_452" id="Page_452">[452]</a></span> -it is the same with all men. But granting that, are -you in any one particular, however trifling, more difficult -to please with your own conduct, or do you go in all -things with a looser rein?”</p> - -<p>“In any one?” repeated Markheim, with an anguish -of consideration. “No,” he added, with despair, “in -none! I have gone down in all.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said the visitor, “content yourself with what -you are, for you will never change; and the words of -your part on this stage are irrevocably written down.”</p> - -<p>Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed it -was the visitor who first broke the silence. “That -being so,” he said, “shall I show you the money?”</p> - -<p>“And grace?” cried Markheim.</p> - -<p>“Have you not tried it?” returned the other. “Two -or three years ago, did I not see you on the platform of -revival meetings, and was not your voice the loudest in -the hymn?”</p> - -<p>“It is true,” said Markheim; “and I see clearly what -remains for me by way of duty. I thank you for these -lessons from my soul; my eyes are opened, and I behold -myself at last for what I am.”</p> - -<p>At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang -through the house; and the visitant, as though this were -some concerted signal for which he had been waiting, -changed at once in his demeanor.</p> - -<p>“The maid!” he cried. “She has returned, as I -forewarned you, and there is now before you one more -difficult passage. Her master, you must say, is ill; you -must let her in, with an assured but rather serious countenance—no -smiles, no overacting, and I promise you -success! Once the girl within, and the door closed, the -same dexterity that has already rid you of the dealer -will relieve you of this last danger in your path. -Thenceforward you have the whole evening—the whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_453" id="Page_453">[453]</a></span> -night, if needful—to ransack the treasures of the house -and to make good your safety. This is help that comes -to you with the mask of danger. Up!” he cried: “up, -friend; your life hangs trembling in the scales: up, and -act!”</p> - -<p>Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. “If I be -condemned to evil acts,” he said, “there is still one -door of freedom open—I can cease from action. If my -life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I be, as -you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I -can yet, by one decisive gesture, place myself beyond -the reach of all. My love of good is damned to barrenness; -it may, and let it be! But I have still my hatred -of evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, -you shall see that I can draw both energy and courage.”</p> - -<p>The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful -and lovely change: they brightened and softened -with a tender triumph; and, even as they brightened, -faded and dislimned. But Markheim did not pause to -watch or understand the transformation. He opened -the door and went downstairs very slowly, thinking to -himself. His past went soberly before him; he beheld -it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, random as -chance-medley—a scene of defeat. Life, as he thus reviewed -it, tempted him no longer; but on the further -side he perceived a quiet haven for his bark. He paused -in the passage, and looked into the shop, where the -candle still burned by the dead body. It was strangely -silent. Thoughts of the dealer swarmed into his mind, -as he stood gazing. And then the bell once more broke -out into impatient clamor.</p> - -<p>He confronted the maid upon the threshold with -something like a smile.</p> - -<p>“You had better go for the police,” said he: “I have -killed your master.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="p4">FOOTNOTES:</h2> - -<div class="footnotes"> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a></span> -G. Stanley Hall, <i>Adolescence</i>, vol. II.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a></span> -<i>Ibid.</i></p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a></span> -From “The First Christmas Tree,” by Henry Van Dyke. -Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a></span> -From “Evening Tales,” by Joel Chandler Harris. Copyright, -1893, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a></span> -From “Sonny, a Christmas Guest,” by Ruth McEnery Stuart. -Copyright, 1896, by The Century Co. Reprinted by special permission.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a></span> -De Quincey, “Letters to a Young Man.”</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a></span> -From “Christmas Eve on Lonesome,” by John Fox, Jr. Copyright, -1904, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a></span> -From Volume VI of the Biographical Edition of the Complete -Works of James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1913. Used -by special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a></span> -From “Under the Deodars,” by Rudyard Kipling. Copyright, -1899, by Rudyard Kipling. Reprinted by special permission of -Doubleday, Page and Company.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a></span> -From “The Works of Edgar Allan Poe,” published by Charles -Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a></span> -From “Whirligigs,” by O. Henry. Copyright, 1910, by -Doubleday, Page & Company. Reprinted by special permission of -Doubleday, Page & Company.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a></span> -From “College Years,” by Ralph D. Paine. Copyright, 1909, -by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a></span> -From “Gallegher and Other Stories,” by Richard Harding -Davis. Copyright, 1891, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a></span> -Pronounced Cal-e-<i>va</i>-ras.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a></span> -From “The Jumping Frog and Other Sketches,” by Mark -Twain. Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Bros.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a></span> -From “The Lady or the Tiger?” by Frank R. Stockton. -Copyright, 1886, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. Copyright, 1914, by -Marie Louise and Frances A. Stockton.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a></span> -From “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” by Francis Bret Harte. -Copyright, 1906, by Houghton Mifflin Company. Reprinted by -special arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized -publishers of Bret Harte’s works.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a></span> -From “A New England Nun and Other Stories,” by Mary -E. Wilkins Freeman. Copyright, 1891, by Harper & Bros. Reprinted -by special permission.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a></span> -From “In Ole Virginia,” by Thomas Nelson Page. Copyright, -1887, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a></span> -From “Old Creole Days,” by George W. Cable. Copyright, -1890, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a></span> -From “Love in Old Cloathes and Other Stories,” by H. C. -Bunner. Copyright, 1896, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a></span> -From “The Inn of Tranquillity,” by John Galsworthy. Copyright, -1912, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a></span> -From <i>Scribner’s Magazine</i>. August, 1914.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a></span> -From “The Militants,” by Mary R. S. Andrews. Copyright, -1907, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> - -<p class="pfn4"><span class="ln1"><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a></span> -From “The Merry Men and Other Tales and Fables,” by -Robert Louis Stevenson, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.</p> -</div></div> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote p4"> -<p class="pc large">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:</p> -<p class="ptn">—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.</p> -</div></div> - -</div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Short Stories for High Schools, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS *** - -***** This file should be named 50543-h.htm or 50543-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/5/4/50543/ - -Produced by Giovanni Fini, Andrew Sly, Al Haines and the -Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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