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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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