Infomotions, Inc.Actions and Reactions / Kipling, Rudyard, 1865-1936



Author: Kipling, Rudyard, 1865-1936
Title: Actions and Reactions
Publisher: Project Gutenberg
Tag(s): hajji; sophie; abu hussein; imam din; lord lundie; governor; gale anstey; miss m'leod; captain hodgson
Contributor(s): Symons, Arthur, 1865-1945 [Contributor]
Versions: original; local mirror; HTML (this file); printable
Services: find in a library; evaluate using concordance
Rights: GNU General Public License
Size: 66,750 words (short) Grade range: 6-8 (grade school) Readability score: 72 (easy)
Identifier: etext2381
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Actions and Reactions 

by Rudyard Kipling

November, 2000  [Etext #2381]


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ACTIONS  AND REACTIONS BY RUDYARD KIPLING



CONTENTS

An Habitation Enforced
   The Recall
 Garm--a Hostage
   The Power of the Dog
 The Mother Hive
   The Bees and the Flies
 With the Night Mail
   The Four Angels
 A Deal in Cotton
   The New Knighthood
 The Puzzler
   The Puzzler Little Foxes
   Gallio's Song
 The House Surgeon
   The Rabbi's Song


ACTIONS AND REACTIONS


AN HABITATION ENFORCED

         My friend, if cause doth wrest thee,
         Ere folly hath much oppressed thee,
         Far from acquaintance kest thee
         Where country may digest thee . . . 
         Thank God that so hath blessed thee,
         And sit down, Robin, and rest thee.
     THOMAS TUSSER.

It came without warning, at the very hour his hand was
outstretched to crumple the Holz and Gunsberg Combine. The New
York doctors called it overwork, and he lay in a darkened room,
one ankle crossed above the other, tongue pressed into palate,
wondering whether the next brain-surge of prickly fires would
drive his soul from all anchorages. At last they gave judgment.
With care he might in two years return to the arena, but for the
present he must go across the water and do no work whatever. He
accepted the terms. It was capitulation; but the Combine that had
shivered beneath his knife gave him all the honours of war:
Gunsberg himself, full of condolences, came to the steamer and
filled the Chapins' suite of cabins with overwhelming
flower-works.

"Smilax," said George Chapin when he saw them. "Fitz is right.
I'm dead; only I don't see why he left out the 'In Memoriam' on
the ribbons!"

"Nonsense!" his wife answered, and poured him his tincture.
"You'll be back before you can think."

He looked at himself in the mirror, surprised that his face had
not been branded by the hells of the past three months. The noise
of the decks worried him, and he lay down, his tongue only a
little pressed against his palate.

An hour later he said: "Sophie, I feel sorry about taking you
away from everything like this. I--I suppose we're the two
loneliest people on God's earth to-night."

Said Sophie his wife, and kissed him: "Isn't it something to you
that we're going together?"

They drifted about Europe for months--sometimes alone, sometimes
with chance met gipsies of their own land. From the North Cape to
the Blue Grotto at Capri they wandered, because the next steamer
headed that way, or because some one had set them on the road.
The doctors had warned Sophie that Chapin was not to take
interest even in other men's interests; but a familiar sensation
at the back of the neck after one hour's keen talk with a
Nauheimed railway magnate saved her any trouble. He nearly wept.

"And I'm over thirty," he cried. "With all I meant to do!"

"Let's call it a honeymoon," said Sophie. "D' you know, in all
the six years we've been married, you've never told me what you
meant to do with your life?"

"With my life? What's the use? It's finished now." Sophie looked
up quickly from the Bay of Naples. "As far as my business goes, I
shall have to live on my rents like that architect at San
Moritz."

"You'll get better if you don't worry; and even if it rakes time,
there are worse things than--How much have you?"

"Between four and five million. But it isn't the money. You know
it isn't. It's the principle. How could you respect me? You never
did, the first year after we married, till I went to work like
the others. Our tradition and upbringing are against it. We can't
accept those ideals."

"Well, I suppose I married you for some sort of ideal," she
answered, and they returned to their forty-third hotel.

In England they missed the alien tongues of Continental streets
that reminded them of their own polyglot cities. In England all
men spoke one tongue, speciously like American to the ear, but on
cross-examination unintelligible.,

"Ah, but you have not seen England," said a lady with iron-grey
hair. They had met her in Vienna, Bayreuth, and Florence, and
were grateful to find her again at Claridge's, for she commanded
situations, and knew where prescriptions are most carefully made
up. "You ought to take an interest in the home of our ancestors
as I do."

"I've tried for a week, Mrs. Shonts," said Sophie, "but I never
get any further than tipping German waiters."

"These men are not the true type," Mrs. Shouts went on. "I know
where you should go."

Chapin pricked up his ears, anxious to run anywhere from the
streets on which quick men, something of his kidney, did the
business denied to him.

"We hear and we obey, Mrs. Shonts," said Sophie, feeling his
unrest as he drank the loathed British tea.

Mrs. Shonts smiled, and took them in hand. She wrote widely and
telegraphed far on their behalf till, armed with her letter of
introduction, she drove them into that wilderness which is
reached from an ash-barrel of a station called Charing Cross.
They were to go to Rockett's--the farm of one Cloke, in the
southern counties--where, she assured them, they would meet the
genuine England of folklore and song.

Rocketts they found after some hours, four miles from a station,
and, so far as they could, judge in the bumpy darkness, twice as
many from a road. Trees, kine, and the outlines of barns showed
shadowy about them when they alighted, and Mr. and Mrs. Cloke, at
the open door of a deep stone-floored kitchen, made them shyly
welcome. They lay in an attic beneath a wavy whitewashed ceiling,
and, because it rained, a wood fire was made in an iron basket on
a brick hearth, and they fell asleep to the chirping of mice and
the whimper of flames.

When they woke it was a fair day, full of the noises, of birds,
the smell of box lavender, and fried bacon, mixed with an
elemental smell they had never met before.

"This," said Sophie, nearly pushing out the thin casement in an
attempt to see round the, corner, " is--what did the hack-cabman
say to the railway porter about my trunk--'quite on the top?'"

"No; 'a little bit of all right.' I feel farther away from
anywhere than I've ever felt in my life. We must find out where
the telegraph office is."

"Who cares?" said Sophie, wandering about, hairbrush in hand, to
admire the illustrated weekly pictures pasted on door and
cupboard.

But there was no rest for the alien soul till he had made sure of
the telegraph office. He asked the Clokes' daughter, laying
breakfast, while Sophie plunged her face in the lavender bush
outside the low window.

"Go to the stile a-top o' the Barn field," said Mary, "and look
across Pardons to the next spire. It's directly under. You can't
miss it--not if you keep to the footpath. My sister's the
telegraphist there. But you're in the three-mile radius, sir. The
boy delivers telegrams directly to this door from Pardons
village."

"One has to take a good deal on trust in this country," he
murmured.

Sophie looked at the close turf, scarred only with last night's
wheels, at two ruts which wound round a rickyard, and at the
circle of still orchard about the half-timbered house.

"What's the matter with it?" she said. "Telegrams delivered to
the Vale of Avalon, of course," and she beckoned in an
earnest-eyed hound of engaging manners and no engagements, who
answered, at times, to the name of Rambler. He led them, after
breakfast, to the rise behind the house where the stile stood
against the skyline, and, "I wonder what we shall find now," said
Sophie, frankly prancing with joy on the grass.

It was a slope of gap-hedged fields possessed to their centres by
clumps of brambles. Gates were not, and the rabbit-mined,
cattle-rubbed posts leaned out and in. A narrow path doubled
among the bushes, scores of white tails twinkled before the
racing hound, and a hawk rose, whistling shrilly.

"No roads, no nothing!" said Sophie, her short skirt hooked by
briers. "I thought all England was a garden. There's your spire,
George, across the valley. How curious!"

They walked toward it through an all abandoned land. Here they
found the ghost of a patch of lucerne that had refused to die:
there a harsh fallow surrendered to yard-high thistles; and here
a breadth of rampant kelk feigning to be lawful crop. In the
ungrazed pastures swaths of dead stuff caught their feet, and the
ground beneath glistened with sweat. At the bottom of the valley
a little brook had undermined its footbridge, and frothed in the
wreckage. But there stood great woods on the slopes beyond--old,
tall, and brilliant, like unfaded tapestries against the walls of
a ruined house.

"All this within a hundred miles of London," he said. "Looks as
if it had had nervous prostration, too." The, footpath turned the
shoulder of a slope, through a thicket of rank rhododendrons, and
crossed what had once been a carriage drive, which ended in the
shadow of two gigantic holm-oaks.

"A house!" said Sophie, in a whisper. "A Colonial house!"

Behind the blue-green of the twin trees rose a dark-bluish brick
Georgian pile, with a shell-shaped fan-light over its pillared
door. The hound had gone off on his own foolish quests. Except
for some stir it the branches and the flight of four startled
magpies; there was neither life nor sound about the square house,
but it looked out of its long windows most friendlily.

"Cha-armed to meet you, I'm sure," said Sophie, and curtsied to
the ground. "George, this is history I can understand. We began
here." She curtsied again.

The June sunshine twinkled on all the lights. It was as though an
old lady, wise in three generations' experience, but for the
present sitting out, bent to listen to her flushed and eager
grandchild.

"I must look!" Sophie tiptoed to a window, and shaded her eyes
with her hand. "Oh, this room's half-full of cotton-bales--wool,
I suppose! But I can see a bit of the mantelpiece. George, do
come! Isn't that some one?"

She fell back behind her husband. The front door opened slowly,
to show the hound, his nose white with milk, in charge of an
ancient of days clad in a blue linen ephod curiously gathered on
breast and shoulders.

"Certainly," said George, half aloud. "Father Time himself. This
is where he lives, Sophie."

"We came," said Sophie weakly. "Can we see the house? I'm afraid
that's our dog."

"No, 'tis Rambler," said the old man. "He's been, at my
swill-pail again. Staying at Rocketts, be ye? Come in. Ah! you
runagate!"

The hound broke from him, and he tottered after him down the
drive. They entered the hall--just such a high light hall as such
a house should own. A slim-balustered staircase, wide and shallow
and once creamy-white, climbed out of it under a long oval
window. On either side delicately moulded doors gave on to
wool-lumbered rooms, whose sea-green mantelpieces were adorned
with nymphs, scrolls, and Cupids in low relief.

"What's the firm that makes these things?" cried Sophie,
enraptured. "Oh, I forgot! These must be the originals. Adams, is
it? I never dreamed of anything like that steel-cut fender. Does
he mean us to go everywhere?"

"He's catching the dog," said George, looking out. "We don't
count."

They explored the first or ground floor, delighted as children
playing burglars.

"This is like all England," she said at last. "Wonderful, but no
explanation. You're expected to know it beforehand. Now, let's
try upstairs."

The stairs never creaked beneath their feet. From the broad
landing they entered a long, green-panelled room lighted by three
full-length windows, which overlooked the forlorn wreck of a
terraced garden, and wooded slopes beyond.

"The drawing-room, of course." Sophie swam up and down it. "That
mantelpiece--Orpheus and Eurydice--is the best of them all. Isn't
it marvellous? Why, the room seems furnished with nothing in it!
How's that, George?"

"It's the proportions. I've noticed it."

"I saw a Heppelwhite couch once"--Sophie laid her finger to her
flushed cheek and considered. "With, two of them--one on each
side--you wouldn't need anything else. Except--there must be one
perfect mirror over that mantelpiece."

"Look at that view. It's a framed Constable," her husband cried.

"No; it's a Morland--a parody of a Morland. But about that couch,
George. Don't you think Empire might be better than Heppelwhite?
Dull gold against that pale green? It's a pity they don't make
spinets nowadays."

"I believe you can get them. Look at that oak wood behind the
pines."

"'While you sat and played toccatas stately, at the clavichord,"'
Sophie hummed, and, head on one; side, nodded to where the
perfect mirror should hang:

Then they found bedrooms with dressing-rooms and
powdering-closets, and steps leading up and down--boxes of rooms,
round, square, and octagonal, with enriched ceilings and chased
door-locks.

"Now about servants. Oh!" She had darted up the last stairs to
the chequered darkness of the top floor, where loose tiles lay
among broken laths, and the walls were scrawled with names,
sentiments, and hop records. "They've been keeping pigeons here,"
she cried.

"And you could drive a buggy through the roof anywhere," said
George.

"That's what I say," the old man cried below them on the stairs.
"Not a dry place for my pigeons at all."

"But why was it allowed to get like this?" said Sophie.

"Tis with housen as teeth," he replied. "Let 'em go too far, and
there's nothing to be done. Time was they was minded to sell her,
but none would buy. She was too far away along from any place.
Time was they'd ha' lived here theyselves, but they took and
died."

"Here?" Sophie moved beneath the light of a hole in the roof.

"Nah--none dies here excep' falling off ricks and such. In London
they died." He plucked a lock of wool from his blue smock. "They
was no staple--neither the Elphicks nor the Moones. Shart and
brittle all of 'em. Dead they be seventeen year, for I've been
here caretakin' twenty-five."

"Who does all the wool belong to downstairs?" George asked.

"To the estate. I'll show you the back parts if ye like. You're
from America, ain't ye? I've had a son there once myself." They
followed him down the main stairway. He paused at the turn and
swept one hand toward the wall. "Plenty room, here for your
coffin to come down. Seven foot and three men at each end
wouldn't brish the paint. If I die in my bed they'll 'ave to
up-end me like a milk-can. 'Tis all luck, dye see?"

He led them on and on, through a maze of back kitchens, dairies,
larders, and sculleries, that melted along covered ways into a
farm-house, visibly older than the main building, which again
rambled out among barns, byres, pig-pens, stalls and stables to
the dead fields behind.

"Somehow," said Sophie, sitting exhausted on an ancient
well-curb--"somehow one wouldn't insult these lovely old things
by filling them with hay."

George looked at long stone walls upholding reaches of
silvery-oak weather-boarding; buttresses of mixed flint and
bricks; outside stairs, stone upon arched stone; curves of thatch
where grass sprouted; roundels of house-leeked tiles, and a huge
paved yard populated by two cows and the repentant Rambler. He
had not thought of himself or of the telegraph office for two and
a half hours.

"But why," said Sophie, as they went back through the crater of
stricken fields,--" why is one expected to know everything in
England? Why do they never tell?"

"You mean about the Elphicks and the Moones?" he answered.

"Yes--and the lawyers and the estate. Who are they? I wonder
whether those painted floors in the green room were real oak.
Don't you like us exploring things together--better than
Pompeii?"

George turned once more to look at the view. "Eight hundred acres
go with the house--the old man told me. Five farms altogether.
Rocketts is one of 'em."

"I like Mrs. Cloke. But what is the old house called?"

George laughed. "That's one of the things you're expected to
know. He never told me."

The Clokes were more communicative. That evening and thereafter
for a week they gave the Chapins the official history, as one
gives it to lodgers, of Friars Pardon the house and its five
farms. But Sophie asked so many questions, and George was so
humanly interested, that, as confidence in the strangers grew,
they launched, with observed and acquired detail, into the lives
and deaths and doings of the Elphicks and the Moones and their
collaterals, the Haylings and the Torrells. It was a tale told
serially by Cloke in the barn, or his wife in the dairy, the last
chapters reserved for the kitchen o' nights by the big fire, when
the two had been half the day exploring about the house, where
old Iggulden, of the blue smock, cackled and chuckled to see
them. The motives that swayed the characters were beyond their
comprehension; the fates that shifted them were gods they had
never met; the sidelights Mrs. Cloke threw on act and incident
were more amazing than anything in the record. Therefore the
Chapins listened delightedly, and blessed Mrs. Shonts.

"But why--why--why--did So-and-so do so-and-so?" Sophie would
demand from her seat by the pothook; and Mrs. Cloke would answer,
smoothing her knees, "For the sake of the place."

"I give it up," said George one night in their own room. "People
don't seem to matter in this country compared to the places they
live in. The way she tells it, Friars Pardon was a sort of
Moloch."

"Poor old thing!" They had been walking round the farms as usual
before tea. "No wonder they loved it. Think of the sacrifices
they made for it. Jane Elphick married the younger Torrell to
keep it in the family. The octagonal room with the moulded
ceiling next to the big bedroom was hers. Now what did he tell
you while he was feeding the pigs?" said Sophie.

"About the Torrell cousins and the uncle who died in Java. They
lived at Burnt House--behind High Pardons, where that brook is
all blocked up."

"No; Burnt House is under High Pardons Wood, before you come to
Gale Anstey," Sophie corrected.

"Well, old man Cloke said--"

Sophie threw open the door and called down into the kitchen,
where the Clokes were covering the fire "Mrs. Cloke, isn't Burnt
House under High Pardons?"

"Yes, my dear, of course," the soft voice. answered absently. A
cough. "I beg your pardon, Madam. What was it you said?"

"Never mind. I prefer it the other way," Sophie laughed, and
George re-told the missing chapter as she sat on the bed.

"Here to-day an' gone to-morrow," said Cloke warningly. "They've
paid their first month, but we've only that Mrs. Shonts's letter
for guarantee."

"None she sent never cheated us yet. It slipped out before I
thought. She's a most humane young lady. They'll be going away in
a little. An' you've talked a lot too, Alfred."

"Yes, but the Elphicks are all dead. No one can bring my loose
talking home to me. But why do they stay on and stay on so?"

In due time George and Sophie asked each other that question, and
put it aside. They argued that the climate--a pearly blend,
unlike the hot and cold ferocities of their native land--suited
them, as the thick stillness of the nights certainly suited
George. He was saved even the sight of a metalled road, which, as
presumably leading to business, wakes desire in a man; and the
telegraph office at the village of Friars Pardon, where they sold
picture post-cards and pegtops, was two walking miles across the
fields and woods.

For all that touched his past among his fellows, or their
remembrance of him, he might have been in another planet; and
Sophie, whose life had been very largely spent among husbandless
wives of lofty ideals, had no wish to leave this present of God.
The unhurried meals, the foreknowledge of deliciously empty hours
to follow, the breadths of soft sky under which they walked
together and reckoned time only by their hunger or thirst; the
good grass beneath their feet that cheated the miles; their
discoveries, always together, amid the farms--Griffons, Rocketts,
Burnt House, Gale Anstey, and the Home Farm, where Iggulden of
the blue smock-frock would waylay them, and they would ransack
the old house once more; the long wet afternoons when, they
tucked up their feet on the bedroom's deep window-sill over
against the apple-trees, and talked together as never till then
had they found time to talk--these things contented her soul, and
her body throve.

"Have you realized," she asked one morning, "that we've been here
absolutely alone for the last thirty-four days?"

"Have you counted them?" he asked.

"Did you like them?" she replied.

"I must have. I didn't think about them. Yes, I have. Six months
ago I should have fretted myself sick. Remember at Cairo? I've
only had two or three bad times. Am I getting better, or is it
senile decay?"

"Climate, all climate." Sophie swung her new-bought English
boots, as she sat on the stile overlooking Friars Pardon, behind
the Clokes's barn.

"One must take hold of things though," he said, "if it's only to
keep one's hand in." His eyes did not flicker now as they swept
the empty fields. "Mustn't one?"

"Lay out a Morristown links over Gale Anstey. I dare say you
could hire it."

"No, I'm not as English as that--nor as Morristown. Cloke says
all the farms here could be made to pay."

"Well, I'm Anastasia in the 'Treasure of Franchard.' I'm content
to be alive and purr. There's no hurry."

"No." He smiled. "All the same, I'm going to see after my mail."

"You promised you wouldn't have any."

"There's some business coming through that's amusing me. Honest.
It doesn't get on my nerves at all."

"Want a secretary?"

"No, thanks, old thing! Isn't that quite English?"

"Too English! Go away." But none the less in broad daylight she
returned the kiss. "I'm off to Pardons. I haven't been to the
house for nearly a week."

"How've you decided to furnish Jane Elphick's bedroom?" he
laughed, for it had come to be a permanent Castle in Spain
between them.

"Black Chinese furniture and yellow silk brocade," she answered,
and ran downhill. She scattered a few cows at a gap with a
flourish of a ground-ash that Iggulden had cut for her a week
ago, and singing as she passed under the holmoaks, sought the
farm-house at the back of Friars Pardon. The old man was not to
be found, and she knocked at his half-opened door, for she needed
him to fill her idle forenoon. A blue-eyed sheep-dog, a new
friend, and Rambler's old enemy, crawled out and besought her to
enter.

Iggulden sat in his chair by the fire, a thistle-spud between his
knees, his head drooped. Though she had never seen death before,
her heart, that missed a beat, told her that he was dead. She did
not speak or cry, but stood outside the door, and the dog licked
her hand. When he threw up his nose, she heard herself saying:
"Don't howl! Please don't begin to howl, Scottie, or I shall run
away!"

She held her ground while the shadows in the rickyard moved
toward noon; sat after a while on the steps by the door, her arms
round the dog's neck, waiting till some one should come. She
watched the smokeless chimneys of Friars Pardon slash its roofs
with shadow, and the smoke of Iggulden's last lighted fire
gradually thin and cease. Against her will she fell to wondering
how many Moones, Elphicks, and Torrells had been swung round the
turn of the broad Mall stairs. Then she remembered the old man's
talk of being "up-ended like a milk-can," and buried her face on
Scottie's neck. At last a horse's feet clinked upon flags,
rustled in the old grey straw of the rickyard, and she found
herself facing the vicar--a figure she had seen at church
declaiming impossibilities (Sophie was a Unitarian) in an
unnatural voice.

"He's dead," she said, without preface.

"Old Iggulden? I was coming for a talk with him." The vicar
passed in uncovered. "Ah!" she heard him say. "Heart-failure! How
long have you been here?"

"Since a quarter to eleven." She looked at her watch earnestly
and saw that her hand did not shake.

"I'll sit with him now till the doctor comes. D'you think you
could tell him, and--yes, Mrs. Betts in the cottage with the
wistaria next the blacksmith's? I'm afraid this has been rather a
shock to you."

Sophie nodded, and fled toward the village. Her body failed her
for a moment; she dropped beneath a hedge, and looked back at the
great house. In some fashion its silence and stolidity steadied
her for her errand.

Mrs. Betts, small, black-eyed, and dark, was almost as
unconcerned as Friars Pardon.

"Yiss, yiss, of course. Dear me! Well, Iggulden he had had his
day in my father's time. Muriel, get me my little blue bag,
please. Yiss, ma'am. They come down like ellum-branches in still
weather. No warnin' at all. Muriel, my bicycle's be'ind the
fowlhouse. I'll tell Dr. Dallas, ma'am."

She trundled off on her wheel like a brown bee, while
Sophie--heaven above and earth beneath changed--walked stiffly
home, to fall over George at his letters, in a muddle of laughter
and tears.

"It's all quite natural for them," she gasped. "They come down
like ellum-branches in still weather. Yiss, ma'am.' No, there
wasn't anything in the least horrible, only--only--Oh, George,
that poor shiny stick of his between his poor, thin knees! I
couldn't have borne it if Scottie had howled. I didn't know the
vicar was so--so sensitive. He said he was afraid it was
ra--rather a shock. Mrs. Betts told me to go home, and I wanted
to collapse on her floor. But I didn't disgrace myself. I--I
couldn't have left him--could I?"

"You're sure you've took no 'arm?" cried Mrs. Cloke, who had
heard the news by farm-telegraphy, which is older but swifter
than Marconi's.

"No. I'm perfectly well," Sophie protested.

"You lay down till tea-time." Mrs. Cloke patted her shoulder.
"THEY'll be very pleased, though she 'as 'ad no proper
understandin' for twenty years."

"They" came before twilight--a black-bearded man in moleskins,
and a little palsied old woman, who chirruped like a wren.

"I'm his son," said the man to Sophie, among the lavender bushes.
"We 'ad a difference--twenty year back, and didn't speak since.
But I'm his son all the 'same, and we thank you for the
watching."

"I'm only glad I happened to be there," she answered, and from
the bottom of her heart she meant it.

"We heard he spoke a lot o' you--one time an' another since you
came. We thank you kindly," the man added.

"Are you the son that was in America?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. On my uncle's farm, in Connecticut. He was what they
call rood-master there."

"Whereabouts in Connecticut?" asked George over her shoulder.

"Veering Holler was the name. I was there six year with my
uncle."

"How small the world is!" Sophie cried. "Why, all my mother's
people come from Veering Hollow. There must be some there
still--the Lashmars. Did you ever hear of them?"

"I remember hearing that name, seems to me," he answered, but his
face was blank as the back of a spade.

A little before dusk a woman in grey, striding like a
foot-soldier, and bearing on her arm a long pole, crashed through
the orchard calling for food. George, upon whom the unannounced
English worked mysteriously, fled to the parlour; but Mrs. Cloke
came forward beaming. Sophie could not escape.

"We've only just heard of it;" said the stranger, turning on her.
"I've been out with the otter-hounds all day. It was a splendidly
sportin' thing "

"Did you--er--kill?" said Sophie. She knew from books she could
not go far wrong here.

"Yes, a dry bitch--seventeen pounds," was the answer. "A
splendidly sportin' thing of you to do. Poor old Iggulden--"

"Oh--that!" said Sophie, enlightened.

"If there had been any people at Pardons it would never have
happened. He'd have been looked after. But what can you expect
from a parcel of London solicitors?"

Mrs. Cloke murmured something.

"No. I'm soaked from the knees down. If I hang about I shall get
chilled. A cup of tea, Mrs. Cloke, and I can eat one of your
sandwiches as I go." She wiped her weather-worn face with a green
and yellow silk handkerchief.

"Yes, my lady!" Mrs. Cloke ran and returned swiftly.

"Our land marches with Pardons for a mile on the south," she
explained, waving the full cup, "but one has quite enough to do
with one's own people without poachin'. Still, if I'd known, I'd
have sent Dora, of course. Have you seen her this afternoon, Mrs.
Cloke? No? I wonder whether that girl did sprain her ankle. Thank
you." It was a formidable hunk of bread and bacon that Mrs. Cloke
presented. "As I was sayin', Pardons is a scandal! Lettin' people
die like dogs. There ought to be people there who do their duty.
You've done yours, though there wasn't the faintest call upon
you. Good night. Tell Dora, if she comes, I've gone on."

She strode away, munching her crust, and Sophie reeled breathless
into the parlour, to shake the shaking George.

"Why did you keep catching my eye behind the blind? Why didn't
you come out and do your duty?"

"Because I should have burst. Did you see the mud on its cheek?"
he said.

"Once. I daren't look again. Who is she?"

"God--a local deity then. Anyway, she's another of the things
you're expected to know by instinct."

Mrs. Cloke, shocked at their levity, told them that it was Lady
Conant, wife of Sir Walter Conant, Baronet, a large landholder in
the neighbourhood; and if not God; at least His visible
Providence. George made her talk of that family for an hour.

"Laughter," said Sophie afterward in their own room, "is the mark
of the savage. Why couldn't you control your emotions? It's all
real to her."

"It's all real to me. That's my trouble," he answered in an
altered tone. "Anyway, it's real enough to mark time with. Don't
you think so?"

"What d'you mean?" she asked quickly, though she knew his voice.

"That I'm better. I'm well enough to kick."

"What at?"

"This!" He waved his hand round the one room. "I must have
something to play with till I'm fit for work again."

"Ah!" She sat on the bed and leaned forward, her hands clasped.
"I wonder if it's good for you."

"We've been better here than anywhere," he went on slowly. "One
could always sell it again."

She nodded gravely, but her eyes sparkled.

"The only thing that worries me is what happened this morning. I
want to know how you feel about it. If it's on your nerves in the
least we can have the old farm at the back of the house pulled
down, or perhaps it has spoiled the notion for you?"

"Pull it down?" she cried. "You've no business faculty. Why,
that's where we could live while we're putting the big house in
order. It's almost under the same roof. No! What happened this
morning seemed to be more of a--of a leading than anything else.
There ought to be people at Pardons. Lady Conant's quite right."

"I was thinking more of the woods and the roads. I could double
the value of the place in six months."

"What do they want for it?" She shook her head, and her loosened
hair fell glowingly about her cheeks.

"Seventy-five thousand dollars. They'll take sixty-eight."

"Less than half what we paid for our old yacht when we married.
And we didn't have a good time in her. You were--"

"Well, I discovered I was too much of an American to be content
to be a rich man's son. You aren't blaming me for that?"

"Oh, no. Only it was a very businesslike honeymoon. How far are
you along with the deal, George?"

"I can mail the deposit on the purchase money to-morrow morning,
and we can have the thing completed in a fortnight or three
weeks--if you say so."

"Friars Pardon--Friars Pardon!" Sophie chanted rapturously, her
dark gray eyes big with delight. "All the farms? Gale Anstey,
Burnt House, Rocketts, the Home Farm, and Griffons? Sure you've
got 'em all?"

"Sure." He smiled.

"And the woods? High Pardons Wood, Lower Pardons, Suttons,
Dutton's Shaw, Reuben's Ghyll, Maxey's Ghyll, and both the Oak
Hangers? Sure you've got 'em all?"

"Every last stick. Why, you know them as well as I do." He
laughed. "They say there's five thousand--a thousand pounds'
worth of lumber--timber they call it--in the Hangers alone."

"Mrs. Cloke's oven must be mended first thing, and the kitchen
roof. I think I'll have all this whitewashed," Sophie broke in,
pointing to the ceiling. "The whole place is a scandal. Lady
Conant is quite right. George, when did you begin to fall in love
with the house? In the greenroom that first day? I did."

"I'm not in love with it. One must do something to mark time till
one's fit for work."

"Or when we stood under the oaks, and the door opened? Oh! Ought
I to go to poor Iggulden's funeral?" She sighed with utter
happiness.

"Wouldn't they call it a liberty now?" said he.

"But I liked him."

"But you didn't own him at the date of his death."

"That wouldn't keep me away. Only, they made such a fuss about
the watching"--she caught her breath--"it might be ostentatious
from that point of view, too. Oh, George"--she reached for his
hand--"we're two little orphans moving in worlds not realized,
and we shall make some bad breaks. But we're going to have the
time of our lives."

"We'll run up to London to-morrow, and see if we can hurry those
English law solicitors. I want to get to work."

They went. They suffered many things ere they returned across the
fields in a fly one Saturday night, nursing a two by
two-and-a-half box of deeds and maps--lawful owners of Friars
Pardon and the five decayed farms therewith.

"I do most sincerely 'ope and trust you'll be 'appy, Madam," Mrs.
Cloke gasped, when she was told the news by the kitchen fire.

"Goodness! It isn't a marriage!" Sophie exclaimed, a little awed;
for to them the joke, which to an American means work, was only
just beginning.

"If it's took in a proper spirit"--Mrs. Cloke's eye turned toward
her oven.

"Send and have that mended to-morrow," Sophie whispered.

"We couldn't 'elp noticing," said Cloke slowly, "from the times
you walked there, that you an' your lady was drawn to it,
but--but I don't know as we ever precisely thought--" His wife's
glance checked him.

"That we were that sort of people," said George. "We aren't sure
of it ourselves yet."

"Perhaps," said Cloke, rubbing his knees, "just for the sake of
saying something, perhaps you'll park it?"

"What's that?" said George.

"Turn it all into a fine park like Violet Hill"--he jerked a
thumb to westward--"that Mr. Sangres bought. It was four farms,
and Mr. Sangres made a fine park of them, with a herd of faller
deer."

"Then it wouldn't be Friars Pardon," said Sophie. "Would it?"

"I don't know as I've ever heard Pardons was ever anything but
wheat an' wool. Only some gentlemen say that parks are less
trouble than tenants." He laughed nervously. "But the gentry, o'
course, they keep on pretty much as they was used to."

"I see," said Sophie. "How did Mr. Sangres make his money?"

"I never rightly heard. It was pepper an' spices, or it may ha'
been gloves. No. Gloves was Sir Reginald Liss at Marley End.
Spices was Mr. Sangres. He's a Brazilian gentleman--very sunburnt
like."

"Be sure o' one thing. You won't 'ave any trouble," said Mrs.
Cloke, just before they went to bed.

Now the news of the purchase was told to Mr. and Mrs. Cloke alone
at 8 P.M. of a Saturday. None left the farm till they set out for
church next morning. Yet when they reached the church and were
about to slip aside into their usual seats, a little beyond the
font, where they could see the red-furred tails of the bellropes
waggle and twist at ringing time, they were swept forward
irresistibly, a Cloke on either flank (and yet they had not
walked with the Clokes), upon the ever-retiring bosom of a
black-gowned verger, who ushered them into a room of a pew at the
head of the left aisle, under the pulpit.

"This," he sighed reproachfully, "is the Pardons' Pew," and shut
them in.

They could see little more than the choir boys in the chancel,
but to the roots of the hair of their necks they felt the
congregation behind mercilessly devouring them by look.

"When the wicked man turneth away." The strong, alien voice of
the priest vibrated under the hammer-beam roof, and a loneliness
unfelt before swamped their hearts, as they searched for places
in the unfamiliar Church of England service. The Lord's Prayer
"Our Father, which art"--set the seal on that desolation. Sophie
found herself thinking how in other lands their purchase would
long ere this have been discussed from every point of view in a
dozen prints, forgetting that George for months had not been
allowed to glance at those black and bellowing head-lines. Here
was nothing but silence--not even hostility! The game was up to
them; the other players hid their cards and waited. Suspense, she
felt, was in the air, and when her sight cleared, saw, indeed, a
mural tablet of a footless bird brooding upon the carven motto, "
Wayte awhyle--wayte awhyle."

At the Litany George had trouble with an unstable hassock, and
drew the slip of carpet under the pewseat. Sophie pushed her end
back also, and shut her eyes against a burning that felt like
tears. When she opened them she was looking at her mother's
maiden name, fairly carved on a blue flagstone on the pew floor:
Ellen Lashmar. ob. 1796. aetat 27.

She nudged George and pointed. Sheltered, as they kneeled, they
looked for more knowledge, but the rest of the slab was blank.

"Ever hear of her?" he whispered.

"Never knew any of us came from here."

"Coincidence?"

"Perhaps. But it makes me feel better," and she smiled and winked
away a tear on her lashes, and took his hand while they prayed
for "all women labouring of child"--not "in the perils of
childbirth"; and the sparrows who had found their way through the
guards behind the glass windows chirped above the faded gilt and
alabaster family tree of the Conants.

The baronet's pew was on the right of the aisle. After service
its inhabitants moved forth without haste, but so as to block
effectively a dusky person with a large family who champed in
their rear.

"Spices, I think," said Sophie, deeply delighted as the Sangres
closed up after the Conants. "Let 'em get away, George."

But when they came out many folk whose eyes were one still
lingered by the lychgate.

"I want to see if any more Lashmars are buried here," said
Sophie.

"Not now. This seems to be show day. Come home quickly," he
replied.

A group of families, the Clokes a little apart, opened to let
them through. The men saluted with jerky nods, the women with
remnants of a curtsey. Only Iggulden's son, his mother on his
arm, lifted his hat as Sophie passed.

"Your people," said the clear voice of Lady Conant in her ear.

"I suppose so," said Sophie, blushing, for they were within two
yards of her; but it was not a question.

"Then that child looks as if it were coming down with mumps. You
ought to tell the mother she shouldn't have brought it to
church."

"I can't leave 'er behind, my lady," the woman said. "She'd set
the 'ouse afire in a minute, she's that forward with the matches.
Ain't you, Maudie dear?"

"Has Dr. Dallas seen her?"

"Not yet, my lady."

"He must. You can't get away, of course. M-m! My idiotic maid is
coming in for her teeth to-morrow at twelve. She shall pick her
up--at Gale Anstey, isn't it?--at eleven."

"Yes. Thank you very much, my lady."

"I oughtn't to have done it," said Lady Conant apologetically,
"but there has been no one at Pardons for so long that you'll
forgive my poaching. Now, can't you lunch with us? The vicar
usually comes too. I don't use the horses on a Sunday"--she
glanced at the Brazilian's silver-plated chariot. "It's only a
mile across the fields."

"You--you're very kind," said Sophie, hating herself because her
lip trembled.

"My dear," the compelling tone dropped to a soothing gurgle,
"d'you suppose I don't know how it feels to come to a strange
county--country I should say--away from one's own people? When I
first left the Shires--I'm Shropshire, you know--I cried for a
day and a night. But fretting doesn't make loneliness any better.
Oh, here's Dora. She did sprain her leg that day."

"I'm as lame as a tree still," said the tall maiden frankly. "You
ought to go out with the otter-hounds, Mrs. Chapin. I believe
they're drawing your water next week."

Sir Walter had already led off George, and the vicar came up on
the other side of Sophie. There was no escaping the swift
procession or the leisurely lunch, where talk came and went in
low-voiced eddies that had the village for their centre. Sophie
heard the vicar and Sir Walter address her husband lightly as
Chapin! (She also remembered many women known in a previous life
who habitually addressed their husbands as Mr. Such-an-one.)
After lunch Lady Conant talked to her explicitly of maternity as
that is achieved in cottages and farm-houses remote from aid, and
of the duty thereto of the mistress of Pardons.

A gate in a beech hedge, reached across triple lawns, let them
out before tea-time into the unkempt south side of their land.

"I want your hand, please," said Sophie as soon as they were safe
among the beech boles and the lawless hollies. "D'you remember
the old maid in 'Providence and the Guitar' who heard the
Commissary swear, and hardly reckoned herself a maiden lady
afterward? Because I'm a relative of hers. Lady Conant is--"

"Did you find out anything about the Lashmars?" he interrupted.

"I didn't ask. I'm going to write to Aunt Sydney about it first.
Oh, Lady Conant said something at lunch about their having bought
some land from some Lashmars a few years ago. I found it was at
the beginning of last century."

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'Really, how interesting!' Like that. I'm not going to
push myself forward. I've been hearing about Mr. Sangres's
efforts in that direction. And you? I couldn't see you behind the
flowers. Was it very deep water, dear?"

George mopped a brow already browned by outdoor exposures.

"Oh no--dead easy," he answered. "I've bought Friars Pardon to
prevent Sir Walter's birds straying."

A cock pheasant scuttered through the dry leaves and exploded
almost under their feet. Sophie jumped.

"That's one of 'em," said George calmly.

"Well, your nerves are better, at any rate," said she. "Did you
tell 'em you'd bought the thing to play with?"

"No. That was where my nerve broke down. I only made one bad
break--I think. I said I couldn't see why hiring land to men to
farm wasn't as much a business proposition as anything else."

"And what did they say?"

"They smiled. I shall know what that smile means some day. They
don't waste their smiles. D'you see that track by Gale Anstey?"

They looked down from the edge of the hanger over a cup-like
hollow. People by twos and threes in their Sunday best filed
slowly along the paths that connected farm to farm.

"I've never seen so many on our land before," said Sophie. "Why
is it?"

"To show us we mustn't shut up their rights of way."

"Those cow-tracks we've been using cross lots?" said Sophie
forcibly.

"Yes. Any one of 'em would cost us two thousand pounds each in
legal expenses to close."

"But we don't want to," she said.

"The whole community would fight if we did."

"But it's our land. We can do what we like."

"It's not our land. We've only paid for it. We belong to it, and
it belongs to the people--our people they call 'em. I've been to
lunch with the English too."

They passed slowly from one bracken-dotted field to the
next--flushed with pride of ownership, plotting alterations and
restorations at each turn; halting in their tracks to argue,
spreading apart to embrace two views at once, or closing in to
consider one. Couples moved out of their way, but smiling
covertly.

"We shall make some bad breaks," he said at last.

"Together, though. You won't let anyone else in, will you?"

"Except the contractors. This syndicate handles, this proposition
by its little lone."

"But you might feel the want of some one," she insisted.

"I shall--but it will be you. It's business, Sophie, but it's
going to be good fun."

"Please God," she answered flushing, and cried to herself as they
went back to tea. "It's worth it. Oh, it's worth it."

The repairing and moving into Friars Pardon was business of the
most varied and searching, but all done English fashion, without
friction. Time and money alone were asked. The rest lay in the
hands of beneficent advisers from London, or spirits, male and
female, called up by Mr. and Mrs. Cloke from the wastes of the
farms. In the centre stood George and Sophie, a little aghast,
their interests reaching out on every side.

"I ain't sayin' anything against Londoners," said Cloke,
self-appointed clerk of the outer works, consulting engineer,
head of the immigration bureau, and superintendent of woods and
forests; "but your own people won't go about to make more than a
fair profit out of you."

"How is one to know?" said George.

"Five years from now, or so on, maybe, you'll be lookin' over
your first year's accounts, and, knowin' what you'll know then,
you'll say: 'Well, Billy Beartup'--or Old Cloke as it might
be--'did me proper when I was new.' No man likes to have that
sort of thing laid up against him."

"I think I see," said George. "But five years is a long time to
look ahead."

"I doubt if that oak Billy Beartup throwed in Reuben's Ghyll will
be fit for her drawin-room floor in less than seven," Cloke
drawled.

"Yes, that's my work," said Sophie. (Billy Beartup of Griffons, a
woodman by training and birth, a tenant farmer by misfortune of
marriage, had laid his broad axe at her feet a month before.)
"Sorry if I've committed you to another eternity."

"And we shan't even know where we've gone wrong with your new
carriage drive before that time either," said Cloke, ever anxious
to keep the balance true with an ounce or two in Sophie's favour.
The past four months had taught George better than to reply. The
carriage road winding up the hill was his present keen interest.
They set off to look at it, and the imported American scraper
which had blighted the none too sunny soul of "Skim" Winsh, the
carter.

But young Iggulden was in charge now, and under his guidance,
Buller and Roberts, the great horses, moved mountains.

"You lif' her like that, an' you tip her like that," he explained
to the gang. "My uncle he was roadmaster in Connecticut."

"Are they roads yonder?" said Skim, sitting under the laurels.

"No better than accommodation roads. Dirt, they call 'em. They'd
suit you, Skim."

"Why?" said the incautious Skim.

"Cause you'd take no hurt when you fall out of your cart drunk on
a Saturday," was the answer.

"I didn't last time neither," Skim roared.

After the loud laugh, old Whybarne of Gale Anstey piped feebly,
"Well, dirt or no dirt, there's no denyin' Chapin knows a good
job when he sees it. 'E don't build one day and dee-stroy the
next, like that nigger Sangres."

"SHE's the one that knows her own mind," said Pinky, brother to
Skim Winsh, and a Napoleon among carters who had helped to bring
the grand piano across the fields in the autumn rains.

"She had ought to," said Iggulden. "Whoa, Buller! She's a
Lashmar. They never was double-thinking."

"Oh, you found that? Has the answer come from your uncle?" said
Skim, doubtful whether so remote a land as America had posts.

The others looked at him scornfully. Skim was always a day behind
the fair. Iggulden rested from his labours. "She's a Lashmar
right enough. I started up to write to my uncle--at once--the
month after she said her folks came from Veering Holler."

"Where there ain't any roads?" Skim interrupted, but none
laughed.

"My uncle he married an American woman for his second, and she
took it up like a like the coroner. She's a Lashmar out of the
old Lashmar place, 'fore they sold to Conants. She ain't no Toot
Hill Lashmar, nor any o' the Crayford lot. Her folk come out of
the ground here, neither chalk nor forest, but wildishers. They
sailed over to America--I've got it all writ down by my uncle's
woman--in eighteen hundred an' nothing. My uncle says they're all
slow begetters like."

"Would they be gentry yonder now?" Skim asked.

"Nah--there's no gentry in America, no matter how long you're
there. It's against their law. There's only rich and poor
allowed. They've been lawyers and such like over yonder for a
hundred years but she's a Lashmar for all that."

"Lord! What's a hundred years?" said Whybarne, who had seen
seventy-eight of them.

"An' they write too, from yonder--my uncle's woman writes--that
you can still tell 'em by headmark. Their hair's foxy-red
still--an' they throw out when they walk. He's in-toed-treads
like a gipsy; but you watch, an' you'll see 'er throw, out--like
a colt."

"Your trace wants taking up." Pinky's large ears had caught the
sound of voices, and as the two broke through the laurels the men
were hard at work, their eyes on Sophie's feet.

She had been less fortunate in her inquiries than Iggulden, for
her Aunt Sydney of Meriden (a badged and certificated Daughter of
the Revolution to boot) answered her inquiries with a two-paged
discourse on patriotism, the leaflets of a Village Improvement
Society, of which she was president, and a demand for an overdue
subscription to a Factory Girls' Reading Circle. Sophie burned it
all in the Orpheus and Eurydice grate, and kept her own counsel.

"What I want to know," said George, when Spring was coming, and
the gardens needed thought. "is who will ever pay me for my
labour? I've put in at least half a million dollars' worth
already."

"Sure you're not taking too much out of yourself?" his wife
asked.

"Oh, no; I haven't been conscious of myself all winter." He
looked at his brown English gaiters and smiled. "It's all behind
me now. I believe I could sit down and think of all that--those
months before we sailed."

"Don't--ah, don't!" she cried.

"But I must go back one day. You don't want to keep me out of
business always--or do you?" He ended with a nervous laugh.

Sophie sighed as she drew her own ground-ash (of old Iggulden's
cutting) from the hall rack.

"Aren't you overdoing it too? You look a little tired," he said.

"You make me tired. I'm going to Rocketts to see Mrs. Cloke about
Mary." (This was the sister of the telegraphist, promoted to be
sewing-maid at Pardons.) "Coming?"

"I'm due at Burnt House to see about the new well. By the way,
there's a sore throat at Gale Anstey--"

"That's my province. Don't interfere. The Whybarne children
always have sore throats. They do it for jujubes."

"Keep away from Gale Anstey till I make sure, honey. Cloke ought
to have told me."

"These people don't tell. Haven't you learnt that yet? But I'll
obey, me lord. See you later!"

She set off afoot, for within the three main roads that bounded
the blunt triangle of the estate (even by night one could
scarcely hear the carts on them), wheels were not used except for
farm work. The footpaths served all other purposes. And though at
first they had planned improvements, they had soon fallen in with
the customs of their hidden kingdom, and moved about the
soft-footed ways by woodland, hedgerow, and shaw as freely as the
rabbits. Indeed, for the most part Sophie walked bareheaded
beneath her helmet of chestnut hair; but she had been plagued of
late by vague toothaches, which she explained to Mrs. Cloke, who
asked some questions. How it came about Sophie never knew, but
after a while behold Mrs. Cloke's arm was about her waist, and
her head was on that deep bosom behind the shut kitchen door.

"My dear! My dear!" the elder woman almost sobbed. "An' d'you
mean to tell me you never suspicioned?  Why--why--where was you
ever taught anything at all? Of course it is. It's what we've
been only waitin' for, all of us. Time and again I've said to
Lady--" she checked herself. "An' now we shall be as we should
be."

"But--but--but--" Sophie whimpered.

"An' to see you buildin' your nest so busy--pianos and books--an'
never thinkin' of a nursery!"

"No more I did." Sophie sat bolt upright, and began to laugh.

"Time enough yet." The fingers tapped thoughtfully on the broad
knee. "But--they must be strange-minded folk over yonder with
you! Have you thought to send for your mother? She dead? My dear,
my dear! Never mind! She'll be happy where she knows. 'Tis God's
work. An' we was only waitin' for it, for you've never failed in
your duty yet. It ain't your way. What did you say about my
Mary's doings?" Mrs. Cloke's face hardened as she pressed her
chin on Sophie's forehead. "If any of your girls thinks to be'ave
arbitrary now, I'll--But they won't, my dear. I'll see they do
their duty too. Be sure you'll 'ave no trouble."

When Sophie walked back across the fields heaven and earth
changed about her as on the day of old Iggulden's death. For an
instant she thought of the wide turn of the staircase, and the
new ivory-white paint that no coffin corner could scar, but
presently, the shadow passed in a pure wonder and bewilderment
that made her reel. She leaned against one of their new gates and
looked over their lands for some other stay.

"Well," she said resignedly, half aloud, "we must try to make him
feel that he isn't a third in our party," and turned the corner
that looked over Friars Pardon, giddy, sick, and faint.

Of a sudden the house they had bought for a whim stood up as she
had never seen it before, low-fronted, broad-winged, ample,
prepared by course of generations for all such things. As it had
steadied her when it lay desolate, so now that it had meaning
from their few months of life within, it soothed and promised
good. She went alone and quickly into the hall, and kissed either
door-post, whispering: "Be good to me. You know! You've never
failed in your duty yet."

When the matter was explained to George, he would have sailed at
once to their own land, but this Sophie forbade.

"I don't want science," she said. "I just want to be loved, and
there isn't time for that at home. Besides," she added, looking
out of the window, "it would be desertion."

George was forced to soothe himself with linking Friars Pardon to
the telegraph system of Great Britain by
telephone--three-quarters of a mile of poles, put in by Whybarne
and a few friends. One of these was a foreigner from the next
parish. Said he when the line was being run: "There's an old
ellum right in our road. Shall us throw her?"

"Toot Hill parish folk, neither grace nor good luck, God help
'em." Old Whybarne shouted the local proverb from three poles
down the line. "We ain't goin' to lay any axe-iron to coffin-wood
here not till we know where we are yet awhile. Swing round 'er,
swing round!"

To this day, then, that sudden kink in the straight line across
the upper pasture remains a mystery to Sophie and George. Nor can
they tell why Skim Winsh, who came to his cottage under Dutton
Shaw most musically drunk at 10.45 P.M of every Saturday night,
as his father had done before him, sang no more at the bottom of
the garden steps, where Sophie always feared he would break his
neck. The path was undoubtedly an ancient right of way, and at
10.45 P.M. on Saturdays Skim remembered it was his duty to
posterity to keep it open--till Mrs. Cloke spoke to him once. She
spoke likewise to her daughter Mary, sewing maid at Pardons, and
to Mary's best new friend, the five-foot-seven imported London
house-maid, who taught Mary to trim hats, and found the country
dullish.

But there was no noise--at no time was there any noise--and when
Sophie walked abroad she met no one in her path unless she had
signified a wish that way. Then they appeared to protest that all
was well with them and their children, their chickens, their
roofs, their water-supply, and their sons in the police or the
railway service.

"But don't you find it dull, dear?" said George, loyally doing
his best not to worry as the months went by.

"I've been so busy putting my house in order I haven't had time
to think," said she. "Do you?"

"No--no. If I could only be sure of you."

She turned on the green drawing-room's couch (it was Empire, not
Heppelwhite after all), and laid aside a list of linen and
blankets.

"It has changed everything, hasn't it?" she whispered.

"Oh, Lord, yes. But I still think if we went back to Baltimore "

"And missed our first real summer together. No thank you, me
lord."

"But we're absolutely alone."

"Isn't that what I'm doing my best to remedy? Don't you worry. I
like it--like it to the marrow of my little bones. You don't
realize what her house means to a woman. We thought we were
living in it last year, but we hadn't begun to. Don't you rejoice
in your study, George?"

"I prefer being here with you." He sat down on the floor by the
couch and took her hand.

"Seven," she said, as the French clock struck. "Year before last
you'd just be coming back from business."

He winced at the recollection, then laughed. "Business! I've been
at work ten solid hours to-day."

"Where did you lunch? With the Conants?"

"No; at Dutton Shaw, sitting on a log, with my feet in a swamp.
But we've found out where the old spring is, and we're going to
pipe it down to Gale Anstey next year."

"I'll come and see to-morrow. Oh, please open the door, dear. I
want to look down the passage. Isn't that corner by the
stair-head lovely where the sun strikes in?" She looked through
half-closed eyes at the vista of ivory-white and pale green all
steeped in liquid gold.

"There's a step out of Jane Elphick's bedroom," she went on--"and
his first step in the world ought to be up. I shouldn't wonder if
those people hadn't put it there on purpose. George, will it make
any odds to you if he's a girl?"

He answered, as he had many times before, that his interest was
his wife, not the child.

"Then you're the only person who thinks so." She laughed. "Don't
be silly, dear. It's expected. I know. It's my duty. I shan't be
able to look our people in the face if I fail."

"What concern is it of theirs, confound 'em!"

"You'll see. Luckily the tradition of the house is boys, Mrs.
Cloke says, so I'm provided for. Shall you ever begin to
understand these people? I shan't."

"And we bought it for fun--for fun!" he groaned. "And here we are
held up for goodness knows bow long!"

"Why? Were you thinking of selling it?" He did not answer. "Do
you remember the second Mrs. Chapin?" she demanded.

This was a bold, brazen little black-browed woman--a widow for
choice--who on Sophie's death was guilefully to marry George for
his wealth and ruin him in a year. George being busy, Sophie had
invented her some two years after her marriage, and conceived she
was alone among wives in so doing.

"You aren't going to bring her up again?" he asked anxiously.

"I only want to say that I should hate any one who bought Pardons
ten times worse than I used to hate the second Mrs. Chapin. Think
what we've put into it of our two selves."

"At least a couple of million dollars. I know I could have
made--" He broke off.

"The beasts!" she went on. "They'd be sure to build a red-brick
lodge at the gates, and cut the lawn up for bedding out. You must
leave instructions in your will that he's never to do that,
George, won't you?"

He laughed and took her hand again but said nothing till it was
time to dress. Then he muttered "What the devil use is a man's
country to him when he can't do business in it?"

Friars Pardon stood faithful to its tradition. At the appointed
time was born, not that third in their party to whom Sophie meant
to be so kind, but a godling; in beauty, it was manifest,
excelling Eros, as in wisdom Confucius; an enhancer of delights,
a renewer of companionships and an interpreter of Destiny. This
last George did not realise till he met Lady Conant striding
through Dutton Shaw a few days after the event.

"My dear fellow," she cried, and slapped him heartily on the
back, "I can't tell you how glad we all are. Oh, she'll be all
right. (There's never been any trouble over the birth of an heir
at Pardons.) Now where the dooce is it?" She felt largely in her
leather-boundskirt and drew out a small silver mug. "I sent a
note to your wife about it, but my silly ass of a groom forgot to
take this. You can save me a tramp. Give her my love." She
marched off amid her guard of grave Airedales.

The mug was worn and dented: above the twined initials, G.L., was
the crest of a footless bird and the motto: " Wayte awhyle--wayte
awhyle."

"That's the other end of the riddle," Sophie whispered, when he
saw her that evening. "Read her note. The English write beautiful
notes."

The warmest of welcomes to your little man. I hope he will
appreciate his native land now he has come to it. Though you have
said nothing we cannot, of course, look on him as a little
stranger, and so I am sending him the old Lashmar christening
mug. It has been with us since Gregory Lashmar, your
great-grandmother's brother--


George stared at his wife.

"Go on," she twinkled, from the pillows.

--mother's brother, sold his place to Walter's family. We seem to
have acquired some of your household gods at that time, but
nothing survives except the mug and the old cradle, which I found
in the potting-shed and am having put in order for you. I hope
little George--Lashmar, he will be too, won't he?--will live to
see his grandchildren cut their teeth on his mug.

    Affectionately yours,
             ALICE CONANT.

P.S.--How quiet you've kept about it all!

"Well, I'm--"

"Don't swear," said Sophie. "Bad for the infant mind."

"But how in the world did she get at it? Have you ever said a
word about the Lashmars?"

"You know the only time--to young Iggulden at Rocketts--when
Iggulden died."

"Your great-grandmother's brother! She's traced the whole
connection--more than your Aunt Sydney could do. What does she
mean about our keeping quiet?"

Sophie's eyes sparkled. "I've thought that out too. We've got
back at the English at last. Can't you see that she thought that
we thought my mother's being a Lashmar was one of those things
we'd expect the English to find out for themselves, and that's
impressed her?" She turned the mug in her white hands, and sighed
happily. "'Wayte awhyle--wayte awhyle.' That's not a bad motto,
George. It's been worth it."

"But still I don't quite see--"

"I shouldn't wonder if they don't think our coming here was part
of a deep-laid scheme to be near our ancestors. They'd understand
that. And look how they've accepted us, all of them."

"Are we so undesirable in ourselves?" George grunted.

"Be just, me lord. That wretched Sangres man has twice our money.
Can you see Marm Conant slapping him between the shoulders? Not
by a jugful! The poor beast doesn't exist!"

"Do you think it's that then?" He looked toward the cot by the
fire where the godling snorted.

"The minute I get well I shall find out from Mrs. Cloke what
every Lashmar gives in doles (that's nicer than tips) every time
a Lashmite is born. I've done my duty thus far, but there's much
expected of me."

Entered here Mrs. Cloke, and hung worshipping over the cot. They
showed her the mug and her face shone. "Oh, now Lady Conant's
sent it, it'll be all proper, ma'am, won't it? 'George' of course
he'd have to be, but seein' what he is we was hopin'--all your
people was hopin'--it 'ud be 'Lashmar' too, and that'ud just
round it out. A very 'andsome mug quite unique, I should imagine.
'Wayte awhyle--wayte awhyle.' That's true with the Lashmars, I've
heard. Very slow to fill their houses, they are. Most like Master
George won't open 'is nursery till he's thirty."

"Poor lamb!" cried Sophie. "But how did you know my folk were
Lashmars?"

Mrs. Cloke thought deeply. "I'm sure I can't quite say, ma'am,
but I've a belief likely that it was something you may have let
drop to young Iggulden when you was at Rocketts. That may have
been what give us an inkling. An' so it came out, one thing in
the way o' talk leading to another, and those American people at
Veering Holler was very obligin' with news, I'm told, ma'am."

"Great Scott!" said George, under his breath. "And this is the
simple peasant!"

"Yiss," Mrs. Cloke went on. "An' Cloke was only wonderin' this
afternoon--your pillow's slipped my dear, you mustn't lie that
a-way--just for the sake o' sayin' something, whether you
wouldn't think well now of getting the Lashmar farms back, sir.
They don't rightly round off Sir Walter's estate. They come
caterin' across us more. Cloke, 'e 'ud be glad to show you over
any day."

"But Sir Walter doesn't want to sell, does he?"

"We can find out from his bailiff, sir, but"--with cold
contempt--"I think that trained nurse is just comin' up from her
dinner, so 'm afraid we'll 'ave to ask you, sir ... Now, Master
George--Ai-ie! Wake a litty minute, lammie!"

A few months later the three of them were down at the brook in
the Gale Anstey woods to consider the rebuilding of a footbridge
carried away by spring floods. George Lashmar Chapin wanted all
the bluebells on God's earth that day to eat, and--Sophie adored
him in a voice like to the cooing of a dove; so business was
delayed.

"Here's the place," said his father at last among the water
forget-me-nots. "But where the deuce are the larch-poles, Cloke?
I told you to have them down here ready."

"We'll get 'em down if f you say so," Cloke answered, with a
thrust of the underlip they both knew.

"But I did say so. What on earth have you brought that timber-tug
here for? We aren't building a railway bridge. Why, in America,
half-a-dozen two-by-four bits would be ample."

"I don't know nothin' about that," said Cloke.

"An' I've nothin' to say against larch--IF you want to make a
temp'ry job of it. I ain't 'ere to tell you what isn't so, sir;
an' you can't say I ever come creepin' up on you, or tryin' to
lead you further in than you set out--"

A year ago George would have danced with impatience. Now he
scraped a little mud off his old gaiters with his spud, and
waited.

"All I say is that you can put up larch and make a temp'ry job of
it; and by the time the young master's married it'll have to be
done again. Now, I've brought down a couple of as sweet
six-by-eight oak timbers as we've ever drawed. You put 'em in an'
it's off your mind or good an' all. T'other way--I don't say it
ain't right, I'm only just sayin' what I think--but t'other way,
he'll no sooner be married than we'll lave it all to do again.
You've no call to regard my words, but you can't get out of
that."

"No," said George after a pause; "I've been realising that for
some time. Make it oak then; we can't get out of it."



                 THE RECALL

            I am the land of their fathers,
               In me the virtue stays;
            I will bring back my children,
               After certain days.
            Under their feet in the grasses
               My clinging magic runs.
            They shall return as strangers,
               They shall remain as sons.
            Over their heads in the branches
               Of their new-bought, ancient trees,
            I weave an incantation,
               And draw them to my knees.
            Scent of smoke in the evening,
               Smell of rain in the night,
            The hours, the days and the seasons
               Order their souls aright;
            Till I make plain the meaning
               Of all my thousand years
            Till I fill their hearts with knowledge,
               While I fill their eyes with tears. 



GARM--A HOSTAGE

0ne night, a very long time ago, I drove to an Indian military
cantonment called Mian Mir to see amateur theatricals. At the
back of the Infantry barracks a soldier, his cap over one eye,
rushed in front of the horses and shouted that he was a dangerous
highway robber. As a matter of fact, he was a friend of mine, so
I told him to go home before any one caught him; but he fell
under the pole, and I heard voices of a military guard in search
of some one.

The driver and I coaxed him into the carriage, drove home
swiftly, undressed him and put him to bed, where he waked next
morning with a sore headache, very much ashamed. When his uniform
was cleaned and dried, and he had been shaved and washed and made
neat, I drove him back to barracks with his arm in a fine white
sling, and reported that I had accidentally run over him. I did
not tell this story to my friend's sergeant, who was a hostile
and unbelieving person, but to his lieutenant, who did not know
us quite so well.

Three days later my friend came to call, and at his heels
slobbered and fawned one of the finest bull-terriers--of the
old-fashioned breed, two parts bull and one terrier--that I had
ever set eyes on. He was pure white, with a fawn-coloured saddle
just behind his neck, and a fawn diamond at the root of his thin
whippy tail. I had admired him distantly for more than a year;
and Vixen, my own fox-terrier, knew him too, but did not approve.

"'E's for you," said my friend; but he did not look as though he
liked parting with him.

"Nonsense! That dog's worth more than most men, Stanley," I said.

"'E's that and more. 'Tention!"

The dog rose on his hind legs, and stood upright for a full
minute.

"Eyes right!"

He sat on his haunches and turned his head sharp to the right. At
a sign he rose and barked thrice. Then he shook hands with his
right paw and bounded lightly to my shoulder. Here he made
himself into a necktie, limp and lifeless, hanging down on either
side of my neck. I was told to pick him up and throw him in the
air. He fell with a howl, and held up one leg.

"Part o' the trick," said his owner. "You're going to die now.
Dig yourself your little grave an' shut your little eye."

Still limping, the dog hobbled to the garden-edge, dug a hole and
lay down in it. When told that he was cured, he jumped out,
wagging his tail, and whining for applause. He was put through
half-a-dozen other tricks, such as showing how he would hold a
man safe (I was that man, and he sat down before me, his teeth
bared, ready to spring), and how he would stop eating at the word
of command. I had no more than finished praising him when my
friend made a gesture that stopped the dog as though he had been
shot, took a piece of blue-ruled canteen-paper from his helmet,
handed it to me and ran away, while the dog looked after him and
howled. I read:

SIR--I give you the dog because of what you got me out of. He is
the best I know, for I made him myself, and he is as good as a
man. Please do not give him too much to eat, and please do not
give him back to me, for I'm not going to take him, if you will
keep him. So please do not try to give him back any more. I have
kept his name back, so you can call him anything and he will
answer. but please do not give him back. He can kill a man as
easy as anything, but please do not give him too much meat. He
knows more than a man.

Vixen sympathetically joined her shrill little yap to the
bull-terrier's despairing cry, and I was annoyed, for I knew that
a man who cares for dogs is one thing, but a man who loves one
dog is quite another. Dogs are at the best no more than verminous
vagrants, self-scratchers, foul feeders, and unclean by the law
of Moses and Mohammed; but a dog with whom one lives alone for at
least six months in the year; a free thing, tied to you so
strictly by love that without you he will not stir or exercise; a
patient, temperate, humorous, wise soul, who knows your moods
before you know them yourself, is not a dog under any ruling.

I had Vixen, who was all my dog to me; and I felt what my friend
must have felt, at tearing out his heart in this style and
leaving it in my garden. However, the dog understood clearly
enough that I was his master, and did not follow the soldier. As
soon as he drew breath I made much of him, and Vixen, yelling
with jealousy, flew at him. Had she been of his own sex, he might
have cheered himself with a fight, but he only looked worriedly
when she nipped his deep iron sides, laid his heavy head on my
knee, and howled anew. I meant to dine at the Club that night;
but as darkness drew in, and the dog snuffed through the empty
house like a child trying to recover from a fit of sobbing, I
felt that I could not leave him to suffer his first evening
alone. So we fed at home, Vixen on one side, and the stranger-dog
on the other; she watching his every mouthful, and saying
explicitly what she thought of his table manners, which were much
better than hers.

It was Vixen's custom, till the weather grew hot, to sleep in my
bed, her head on the pillow like a Christian; and when morning
came I would always find that the little thing had braced her
feet against the wall and pushed me to the very edge of the cot.
This night she hurried to bed purposefully, every hair up, one
eye on the stranger, who had dropped on a mat in a helpless,
hopeless sort of way, all four feet spread out, sighing heavily.
She settled her head on the pillow several times, to show her
little airs and graces, and struck up her usual whiney sing-song
before slumber. The stranger-dog softly edged toward me. I put
out my hand and he licked it. Instantly my wrist was between
Vixen's teeth, and her warning aaarh! said as plainly as speech,
that if I took any further notice of the stranger she would bite.

I caught her behind her fat neck with my left hand, shook her
severely, and said:

"Vixen, if you do that again you'll be put into the verandah.
Now, remember!"

She understood perfectly, but the minute I released her she
mouthed my right wrist once more, and waited with her ears back
and all her body flattened, ready to bite. The big dog's tail
thumped the floor in a humble and peace-making way.

I grabbed Vixen a second time, lifted her out of bed like a
rabbit (she hated that and yelled), and, as I had promised, set
her out in the verandah with the bats and the moonlight. At this
she howled. Then she used coarse language--not to me, but to the
bullterrier--till she coughed with exhaustion. Then she ran round
the house trying every door. Then she went off to the stables and
barked as though some one were stealing the horses, which was an
old trick of hers. Last she returned, and her snuffing yelp said,
"I'll be good! Let me in and I'll' be good!"

She was admitted and flew to her pillow. When she was quieted I
whispered to the other dog, "You can lie on the foot of the bed."
The bull jumped up at once, and though I felt Vixen quiver with
rage, she knew better than to protest. So we slept till the
morning, and they had early breakfast with me, bite for bite,
till the horse came round and we went for a ride. I don't think
the bull had ever followed a horse before. He was wild with
excitement, and Vixen, as usual, squealed and scuttered and
scooted, and took charge of the procession.

There was one corner of a village near by, which we generally
passed with caution, because all the yellow pariah-dogs of the
place gathered about it.

They were half-wild, starving beasts, and though utter cowards,
yet where nine or ten of them get together they will mob and kill
and eat an English dog. I kept a whip with a long lash for them.

That morning they attacked Vixen, who, perhaps of design, had
moved from beyond my horse's shadow.

The bull was ploughing along in the dust, fifty yards behind,
rolling in his run, and smiling as bull-terriers will. I heard
Vixen squeal; half a dozen of the curs closed in on her; a white
streak came up behind me; a cloud of dust rose near Vixen, and,
when it cleared, I saw one tall pariah with his back broken, and
the bull wrenching another to earth. Vixen retreated to the
protection of my whip, and the bull paddled back smiling more
than ever, covered with the blood of his enemies. That decided me
to call him "Garin of the Bloody Breast," who was a great person
in his time, or "Garm" for short; so, leaning forward, I told him
what his temporary name would be. He looked up while I repeated
it, and then raced away. I shouted "Garin!" He stopped, raced
back, and came up to ask my will.

Then I saw that my soldier friend was right, and that that dog
knew and was worth more than a man. At the end of the ride I gave
an order which Vixen knew and hated: "Go away and get washed!" I
said. Garin understood some part of it, and Vixen interpreted the
rest, and the two trotted off together soberly. When I went to
the back verandah Vixen had been washed snowy-white, and was very
proud of herself, but the dog-boy would not touch Garm on any
account unless I stood by. So I waited while he was being
scrubbed, and Garm, with the soap creaming on the top of his
broad head, looked at me to make sure that this was what I
expected him to endure. He knew perfectly that the dog-boy was
only obeying orders.

"Another time," I said to the dog-boy, "you will wash the great
dog with Vixen when I send them home."

"Does he know?" said the dog-boy, who understood the ways of
dogs.

"Garm," I said, "another time you will be washed with Vixen."

I knew that Garm understood. Indeed, next washing-day, when Vixen
as usual fled under my bed, Garm stared at the doubtful dog-boy
in the verandah, stalked to the place where he had been washed
last time, and stood rigid in the tub.

But the long days in my office tried him sorely. We three would
drive off in the morning at half-past eight and come home at six
or later. Vixen knowing the routine of it, went to sleep under my
table; but the confinement ate into Garm's soul. He generally sat
on the verandah looking out on the Mall; and well I knew what he
expected.

Sometimes a company of soldiers would move along on their way to
the Fort, and Garm rolled forth to inspect them; or an officer in
uniform entered into the office, and it was pitiful to see poor
Garm's welcome to the cloth--not the man. He would leap at him,
and sniff and bark joyously, then run to the door and back again.
One afternoon I heard him bay with a full throat--a thing I had
never heard before--and he disappeared. When I drove into my
garden at the end of the day a soldier in white uniform scrambled
over the wall at the far end, and the Garm that met me was a
joyous dog. This happened twice or thrice a week for a month.

I pretended not to notice, but Garm knew and Vixen knew. He would
glide homewards from the office about four o'clock, as though he
were only going to look at the scenery, and this he did so
quietly that but for Vixen I should not have noticed him. The
jealous little dog under the table would give a sniff and a
snort, just loud enough to call my attention to the flight. Garm
might go out forty times in the day and Vixen would never stir,
but when he slunk off to see his true master in my garden she
told me in her own tongue. That was the one sign she made to
prove that Garm did not altogether belong to the family. They
were the best of friends at all times, but, Vixen explained that
I was never to forget Garm did not love me as she loved me.

I never expected it. The dog was not my dog could never be my
dog--and I knew he was as miserable as his master who tramped
eight miles a day to see him. So it seemed to me that the sooner
the two were reunited the better for all. One afternoon I sent
Vixen home alone in the dog-cart (Garm had gone before), and rode
over to cantonments to find another friend of mine, who was an
Irish soldier and a great friend of the dog's master.

I explained the whole case, and wound up with:

"And now Stanley's in my garden crying over his dog. Why doesn't
he take him back? They're both unhappy."

"Unhappy! There's no sense in the little man any more. But 'tis
his fit."

"What is his fit? He travels fifty miles a week to see the brute,
and he pretends not to notice me when he sees me on the road; and
I'm as unhappy as he is. Make him take the dog back."

"It's his penance he's set himself. I told him by way of a joke,
afther you'd run over him so convenient that night, whin he was
drunk--I said if he was a Catholic he'd do penance. Off he went
wid that fit in his little head an' a dose of fever, an nothin'
would suit but givin' you the dog as a hostage."

"Hostage for what? I don't want hostages from Stanley."

"For his good behaviour. He's keepin' straight now, the way it's
no pleasure to associate wid him."

"Has he taken the pledge?"

"If 'twas only that I need not care. Ye can take the pledge for
three months on an' off. He sez he'll never see the dog again,
an' so mark you, he'll keep straight for evermore. Ye know his
fits? Well, this is wan of them. How's the dog takin' it ?"

"Like a man. He's the best dog in India. Can't you make Stanley
take him back?"

"I can do no more than I have done. But ye know his fits. He's
just doin' his penance. What will he do when he goes to the
Hills? The doctor's put him on the list."

It is the custom in India to send a certain number of invalids
from each regiment up to stations in the Himalayas for the hot
weather; and though the men ought to enjoy the cool and the
comfort, they miss the society of the barracks down below, and do
their best to come back or to avoid going. I felt that this move
would bring matters to a head, so I left Terrence hopefully,
though he called after me "He won't take the dog, sorr. You can
lay your month's pay on that. Ye know his fits."

I never pretended to understand Private Ortheris; and so I did
the next best thing I left him alone.

That summer the invalids of the regiment to which my friend
belonged were ordered off to the Hills early, because the doctors
thought marching in the cool of the day would do them good. Their
route lay south to a place called Umballa, a hundred and twenty
miles or more. Then they would turn east and march up into the
hills to Kasauli or Dugshai or Subathoo. I dined with the
officers the night before they left--they were marching at five
in the morning. It was midnight when I drove into my garden, and
surprised a white figure flying over the wall.

"That man," said my butler, "has been here since nine, making
talk to that dog. He is quite mad."

I did not tell him to go away because he has been here many times
before, and because the dog-boy told me that if I told him to go
away, that great dog would immediately slay me. He did not wish
to speak to the Protector of the Poor, and he did not ask for
anything to eat or drink."

"Kadir Buksh," said I, "that was well done, for the dog would
surely have killed thee. But I do not think the white soldier
will come any more."

Garm slept ill that night and whimpered in his dreams. Once he
sprang up with a clear, ringing bark, and I heard him wag his
tail till it waked him and the bark died out in a howl. He had
dreamed he was with his master again, and I nearly cried. It was
all Stanley's silly fault.

The first halt which the detachment of invalids made was some
miles from their barracks, on the Amritsar road, and ten miles
distant from my house. By a mere chance one of the officers drove
back for another good dinner at the Club (cooking on the line of
march is always bad), and there I met him. He was a particular
friend of mine, and I knew that he knew how to love a dog
properly. His pet was a big fat retriever who was going up to the
Hills for his health, and, though it was still April, the round,
brown brute puffed and panted in the Club verandah as though he
would burst.

"It's amazing," said the officer, "what excuses these invalids of
mine make to get back to barracks. There's a man in my company
now asked me for leave to go back to cantonments to pay a debt
he'd forgotten. I was so taken by the idea I let him go, and he
jingled off in an ekka as pleased as Punch. Ten miles to pay a
debt! Wonder what it was really?"

"If you'll drive me home I think I can show you," I said.

So he went over to my house in his dog-cart with the retriever;
and on the way I told him the story of Garm.

"I was wondering where that brute had gone to. He's the best dog
in the regiment," said my friend. "I offered the little fellow
twenty rupees for him a month ago. But he's a hostage, you say,
for Stanley's good conduct. Stanley's one of the best men I have
when he chooses."

"That's the reason why," I said. "A second-rate man wouldn't have
taken things to heart as he has done."

We drove in quietly at the far end of the garden, and crept round
the house. There was a place close to the wall all grown about
with tamarisk trees, where I knew Garm kept his bones. Even Vixen
was not allowed to sit near it. In the full Indian moonlight I
could see a white uniform bending over the dog.

"Good-bye, old man," we could not help hearing Stanley's voice.
"For 'Eving's sake don't get bit and go mad by any measly pi-dog.
But you can look after yourself, old man. You don't get drunk an'
run about 'ittin' your friends. You takes your bones an' you eats
your biscuit, an' you kills your enemy like a gentleman. I'm
goin' away--don't 'owl--I'm goin' off to Kasauli, where I won't
see you no more."

I could hear him holding Garm's nose as the dog threw it up to
the stars.

"You'll stay here an' be'ave, an'--an' I'll go away an' try to
be'ave, an' I don't know 'ow to leave you. I don't know--"

"I think this is damn silly," said the officer, patting his
foolish fubsy old retriever. He called to the private, who leaped
to his feet, marched forward, and saluted.

"You here?" said the officer, turning away his head.

"Yes, sir, but I'm just goin' back."

"I shall be leaving here at eleven in my cart. You come with me.
I can't have sick men running about fall over the place. Report
yourself at eleven, here."

We did not say much when we went indoors, but the officer
muttered and pulled his retriever's ears.

He was a disgraceful, overfed doormat of a dog; and when he
waddled off to my cookhouse to be fed, I had a brilliant idea.

At eleven o'clock that officer's dog was nowhere to be found, and
you never heard such a fuss as his owner made. He called and
shouted and grew angry, and hunted through my garden for half an
hour.

Then I said:

"He's sure to turn up in the morning. Send a man in by rail, and
I'll find the beast and return him."

"Beast?" said the officer. "I value that dog considerably more
than I value any man I know. It's all very fine for you to
talk--your dog's here."

So she was--under my feet--and, had she been missing, food and
wages would have stopped in my house till her return. But some
people grow fond of dogs not worth a cut of the whip. My friend
had to drive away at last with Stanley in the back seat; and then
the dog-boy said to me:

"What kind of animal is Bullen Sahib's dog? Look at him!"

I went to the boy's hut, and the fat old reprobate was lying on a
mat carefully chained up. He must have heard his master calling
for twenty minutes, but had not even attempted to join him.

"He has no face," said the dog-boy scornfully. "He is a
punniar-kooter (a spaniel). He never tried to get that cloth off
his jaws when his master called. Now Vixen-baba would have jumped
through the window, and that Great Dog would have slain me with
his muzzled mouth. It is true that there are many kinds of dogs."

Next evening who should turn up but Stanley. The officer had sent
him back fourteen miles by rail with a note begging me to return
the retriever if I had found him, and, if I had not, to offer
huge rewards. The last train to camp left at half-past ten, and
Stanley, stayed till ten talking to Garm. I argued and entreated,
and even threatened to shoot the bull-terrier, bat the little man
was as firm as a rock, though I gave him a good dinner and talked
to him most severely. Garm knew as well as I that this was the
last time he could hope to see his man, and followed Stanley like
a shadow. The retriever said nothing, but licked his lips after
his meal and waddled off without so much as saying "Thank you" to
the disgusted dog-boy.

So that last meeting was over, and I felt as wretched as Garm,
who moaned in his sleep all night. When we went to the office he
found a place under the table close to Vixen, and dropped flat
till it was time to go home. There was no more running out into
the verandahs, no slinking away for stolen talks with Stanley. As
the weather grew warmer the dogs were forbidden to run beside the
cart, but sat at my side on the seat, Vixen with her head under
the crook of my left elbow, and Garm hugging the left handrail.

Here Vixen was ever in great form. She had to attend to all the
moving traffic, such as bullock-carts that blocked the way, and
camels, and led ponies; as well as to keep up her dignity when
she passed low friends running in the dust. She never yapped for
yapping's sake, but her shrill, high bark was known all along the
Mall, and other men's terriers ki-yied in reply, and
bullock-drivers looked over their shoulders and gave us the road
with a grin.

But Garm cared for none of these things. His big eyes were on the
horizon and his terrible mouth was shut. There was another dog in
the office who belonged to my chief. We called him "Bob the
Librarian," because he always imagined vain rats behind the
bookshelves, and in hunting for them would drag out half the old
newspaper-files. Bob was a well-meaning idiot, but Garm did not
encourage him. He would slide his head round the door panting,
"Rats! Come along Garm!" and Garm would shift one forepaw over
the other, and curl himself round, leaving Bob to whine at a most
uninterested back. The office was nearly as cheerful as a tomb in
those days.

Once, and only once, did I see Garm at all contented with his
surroundings. He had gone for an unauthorised walk with Vixen
early one Sunday morning, and a very young and foolish
artilleryman (his battery had just moved to that part of the
world) tried to steal them both. Vixen, of course, knew better
than to take food from soldiers, and, besides, she had just
finished her breakfast. So she trotted back with a large piece of
the mutton that they issue to our troops, laid it down on my
verandah, and looked up to see what I thought. I asked her where
Garin was, and she ran in front of the horse to show me the way.

About a mile up the road we came across our artilleryman sitting
very stiffly on the edge of a culvert with a greasy handkerchief
on his knees. Garin was in front of him, looking rather pleased.
When the man moved leg or hand, Garin bared his teeth in silence.
A broken string hung from his collar, and the other half of, it
lay, all warm, in the artilleryman's still hand. He explained to
me, keeping his eyes straight in front of him, that he had met
this dog (he called him awful names) walking alone, and was going
to take him to the Fort to be killed for a masterless pariah.

I said that Garin did not seem to me much of a pariah, but that
he had better take him to the Fort if he thought best. He said he
did not care to do so. I told him to go to the Fort alone. He
said he did not want to go at that hour, but would follow my
advice as soon as I had called off the dog. I instructed Garin to
take him to the Fort, and Garm marched him solemnly up to the
gate, one mile and a half under a hot sun, and I told the
quarter-guard what had happened; but the young artilleryman was
more angry than was at all necessary when they began to laugh.
Several regiments, he was told, had tried to steal Garm in their
time.

That month the hot weather shut down in earnest, and the dogs
slept in the bathroom on the cool wet bricks where the bath is
placed. Every morning, as soon as the man filled my bath the two
jumped in, and every morning the man filled the bath a second
time. I said to him that he might as well fill a small tub
specially for the dogs. "Nay," said he smiling, "it is not their
custom. They would not understand. Besides, the big bath gives
them more space."

The punkah-coolies who pull the punkahs day and night came to
know Garin intimately. He noticed that when the swaying fan
stopped I would call out to the coolie and bid him pull with a
long stroke. If the man still slept I would wake him up. He
discovered, too, that it was a good thing to lie in the wave of
air under the punkah. Maybe Stanley had taught him all about this
in barracks. At any rate, when the punkah stopped, Garin would
first growl and cock his eye at the rope, and if that did not
wake the man it nearly always did--he would tiptoe forth and talk
in the sleeper's ear. Vixen was a clever little dog, but she
could never connect the punkah and the coolie; so Garin gave me
grateful hours of cool sleep. But--he was utterly wretched--as
miserable as a human being; and in his misery he clung so closely
to me that other men noticed it, and were envious. If I moved
from one room to another Garin followed; if my pen stopped
scratching, Garm's head was thrust into my hand; if I turned,
half awake, on the pillow, Garm was up and at my side, for he
knew that I was his only link with his master, and day and night,
and night and day, his eyes asked one question--"When is this
going to end?"

Living with the dog as I did, I never noticed that he was more
than ordinarily upset by the hot weather, till one day at the
Club a man said: "That dog of yours will die in a week or two.
He's a shadow." Then I dosed Garin with iron and quinine, which
he hated; and I felt very anxious. He lost his appetite, and
Vixen was allowed to eat his dinner under his eyes. Even that did
not make him swallow, and we held a consultation on him, of the
best man-doctor in the place; a lady-doctor, who cured the sick
wives of kings; and the Deputy Inspector-General of the
veterinary service of all India. They pronounced upon his
symptoms, and I told them his story, and Garm lay on a sofa
licking my hand.

"He's dying of a broken heart," said the lady-doctor suddenly.

"'Pon my word," said the Deputy Inspector General, "I believe
Mrs. Macrae is perfectly right as usual."

The best man-doctor in the place wrote a prescription, and the
veterinary Deputy Inspector-General went over it afterwards to be
sure that the drugs were in the proper dog-proportions; and that
was the first time in his life that our doctor ever allowed his
prescriptions to be edited. It was a strong tonic, and it put the
dear boy on his feet for a week or two; then he lost flesh again.
I asked a man I knew to take him up to the Hills with him when he
went, and the man came to the door with his kit packed on the top
of the carriage. Garin took in the situation at one red glance.
The hair rose along his back; he sat down in front of me and
delivered the most awful growl I have ever heard in the jaws of a
dog. I shouted to my friend to get away at once, and as soon as
the carriage was out of the garden Garin laid his head on my knee
and whined. So I knew his answer, and devoted myself to getting
Stanley's address in the Hills.

My turn to go to the cool came late in August. We were allowed
thirty days' holiday in a year, if no one fell sick, and we took
it as we could be spared. My chief and Bob the Librarian had
their holiday first, and when they were gone I made a calendar,
as I always did, and hung it up at the head of my cot, tearing
off one day at a time till they returned. Vixen had gone up to
the Hills with me five times before; and she appreciated the cold
and the damp and the beautiful wood fires there as much as I did.

"Garm," I said, "we are going back to Stanley at Kasauli.
Kasauli--Stanley; Stanley Kasauli." And I repeated it twenty
times. It was not Kasauli really, but another place. Still I
remembered what Stanley had said in my garden on the last night,
and I dared not change the name. Then Garm began to tremble; then
he barked; and then he leaped up at me, frisking and wagging his
tail.

"Not now," I said, holding up my hand. "When I say 'Go,' we'll
go, Garm." I pulled out the little blanket coat and spiked collar
that Vixen always wore up in the Hills to protect her against
sudden chills and thieving leopards, and I let the two smell them
and talk it over. What they said of course I do not know; but it
made a new dog of Garm. His eyes were bright; and he barked
joyfully when I spoke to him. He ate his food, and he killed his
rats for the next three weeks, and when he began to whine I had
only to say "Stanley--Kasauli; Kasauli--Stanley," to wake him up.
I wish I had thought of it before.

My chief came back, all brown with living in the open air, and
very angry at finding it so hot in the plains. That same
afternoon we three and Kadir Buksh began to pack for our month's
holiday, Vixen rolling in and out of the bullock-trunk twenty
times a minute, and Garm grinning all over and thumping on the
floor with his tail. Vixen knew the routine of travelling as well
as she knew my office-work. She went to the station, singing
songs, on the front seat of the carriage, while Garin sat with
me. She hurried into the railway carriage, saw Kadir Buksh make
up my bed for the night, got her drink of water, and curled up
with her black-patch eye on the tumult of the platform. Garin
followed her (the crowd gave him a lane all to himself) and sat
down on the pillows with his eyes blazing, and his tail a haze
behind him.

We came to Umballa in the hot misty dawn, four or five men, who
had been working hard fox eleven months, shouting for our
dales--the two-horse travelling carriages that were to take us up
to Kalka at the foot of the Hills. It was all new to Garm. He did
not understand carriages where you lay at full length on your
bedding, but Vixen knew and hopped into her place at once; Garin
following. The Kalka Road, before the railway was built, was
about forty-seven miles long, and the horses were changed every
eight miles. Most of them jibbed, and kicked, and plunged, but
they had to go, and they went rather better than usual for Garm's
deep bay in their rear.

There was a river to be forded, and four bullocks pulled the
carriage, and Vixen stuck her head out of the sliding-door and
nearly fell into the water while she gave directions. Garin was
silent and curious, and rather needed reassuring about Stanley
and Kasauli. So we rolled, barking and yelping, into Kalka for
lunch, and Garm ate enough for two.

After Kalka the road wound among the hills, and we took a
curricle with half-broken ponies, which were changed every six
miles. No one dreamed of a railroad to Simla in those days, for
it was seven thousand feet up in the air. The road was more than
fifty miles long, and the regulation pace was just as fast as the
ponies could go. Here, again, Vixen led Garm from one carriage to
the other; jumped into the back seat, and shouted. A cool breath
from the snows met us about five miles out of Kalka, and she
whined for her coat, wisely fearing a chill on the liver. I had
had one made for Garm too, and, as we climbed to the fresh
breezes, I put it on, and arm chewed it uncomprehendingly, but I
think he was grateful.

"Hi-yi-yi-yi!" sang Vixen as we shot round the curves;
"Toot-toot-toot!" went the driver's bugle at the dangerous
places, and "yow! yow!" bayed Garm. Kadir Buksh sat on the front
seat and smiled. Even he was glad to get away from the heat of
the Plains that stewed in the haze behind us. Now and then we
would meet a man we knew going down to his work again, and he
would say: "What's it like below?" and I would shout: "Hotter
than cinders. What's it like up above?" and he would shout back:
"Just perfect!" and away we would go.

Suddenly Kadir Buksh said, over his shoulder: "Here is Solon";
and Garm snored where he lay with his head on my knee. Solon is
an unpleasant little cantonment, but it has the advantage of
being cool and healthy. It is all bare and windy, and one
generally stops at a rest-house nearby for something to eat. I
got out and took both dogs with me, while Kadir Buksh made tea. A
soldier told, us we should find Stanley "out there," nodding his
head towards a bare, bleak hill.

When we climbed to the top we spied that very Stanley, who had
given me all this trouble, sitting on a rock with his face in his
hands, and his overcoat hanging loose about him. I never saw
anything so lonely and dejected in my life as this one little
man, crumpled up and thinking, on the great gray hillside.

Here Garm left me.

He departed without a word, and, so far as I could see, without
moving his legs. He flew through the air bodily, and I heard the
whack of him as he flung himself at Stanley, knocking the little
man clean over. They rolled on the ground together, shouting, and
yelping, and hugging. I could not see which was dog and which was
man, till Stanley got up and whimpered.

He told me that he had been suffering from fever at intervals,
and was very weak. He looked all he said, but even while I
watched, both man and dog plumped out to their natural sizes,
precisely as dried apples swell in water. Garin was on his
shoulder, and his breast and feet all at the same time, so that
Stanley spoke all through a cloud of Garin--gulping, sobbing,
slavering Garm. He did not say anything that I could understand,
except that he had fancied he was going to die, but that now he
was quite well, and that he was not going to give up Garin any
more to anybody under the rank of Beelzebub.

Then he said he felt hungry, and thirsty, and happy.

We went down to tea at the rest-house, where Stanley stuffed
himself with sardines and raspberry jam, and beer, and cold
mutton and pickles, when Garm wasn't climbing over him; and then
Vixen and I went on.

Garm saw how it was at once. He said good-bye to me three times,
giving me both paws one after another, and leaping on to my
shoulder. He further escorted us, singing Hosannas at the top of
his voice, a mile down the road. Then he raced back to his own
master.

Vixen never opened her mouth, but when the cold twilight came,
and we could see the lights of Simla across the hills, she
snuffled with her nose at the breast of my ulster. I unbuttoned
it, and tucked her inside. Then she gave a contented little
sniff, and fell fast asleep, her head on my breast, till we
bundled out at Simla, two of the four happiest people in all the
world that night.



                THE POWER OF THE DOG

       There is sorrow enough in the natural way
       From men and women to fill our day;
       But when we are certain of sorrow in store,
       Why do we always arrange for more? 
       Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
       Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

       Buy a pup and your money will buy
       Love unflinching that cannot lie--
       Perfect passion and worship fed
       By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head. 
       Nevertheless it is hardly fair
       To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

       When the fourteen years which Nature permits
       Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
       And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
       To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
       Then you will find--it's your own affair
       But . . . you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

       When the body that lived at your single will
       When the whimper of welcome is stilled (how still!)
       When the spirit that answered your every mood
       Is gone wherever it goes--for good,
       You will discover how much you care,
       And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

       We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
       When it comes to burying Christian clay. 
       Our loves are not given, but only lent,
       At compound interest of cent per cent. 
       Though it is not always the case, I believe,
       That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
       For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
       A short-time loan is as bad as a long
       So why in Heaven (before we are there!)
       Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear? 



THE MOTHER HIVE

If the stock had not been old and overcrowded, the Wax-moth would
never have entered; but where bees are too thick on the comb
there must be sickness or parasites. The heat of the hive had
risen with the June honey-flow, and though the farmers worked,
until their wings ached, to keep people cool, everybody suffered.

A young bee crawled up the greasy trampled alighting-board.
"Excuse me," she began, "but it's my first honey-flight. Could
you kindly tell me if this is my--"

"--own hive?" the Guard snapped. "Yes! Buzz in, and be
foul-brooded to you!  Next!"

"Shame!" cried half a dozen old workers with worn wings and
nerves, and there was a scuffle and a hum.

The little grey Wax-moth, pressed close in a crack in the
alighting-board, had waited this chance all day. She scuttled in
like a ghost, and, knowing the senior bees would turn her out at
once, dodged into a brood-frame, where youngsters who had not yet
seen the winds blow or the flowers nod discussed life. Here she
was safe, for young bees will tolerate any sort of stranger.
Behind her came the bee who had been slanged by the Guard.

"What is the world like, Melissa?" said a companion. "Cruel! I
brought in a full load of first-class stuff, and the Guard told
me to go and be foul-brooded!" She sat down in the cool draught
across the combs.

"If you'd only heard," said the Wax-moth silkily, "the insolence
of the Guard's tone when she cursed our sister. It aroused the
Entire Community." She laid an egg. She had stolen in for that
purpose.

"There was a bit of a fuss on the Gate," Melissa chuckled. "You
were there, Miss?" She did not know how to address the slim
stranger.

"Don't call me 'Miss.' I'm a sister to all in affliction--just a
working-sister. My heart bled for you beneath your burden." The
Wax-moth caressed Melissa with her soft feelers and laid another
egg.

"You mustn't lay here," cried Melissa. "You aren't a Queen."

"My dear child, I give you my most solemn word of honour those
aren't eggs. Those are my principles, and I am ready to die for
them." She raised her voice a little above the rustle and tramp
round her. "If you'd like to kill me, pray do."

"Don't be unkind, Melissa," said a young bee, impressed by the
chaste folds of the Wax-moth's wing, which hid her ceaseless
egg-dropping.

"I haven't done anything," Melissa answered. "She's doing it
all."

"Ah, don't let your conscience reproach you later, but when
you've killed me, write me, at least, as one that loved her
fellow-worker."

Laying at every sob, the Wax-moth backed into a crowd of young
bees, and left Melissa bewildered and annoyed. So she lifted up
her little voice in the darkness and cried, "Stores!" till a gang
of cell-fillers hailed her, and she left her load with them.

"I'm afraid I foul-brooded you just now," said a voice over her
shoulder. "I'd been on the Gate for three hours, and one would
foul-brood the Queen herself after that. No offence meant."

"None taken," Melissa answered cheerily. "I shall be on Guard
myself, some day. What's next to do?"

"There's a rumour of Death's Head Moths about. Send a gang of
youngsters to the Gate, and tell them to narrow it in with a
couple of stout scrap-wax pillars. It'll make the Hive hot, but
we can't have Death's Headers in the middle of our honey-flow."

"My Only Wings! I should think not!" Melissa had all a sound
bee's hereditary hatred against the big, squeaking, feathery
Thief of the Hives. "Tumble out!" she called across the
youngsters' quarters. "All you who aren't feeding babies, show a
leg. Scrap-wax pillars for the Ga-ate!" She chanted the order at
length.

"That's nonsense," a downy, day-old bee answered. "In the first
place, I never heard of a Death's Header coming into a hive.
People don't do such things. In the second, building pillars to
keep 'em out is purely a Cypriote trick, unworthy of British
bees. In the third, if you trust a Death's Head, he will trust
you. Pillar-building shows lack of confidence. Our dear sister in
grey says so."

"Yes. Pillars are un-English and provocative, and a waste of wax
that is needed for higher and more practical ends," said the
Wax-moth from an empty store-cell.

"The safety of the Hive is the highest thing I've ever heard of.
You mustn't teach us to refuse work," Melissa began.

"You misunderstand me, as usual, love. Work's the essence of
life; but to expend precious unreturning vitality and real labour
against imaginary danger, that is heartbreakingly absurd! If I
can only teach a--a little toleration--a little ordinary kindness
here toward that absurd old bogey you call the Death's Header, I
shan't have lived in vain."

"She hasn't lived in vain, the darling!" cried twenty bees
together. "You should see her saintly life, Melissa! She just
devotes herself to spreading her principles, and--and--she looks
lovely!"

An old, baldish bee came up the comb.

"Pillar-workers for the Gate! Get out and chew scraps. Buzz off!"
she said. The Wax-moth slipped aside.

The young bees trooped down the frame, whispering. "What's the
matter with 'em?" said the oldster. "Why do they call each other
'ducky' and 'darling'? Must be the weather." She sniffed
suspiciously. "Horrid stuffy smell here. Like stale quilts. Not
Wax-moth, I hope, Melissa?"

"Not to my knowledge," said Melissa, who, of course, only knew
the Wax-moth as a lady with principles, and had never thought to
report her presence. She had always imagined Wax-moths to be like
blood-red dragon-flies.

"You had better fan out this corner for a little," said the old
bee and passed on. Melissa dropped her head at once, took firm
hold with her fore-feet, and fanned obediently at the regulation
stroke three hundred beats to the second. Fanning tries a bee's
temper, because she must always keep in the same place where she
never seems to be doing any good, and, all the while, she is
wearing out her only wings. When a bee cannot fly, a bee must not
live; and a bee knows it. The Wax-moth crept forth, and caressed
Melissa again.

"I see," she murmured, "that at heart you are one of Us."

"I work with the Hive," Melissa answered briefly.

"It's the same thing. We and the Hive are one."

"Then why are your feelers different from ours? Don't cuddle so."

"Don't be provincial, Carissima. You can't have all the world
alike--yet."

"But why do you lay eggs?" Melissa insisted. "You lay 'em like a
Queen--only you drop them in patches all over the place. I've
watched you."

"Ah, Brighteyes, so you've pierced my little subterfuge? Yes,
they are eggs. By and by they'll spread our principles. Aren't
you glad?"

"You gave me your most solemn word of honour that they were not
eggs."

"That was my little subterfuge, dearest--for the sake of the
Cause. Now I must reach the young." The Wax-moth tripped towards
the fourth brood-frame where the young bees were busy feeding the
babies.

It takes some time for a sound bee to realize a malignant and
continuous lie. "She's very sweet and feathery," was all that
Melissa thought, "but her talk sounds like ivy honey tastes. I'd
better get to my field-work again."

She found the Gate in a sulky uproar. The youngsters told off to
the pillars had refused to chew scrap-wax because it made their
jaws ache, and were clamouring for virgin stuff.

"Anything to finish the job!" said the badgered Guards. "Hang up,
some of you, and make wax for these slack-jawed sisters."

Before a bee can make wax she must fill herself with honey. Then
she climbs to safe foothold and hangs, while other gorged bees
hang on to her in a cluster. There they wait in silence till the
wax comes. The scales are either taken out of the maker's pockets
by the workers, or tinkle down on the workers while they wait.
The workers chew them (they are useless unchewed) into the
all-supporting, all-embracing Wax of the Hive.

But now, no sooner was the wax-cluster in position than the
workers below broke out again.

"Come down!" they cried. "Come down and work! Come on, you
Levantine parasites! Don't think to enjoy yourselves up there
while we're sweating down here!"

The cluster shivered, as from hooked fore-foot to hooked
hind-foot it telegraphed uneasiness. At last a worker sprang up,
grabbed the lowest waxmaker, and swung, kicking above her
companions.

"I can make wax too!" she bawled. "Give me a full gorge and I'll
make tons of it."

"Make it, then," said the bee she had grappled. The spoken word
snapped the current through the cluster. It shook and glistened
like a cat's fur in the dark. "Unhook!" it murmured. "No wax for
any one to-day."

"You lazy thieves! Hang up at once and produce our wax," said the
bees below.

"Impossible! The sweat's gone. To make your wax we must have
stillness, warmth, and food. Unhook! Unhook!"

They broke up as they murmured, and disappeared among the other
bees, from whom, of course, they were undistinguishable.

"Seems as if we'd have to chew scrap-wax for these pillars, after
all," said a worker.

"Not by a whole comb," cried the young bee who had broken the
cluster. "Listen here! I've studied the question more than twenty
minutes. It's as simple as falling off a daisy. You've heard of
Cheshire, Root and Langstroth?"

They had not, but they shouted "Good old Langstroth!" just the
same.

"Those three know all that there is to be known about making
hives. One or t'other of 'em must have made ours, and if they've
made it, they're bound to look after it. Ours is a 'Guaranteed
Patent Hive.' You can see it on the label behind."

"Good old guarantee! Hurrah for the label behind!" roared the
bees.

"Well, such being the case, I say that when we find they've
betrayed us, we can exact from them a terrible vengeance."

"Good old vengeance! Good old Root! 'Nuff said! Chuck it!" The
crowd cheered and broke away as Melissa dived through.

"D'you know where Langstroth, Root and Cheshire, live if you
happen to want em? she asked of the proud panting orator.

"Gum me if I know they ever lived at all! But aren't they
beautiful names to buzz about? Did you see how it worked up the
sisterhood?"

"Yes; but it didn't defend the Gate," she replied.

"Ah, perhaps that's true, but think how delicate my position is,
sister. I've a magnificent appetite, and I don't like working.
It's bad for the mind. My instinct tells me that I can act as a
restraining influence on others. They would have been worse, but
for me."

But Melissa had already risen clear, and was heading for a
breadth of virgin white clover, which to an overtired bee is as
soothing as plain knitting to a woman.

"I think I'll take this load to the nurseries," she said, when
she had finished. "It was always quiet there in my day," and she
topped off with two little pats of pollen for the babies.

She was met on the fourth brood-comb by a rush of excited sisters
all buzzing together.

"One at a time! Let me put down my load. Now, what is it
Sacharissa?" she said.

"Grey Sister--that fluffy one, I mean--she came and said we ought
to be out in the sunshine gathering honey, because life was
short. She said any old bee could attend to our babies, and some
day old bees would. That isn't true, Melissa, is it? No old bees
can take us away from our babies, can they?"

"Of course not. You feed the babies while your heads are soft.
When your heads harden, you go on to field-work. Any one knows
that."

"We told her so! We told her so; but she only waved her feelers,
and said we could all lay eggs like Queens if we chose. And I'm
afraid lots of the weaker sisters believe her, and are trying to
do it. So unsettling!"

Sacharissa sped to a sealed worker-cell whose lid pulsated, as
the bee within began to cut its way out.

"Come along, precious!" she murmured, and thinned the frail top
from the other side. A pale, damp, creased thing hoisted itself
feebly on to the comb. Sacharissa's note changed at once. "No
time to waste! Go up the frame and preen yourself!" she said.
"Report for nursing-duty in my ward to-morrow evening at six.
Stop a minute. What's the matter with your third right leg?"

The young bee held it out in silence--unmistakably a drone leg
incapable of packing pollen.

"Thank you. You needn't report till the day after to-morrow."
Sacharissa turned to her companion. "That's the fifth oddity
hatched in my ward since noon. I don't like it."

"There's always a certain number of 'em," said Melissa. "You
can't stop a few working sisters from laying, now and then, when
they overfeed themselves. They only raise dwarf drones."

But we're hatching out drones with workers' stomachs; workers
with drones' stomachs; and albinoes and mixed-leggers who can't
pack pollen--like that poor little beast yonder. I don't mind
dwarf drones any more than you do (they all die in July), but
this steady hatch of oddities frightens me, Melissa!"

"How narrow of you! They are all so delightfully clever and
unusual and interesting," piped the Wax-moth from a crack above
them. "Come here, you dear, downy duck, and tell us all about
your feelings."

"I wish she'd go!" Sacharissa lowered her voice. "She meets
these--er -oddities as they dry out, and cuddles 'em in corners."

"I suppose the truth is that we're over-stocked and too well fed
to swarm," said Melissa.

"That is the truth," said the Queen's voice behind them. They had
not heard the heavy royal footfall which sets empty cells
vibrating. Sacharissa offered her food at once. She ate and
dragged her weary body forward. "Can you suggest a remedy?" she
said.

"New principles!" cried the Wax-moth from her crevice. "We'll
apply them quietly later."

"Suppose we sent out a swarm?" Melissa suggested. "It's a little
late, but it might ease us off."

"It would save us, but--I know the Hive! You shall see for
yourself." The old Queen cried the Swarming Cry, which to a bee
of good blood should be what the trumpet was to Job's war-horse.
In spite of her immense age (three, years), it rang between the
canon-like frames as a pibroch rings in a mountain pass; the
fanners changed their note, and repeated it up in every gallery;
and the broad-winged drones, burly and eager, ended it on one
nerve-thrilling outbreak of bugles: "La Reine le veult! Swarm!
Swar-rm! Swar-r-rm!"

But the roar which should follow the Call was wanting. They heard
a broken grumble like the murmur of a falling tide.

"Swarm? What for? Catch me leaving a good bar-frame Hive, with
fixed foundations, for a rotten, old oak out in the open where it
may rain any minute! We're all right! It's a 'Patent Guaranteed
Hive.' Why do they want to turn us out? Swarming be gummed!
Swarming was invented to cheat a worker out of her proper
comforts. Come on off to bed!"

The noise died out as the bees settled in empty cells for the
night.

"You hear?" said the Queen. "I know the Hive!"

"Quite between ourselves, I taught them that," cried the
Wax-moth. "Wait till my principles develop, and you'll see the
light from a new quarter."

"You speak truth for once," the Queen said suddenly, for she
recognized the Wax-moth. "That Light will break into the top of
the Hive. A Hot Smoke will follow it, and your children will not
be able to hide in any crevice."

"Is it possible?" Melissa whispered. "I-we have sometimes heard a
legend like it."

"It is no legend," the old Queen answered. "I had it from my
mother, and she had it from hers. After the Wax-moth has grown
strong, a Shadow will fall across the gate; a Voice will speak
from behind a Veil; there will be Light, and Hot Smoke, and
earthquakes, and those who live will see everything that they
have done, all together in one place, burned up in one great
fire." The old Queen was trying to tell what she had been told of
the Bee Master's dealings with an infected hive in the apiary,
two or three seasons ago; and, of course, from her point of view
the affair was as important as the Day of Judgment.

"And then?" asked horrified Sacharissa.

"Then, I have heard that a little light will burn in a great
darkness, and perhaps the world will begin again. Myself, I think
not."

"Tut! Tut!" the Wax-moth cried. "You good, fat people always
prophesy ruin if things don't go exactly your way. But I grant
you there will be changes."

There were. When her eggs hatched, the wax was riddled with
little tunnels, coated with the dirty clothes of the
caterpillars. Flannelly lines ran through the honey-stores, the
pollen-larders, the foundations, and, worst of all, through the
babies in their cradles, till the Sweeper Guards spent half their
time tossing out useless little corpses. The lines ended in a
maze of sticky webbing on the face of the comb. The caterpillars
could not stop spinning as they walked, and as they walked
everywhere, they smarmed and garmed everything. Even where it did
not hamper the bees' feet, the stale, sour smell of the stuff put
them off their work; though some of the bees who had taken to egg
laying said it encouraged them to be mothers and maintain a vital
interest in life.

When the caterpillars became moths, they made friends with the
ever-increasing Oddities--albinoes, mixed-leggers, single-eyed
composites, faceless drones, halfqueens and laying sisters; and
the ever-dwindling band of the old stock worked themselves bald
and fray-winged to feed their queer charges. Most of the Oddities
would not, and many, on account of their malformations, could
not, go through a day's field-work; but the Wax-moths, who were
always busy on the brood-comb, found pleasant home occupations
for them. One albino, for instance, divided the number of pounds
of honey in stock by the number of bees in the Hive, and proved
that if every bee only gathered honey for seven and three quarter
minutes a day, she would have the rest of the time to herself,
and could accompany the drones on their mating flights. The
drones were not at all pleased.

Another, an eyeless drone with no feelers, said that all
brood-cells should be perfect circles, so as not to interfere
with the grub or the workers. He proved that the old six-sided
cell was solely due to the workers building against each other on
opposite sides of the wall, and that if there were no
interference, there would be no angles. Some bees tried the new
plan for a while, and found it cost eight times more wax than the
old six sided specification; and, as they never allowed a cluster
to hang up and make wax in peace, real wax was scarce. However,
they eked out their task with varnish stolen from new coffins at
funerals, and it made them rather sick. Then they took to cadging
round sugar-factories and breweries, because it was easiest to
get their material from those places, and the mixture of glucose
and beer naturally fermented in store and blew the store-cells
out of shape, besides smelling abominably. Some of the sound bees
warned them that ill-gotten gains never prosper, but the Oddities
at once surrounded them and balled them to death. That was a
punishment they were almost as fond of as they were of eating,
and they expected the sound bees to feed them. Curiously enough
the age-old instinct of loyalty and devotion towards the Hive
made the sound bees do this, though their reason told them they
ought to slip away and unite with some other healthy stock in the
apiary.

"What, about seven and three-quarter minutes' work now?" said
Melissa one day as she came in. "I've been at it for five hours,
and I've only half a load."

"Oh, the Hive subsists on the Hival Honey which the Hive
produces," said a blind Oddity squatting in a store-cell.

"But honey is gathered from flowers outside two miles away
sometimes," cried Melissa.

"Pardon me," said the blind thing, sucking hard. "But this is the
Hive, is it not?"

"It was. Worse luck, it is."

"And the Hival Honey is here, is it not?" It opened a fresh
store-cell to prove it.

"Ye-es, but it won't be long at this rate," said Melissa.

"The rates have nothing to do with it. This Hive produces the
Hival Honey. You people never seem to grasp the economic
simplicity that underlies all life."

"Oh, me!" said poor Melissa, "haven't you ever been beyond the
Gate?"

"Certainly not. A fool's eyes are in the ends of the earth. Mine
are in my head." It gorged till it bloated.

Melissa took refuge in her poorly paid field-work and told
Sacharissa the story.

"Hut!" said that wise bee, fretting with an old maid of a
thistle. "Tell us something new. The Hive's full of such as
him--it, I mean."

"What's the end to be? All the honey going out and none coming
in. Things can't last this way!" said Melissa.

"Who cares?" said Sacharissa. "I know now how drones feel the day
before they're killed. A short life and a merry one for me."

"If it only were merry! But think of those awful, solemn,
lop-sided Oddities waiting for us at home crawling and clambering
and preaching--and dirtying things in the dark."

"I don't mind that so much as their silly songs, after we've fed
'em, all about 'work among the merry, merry blossoms," said
Sacharissa from the deeps of a stale Canterbury bell.

"I do. How's our Queen?" said Melissa.

"Cheerfully hopeless, as usual. But she lays an egg now and
then."

"Does she so?" Melissa backed out of the next bell with a jerk.
"Suppose now, we sound workers tried to raise a Princess in some
clean corner?"

"You'd be put to it to find one. The Hive's all Wax-moth and
muckings. But--well?"

"A Princess might help us in the time of the Voice behind the
Veil that the Queen talks of. And anything is better than working
for Oddities that chirrup about work that they can't do, and
waste what we bring home."

"Who cares?" said Sacharissa. "I'm with you, for the fun of it.
The Oddities would ball us to death, if they knew. Come home, and
we'll begin."

There is no room to tell how the experienced Melissa found a
far-off frame so messed and mishandled by abandoned cell-building
experiments that, for very shame, the bees never went there. How
in that ruin she blocked out a Royal Cell of sound wax, but
disguised by rubbish till it looked like a kopje among deserted
kopjes. How she prevailed upon the hopeless Queen to make one
last effort and lay a worthy egg. How the Queen obeyed and died.
How her spent carcass was flung out on the rubbish heap, and how
a multitude of laying sisters went about dropping drone-eggs
where they listed, and said there was no more need of Queens.
How, covered by this confusion, Sacharissa educated certain young
bees to educate certain new-born bees in the almost lost art of
making Royal Jelly. How the nectar for it was won out of hours in
the teeth of chill winds. How the hidden egg hatched true--no
drone, but Blood Royal. How it was capped, and how desperately
they worked to feed and double-feed the now swarming Oddities,
lest any break in the food-supplies should set them to
instituting inquiries, which, with songs about work, was their
favourite amusement. How in an auspicious hour, on a moonless
night, the Princess came forth a Princess indeed, and how Melissa
smuggled her into a dark empty honey-magazine, to bide her time;
and how the drones, knowing she was there, went about singing the
deep disreputable love-songs of the old days--to the scandal of
the laying sisters, who do not think well of drones. These things
are, written in the Book of Queens, which is laid up in the
hollow of the Great Ash Ygdrasil.

After a few days the weather changed again and became glorious.
Even the Oddities would now join the crowd that hung out on the
alighting-board, and would sing of work among the merry, merry
blossoms till an untrained ear might have received it for the hum
of a working hive. Yet, in truth, their store-honey had been
eaten long ago. They lived from day to day on the efforts of the
few sound bees, while the Wax-moth fretted and consumed again
their already ruined wax. But the sound bees never mentioned
these matters. They knew, if they did, the Oddities would hold a
meeting and ball them to death.

"Now you see what we have done," said the Wax-moths. "We have
created New Material, a New Convention, a New Type, as we said we
would."

"And new possibilities for us," said the laying sisters
gratefully. "You have given us a new life's work, vital and
paramount."

"More than that," chanted the Oddities in the sunshine; "you have
created a new heaven and a new earth. Heaven, cloudless and
accessible" (it was a perfect August evening) "and Earth teeming
with the merry, merry blossoms, waiting only our honest toil to
turn them all to good. The--er--Aster, and the Crocus, and
the--er--Ladies' Smock in her season, the Chrysanthemum after her
kind, and the Guelder Rose bringing forth abundantly withal."

"Oh, Holy Hymettus!" said Melissa, awestruck. "I knew they didn't
know how honey was made, but they've forgotten the Order of the
Flowers! What will become of them?"

A Shadow fell across the alighting-board as the Bee Master and
his son came by. The Oddities crawled in and a Voice behind a
Veil said: "I've neglected the old Hive too long. Give me the
smoker."

Melissa heard and darted through the gate. "Come, oh come!" she
cried. "It is the destruction the Old Queen foretold. Princess,
come!"

"Really, you are too archaic for words," said an Oddity in an
alley-way. "A cloud, I admit, may have crossed the sun; but why
hysterics? Above all, why Princesses so late in the day? Are you
aware it's the Hival Tea-time? Let's sing grace."

Melissa clawed past him with all six legs. Sacharissa had run to
what was left of the fertile brood-comb. "Down and out!" she
called across the brown breadth of it. "Nurses, guards, fanners,
sweepers--out!

Never mind the babies. They're better dead.--Out, before the
Light and the Hot Smoke!"

The Princess's first clear fearless call (Melissa had found her)
rose and drummed through all the frames. "La Reine le veult!
Swarm! Swar-rm! Swar-r-rm!"

The Hive shook beneath the shattering thunder of a stuck-down
quilt being torn back.

"Don't be alarmed, dears," said the Wax-moths. "That's our work.
Look up, and you'll see the dawn of the New Day."

Light broke in the top of the hive as the Queen had,
prophesied--naked light on the boiling, bewildered bees.

Sacharissa rounded up her rearguard, which dropped headlong off
the frame, and joined the Princess's detachment thrusting toward
the Gate. Now panic was in full blast, and each sound bee found
herself embraced by at least three Oddities. The first instinct
of a frightened bee is to break into the stores and gorge herself
with honey; but there were no stores left, so the Oddities fought
the sound bees.

"You must feed us, or we shall die!" they cried, holding and
clutching and slipping, while the silent scared earwigs and
little spiders twisted between their legs. "Think of the Hive,
traitors! The Holy Hive!"

"You should have thought before!" cried the sound bees., "Stay
and see the dawn of your New Day."

They reached the Gate at last over the soft bodies of many to
whom they had ministered.

"On! Out! Up!" roared Melissa in the Princess's ear. "For the
Hive's sake! To the Old Oak!"

The Princess left the alighting-board, circled once, flung
herself at the lowest branch of the Old Oak, and her little loyal
swarm--you could have covered it with a pint mug--followed,
hooked, and hung.

"Hold close!" Melissa gasped. "The old legends have come true!
Look!"

The Hive was half hidden by smoke, and Figures moved through the
smoke. They heard a frame crack stickily, saw it heaved high and
twirled round between enormous hands--a blotched, bulged, and
perished horror of grey wax, corrupt brood, and small
drone-cells, all covered with crawling Oddities, strange to the
sun.

"Why, this isn't a hive! This is a museum of curiosities," said
the Voice behind the Veil. It was only the Bee Master talking to
his son.

"Can you blame 'em, father?" said a second voice. "It's rotten
with Wax-moth. See here!"

Another frame came up. A finger poked through it, and it broke
away in rustling flakes of ashy rottenness.

"Number Four Frame! That was your mother's pet comb once,"
whispered Melissa to the Princess. "Many's the good egg I've
watched her lay there."

"Aren't you confusing pod hoc with propter hoc?" said the Bee
Master. "Wax-moth only succeed when weak bees let them in." A
third frame crackled and rose into the light. "All this is full
of laying workers' brood. That never happens till the stock's
weakened. Phew!"

He beat it on his knee like a tambourine, and it also crumbled to
pieces.

The little swarm shivered as they watched the dwarf drone-grubs
squirm feebly on the grass. Many sound bees had nursed on that
frame, well knowing their work was useless; but the actual sight
of even useless work destroyed disheartens a good worker.

"No, they have some recuperative power left," said the second
voice. "Here's a Queen cell!"

"But it's tucked away among--What on earth has come to the little
wretches? They seem to have lost the instinct of cell-building."
The father held up the frame where the bees had experimented in
circular cell-work. It looked like the pitted head, of a decaying
toadstool.

"Not altogether," the son corrected. "There's one line, at least,
of perfectly good cells."

"My work," said Sacharissa to herself. "I'm glad Man does me
justice before--"

That frame, too, was smashed out and thrown atop of the others
and the foul earwiggy quilts.

As frame after frame followed it, the swarm beheld the upheaval,
exposure, and destruction of all that had been well or ill done
in every cranny of their Hive for generations past. There was
black comb so old that they had forgotten where it hung; orange,
buff, and ochre-varnished store-comb, built as bees were used to
build before the days of artificial foundations; and there was a
little, white, frail new work. There were sheets on sheets of
level, even brood-comb that had held in its time unnumbered
thousands of unnamed workers; patches of obsolete drone-comb,
broad and high-shouldered, showing to what marks the male grub
was expected to grow; and two-inch deep honey-magazines, empty,
but still magnificent, the whole gummed and glued into twisted
scrap-work, awry on the wires; half-cells, beginnings abandoned,
or grandiose, weak-walled, composite cells pieced out with
rubbish and capped with dirt.

Good or bad, every inch of it was so riddled by the tunnels of
the Wax-moth that it broke in clouds of dust as it was flung on
the heap.

"Oh, see!" cried Sacharissa. "The Great Burning that Our Queen
foretold. Who can bear to look?"

A flame crawled up the pile of rubbish, and they smelt singeing
wax.

The Figures stooped, lifted the Hive and shook it upside down
over the pyre. A cascade of Oddities, chips of broken comb,
scale, fluff, and grubs slid out, crackled, sizzled, popped a
little, and then the flames roared up and consumed all that fuel.

"We must disinfect," said a Voice. "Get me a sulphur-candle,
please."

The shell of the Hive was returned to its place, a light was set
in its sticky emptiness, tier by tier the Figures built it up,
closed the entrance, and went away. The swarm watched the light
leaking through the cracks all the long night. At dawn one
Wax-moth came by, fluttering impudently.

"There has been a miscalculation about the New Day, my dears,"
she began; "one can't expect people to be perfect all at once.
That was our mistake."

"No, the mistake was entirely ours," said the Princess.

"Pardon me," said the Wax-moth. "When you think of the enormous
upheaval--call it good or bad--which our influence brought about,
you will admit that we, and we alone--"

"You?" said the Princess. "Our stock was not strong. So you
came--as any other disease might have come. Hang close, all my
people."

When the sun rose, Veiled Figures came down, and saw their swarm
at the bough's end waiting patiently within sight of the old
Hive--a handful, but prepared to go on.



               THE BEES AND THE FLIES

             A FARMER of the Augustan age
             Perused in Virgil's golden page,
             The story of the secret won
             From Proteus by Cyrene's son
             How the dank sea-god sowed the swain
             Means to restore his hives again
             More briefly, how a slaughtered bull
             Breeds honey by the bellyful.

             The egregious rustic put to death
             A bull by stopping of its breath:
             Disposed the carcass in a shed
             With fragrant herbs and branches spread. 
             And, having thus performed the charm,
             Sat down to wait the promised swarm.

             Nor waited long . . . The God of Day
             Impartial, quickening with his ray
             Evil and good alike, beheld
             The carcass--and the carcass swelled! 
             Big with new birth the belly heaves
             Beneath its screen of scented leaves;
             Past any doubt, the bull conceives!

             The farmer bids men bring more hives
             To house the profit that arrives;
             Prepares on pan, and key and kettle,
             Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;
             But when to crown the work he goes,
             Gods! What a stink salutes his nose! 
             Where are the honest toilers? 
             Where The gravid mistress of their care?
             A busy scene, indeed, he sees,
             But not a sign or sound of bees. 
             Worms of the riper grave unhid
             By any kindly coffin lid,
             Obscene and shameless to the light,
             Seethe in insatiate appetite,
             Through putrid offal; while above
             The hissing blow-fly seeks his love,
             Whose offspring, supping where they supt,
             Consume corruption twice corrupt. 



WITH THE NIGHT MAIL

A STORY OF 2000 A. D.

(Together with extracts from the magazine in which it appeared)

A nine o'clock of a gusty winter night I stood on the lower
stages of one of the G.P.O. outward mail towers. My purpose was a
run to Quebec in "Postal Packet 162 or such other as may be
appointed"; and the Postmaster-General himself countersigned the
order. This talisman opened all doors, even those in the
despatching-caisson at the foot of the tower, where they were
delivering the sorted Continental mail. The bags lay packed close
as herrings in the long grey underbodies which our G.P.O. still
calls "coaches." Five such coaches were filled as I watched, and
were shot up the guides to be locked on to their waiting packets
three hundred feet nearer the stars.

From the despatching-caisson I was conducted by a courteous and
wonderfully learned official Mr. L.L. Geary, Second Despatcher of
the Western Route--to the Captains' Room (this wakes an echo of
old romance), where the mail captains come on for their turn of
duty. He introduces me to the captain of "162"--Captain Purnall,
and his relief, Captain Hodgson. The one is small and dark; the
other large and red; but each has the brooding sheathed glance
characteristic of eagles and aeronauts. You can see it in the
pictures of our racing professionals, from L.V. Rautsch to little
Ada Warrleigh--that fathomless abstraction of eyes habitually
turned through naked space.

On the notice-board in the Captains' Room, the pulsing arrows of
some twenty indicators register, degree by geographical degree,
the progress of as many homeward-bound packets. The word "Cape"
rises across the face of a dial; a gong strikes: the South
African mid-weekly mail is in at the Highgate Receiving Towers.
That is all. It reminds one comically of the traitorous little
bell which in pigeon-fanciers', lofts notifies the return of a
homer.

"Time for us to be on the move," says Captain Purnall, and we are
shot up by the passenger-lift to the top of the despatch-towers.
"Our coach will lock on when it is filled and the clerks are
aboard."

"No. 162" waits for us in Slip E of the topmost stage. The great
curve of her back shines frostily under the lights, and some
minute alteration of trim makes her rock a little in her
holding-down slips.

Captain Purnall frowns and dives inside. Hissing softly, "162"
comes to rest as level as a rule. From her North Atlantic Winter
nose-cap (worn bright as diamond with boring through uncounted
leagues of hail, snow, and ice) to the inset of her three built
out propeller-shafts is some two hundred and forty feet. Her
extreme diameter, carried well forward, is thirty-seven. Contrast
this with the nine hundred by ninety-five of any crack liner, and
you will realize the power that must drive a hull through all
weathers at more than the emergency speed of the Cyclonic!

The eye detects no joint in her skin plating save the sweeping
hair-crack of the bow-rudder--Magniac's rudder that assured us
the dominion of the unstable air and left its inventor penniless
and half-blind. It is calculated to Castelli's "gullwing" curve.
Raise a few feet of that all but invisible plate three-eighths of
an inch and she will yaw five miles to port or starboard ere she
is under control again. Give her full helm and she returns on her
track like a whip-lash. Cant the whole forward--a touch on the
wheel will suffice--and she sweeps at your good direction up or
down. Open the complete circle and she presents to the air a
mushroom-head that will bring her up all standing within a half
mile.

"Yes," says Captain Hodgson, answering my thought, "Castelli
thought he'd discovered the secret of controlling aeroplanes when
he'd only found out how to steer dirigible balloons. Magniac
invented his rudder to help war-boats ram each other; and war
went out of fashion and Magniac he went out of his mind because
he said he couldn't serve his country any more. I wonder if any
of us ever know what we're really doing."

"If you want to see the coach locked you'd better go aboard. It's
due now," says Mr. Geary. I enter through the door amidships.
There is nothing here for display. The inner skin of the
gas-tanks comes down to within a foot or two of my head and turns
over just short of the turn of the bilges. Liners and yachts
disguise their tanks with decoration, but the G.P.O. serves them
raw under a lick of grey official paint. The inner skin shuts off
fifty feet of the bow and as much of the stern, but the
bow-bulkhead is recessed for the lift-shunting apparatus as the
stern is pierced for the shaft-tunnels. The engine-room lies
almost amidships. Forward of it, extending to the turn of the bow
tanks, is an aperture--a bottomless hatch at present--into which
our coach will be locked. One looks down over the coamings three
hundred feet to the despatching-caisson whence voices boom
upward. The light below is obscured to a sound of thunder, as our
coach rises on its guides. It enlarges rapidly from a
postage-stamp to a playing-card; to a punt and last a pontoon.
The two clerks, its crew, do not even look up as it comes into
place. The Quebec letters fly under their fingers and leap into
the docketed racks, while both captains and Mr. Geary satisfy
them selves that the coach is locked home. A clerk passes the
way-bill over the hatch coaming. Captain Purnall thumb-marks and
passes it to Mr. Geary. Receipt has been given and taken.
"Pleasant run," says Mr. Geary, and disappears through the door
which a foot high pneumatic compressor locks after him.

"A-ah!" sighs the compressor released. Our holding-down clips
part with a tang. We are clear.

Captain Hodgson opens the great colloid underbody porthole
through which I watch over-lighted London slide eastward as the
gale gets hold of us. The first of the low winter clouds cuts off
the well-known view and darkens Middlesex. On the south edge of
it I can see a postal packet's light ploughing through the white
fleece. For an instant she gleams like a star ere she drops
toward the Highgate Receiving Towers. "The Bombay Mail," says
Captain Hodgson, and looks at his watch. "She's forty minutes
late."

"What's our level?" I ask.

"Four thousand. Aren't you coming up on the bridge?"

The bridge (let us ever praise the G.P.O. as a repository of
ancientest tradition!) is represented by a view of Captain
Hodgson's legs where he stands on the Control Platform that runs
thwart-ships overhead. The bow colloid is unshuttered and Captain
Purnall, one hand on the wheel, is feeling for a fair slant. The
dial shows 4300 feet.  "It's steep to-night," he mutters, as tier
on tier of cloud drops under. "We generally pick up an easterly
draught below three thousand at this time o' the year. I hate
slathering through fluff."

"So does Van Cutsem. Look at him huntin' for a slant!" says
Captain Hodgson. A foglight breaks cloud a hundred fathoms below.
The Antwerp Night Mail makes her signal and rises between two
racing clouds far to port, her flanks blood-red in the glare of
Sheerness Double Light. The gale will have us over the North Sea
in half-an-hour, but Captain Purnall lets her go
composedly--nosing to every point of the compass as she rises.

"Five thousand-six, six thousand eight hundred"--the dip-dial
reads ere we find the easterly drift, heralded by a flurry of
snow at the thousand fathom level. Captain Purnall rings up the
engines and keys down the governor on the switch before him.
There is no sense in urging machinery when Eolus himself gives
you good knots for nothing. We are away in earnest now--our nose
notched home on our chosen star. At this level the lower clouds
are laid out, all neatly combed by the dry fingers of the East.
Below that again is the strong westerly blow through which we
rose. Overhead, a film of southerly drifting mist draws a
theatrical gauze across the firmament. The moonlight turns the
lower strata to silver without a stain except where our shadow
underruns us. Bristol and Cardiff Double Lights (those statelily
inclined beams over Severnmouth) are dead ahead of us; for we
keep the Southern Winter Route. Coventry Central, the pivot of
the English system, stabs upward once in ten seconds its spear of
diamond light to the north; and a point or two off our starboard
bow The Leek, the great cloud-breaker of Saint David's Head,
swings its unmistakable green beam twenty-five degrees each way.
There must be half a mile of fluff over it in this weather, but
it does not affect The Leek.

"Our planet's over-lighted if anything," says Captain Purnall at
the wheel, as Cardiff-Bristol slides under. "I remember the old
days of common white verticals that 'ud show two or three hundred
feet up in a mist, if you knew where to look for 'em. In really
fluffy weather they might as well have been under your hat. One
could get lost coming home then, an' have some fun. Now, it's
like driving down Piccadilly."

He points to the pillars of light where the cloud-breakers bore
through the cloud-floor. We see nothing of England's outlines:
only a white pavement pierced in all directions by these manholes
of variously coloured fire--Holy Island's white and red--St.
Bee's interrupted white, and so on as far as the eye can reach.
Blessed be Sargent, Ahrens, and the Dubois brothers, who invented
the cloud-breakers of the world whereby we travel in security!

"Are you going to lift for The Shamrock?" asks Captain Hodgson.
Cork Light (green, fixed) enlarges as we rush to it. Captain
Purnall nods. There is heavy traffic hereabouts--the cloud-bank
beneath us is streaked. with running fissures of flame where the
Atlantic boats are hurrying Londonward just clear of the fluff.
Mail-packets are supposed, under the Conference rules, to have
the five-thousand-foot lanes to themselves, but the foreigner in
a hurry is apt to take liberties with English air. "No. 162"
lifts to a long-drawn wail of the breeze in the fore-flange of
the rudder and we make Valencia (white, green, white) at a safe
7000 feet, dipping our beam to an incoming Washington packet.

There is no cloud on the Atlantic, and faint streaks of cream
round Dingle Bay show where the driven seas hammer the coast. A
big S.A.T.A. liner (Societe Anonyme des Transports Aeriens) is
diving and lifting half a mile below us in search of some break
in the solid west wind. Lower still lies a disabled Dane she is
telling the liner all about it in International. Our General
Communication dial has caught her talk and begins to eavesdrop.
Captain Hodgson makes a motion to shut it off but checks himself.
"Perhaps you'd like to listen," he says.

"Argol of St. Thomas," the Dane whimpers. "Report owners three
starboard shaft collar-bearings fused. Can make Flores as we are,
but impossible further. Shall we buy spares at Fayal?"

The liner acknowledges and recommends inverting the bearings. The
Argol answers that she has already done so without effect, and
begins to relieve her mind about cheap German enamels for
collar-bearings. The Frenchman assents cordially, cries "Courage,
mon ami," and switches off.

Then lights sink under the curve of the ocean.

"That's one of Lundt & Bleamers' boats," says Captain Hodgson.
"Serves 'em right for putting German compos in their
thrust-blocks. She won't be in Fayal to-night! By the way,
wouldn't you like to look round the engine-room?"

I have been waiting eagerly for this invitation and I follow
Captain Hodgson from the control-platform, stooping low to avoid
the bulge of the tanks. We know that Fleury's gas can lift
anything, as the world-famous trials of '89 showed, but its
almost indefinite powers of expansion necessitate vast tank room.
Even in this thin air the lift-shunts are busy taking out
one-third of its normal lift, and still "162" must be checked by
an occasional downdraw of the rudder or our flight would become a
climb to the stars. Captain Purnall prefers an overlifted to an
underlifted ship; but no two captains trim ship alike. "When I
take the bridge," says Captain Hodgson, "you'll see me shunt
forty per cent of the lift out of the gas and run her on the
upper rudder. With a swoop upward instead of a swoop downward, as
you say. Either way will do. It's only habit. Watch our dip-dial!
Tim fetches her down once every thirty knots as regularly as
breathing."

So is it shown on the dip-dial. For five or six minutes the arrow
creeps from 6700 to 7300. There is the faint "szgee" of the
rudder, and back slides the arrow to 6000 on a falling slant of
ten or fifteen knots.

"In heavy weather you jockey her with the screws as well," says
Captain Hodgson, and, unclipping the jointed bar which divides
the engine-room from the bare deck, he leads me on to the floor.
Here we find Fleury's Paradox of the Bulk-headed Vacuum--which we
accept now without thought--literally in full blast. The three
engines are H.T.&T. assisted-vacuo Fleury turbines running from
3000 to the Limit--that is to say, up to the point when the
blades make the air "bell"--cut out a vacuum for themselves
precisely as over-driven marine propellers used to do. "162's"
Limit is low on account of the small size of her nine screws,
which, though handier than the old colloid Thelussons, "bell"
sooner. The midships engine, generally used as a reinforce, is
not running; so the port and starboard turbine vacuum-chambers
draw direct into the return-mains.

The turbines whistle reflectively. From the low-arched
expansion-tanks on either side the valves descend pillarwise to
the turbine-chests, and thence the obedient gas whirls through
the spirals of blades with a force that would whip the teeth out
of a power saw. Behind, is its own pressure held in leash of
spurred on by the lift-shunts; before it, the vacuum where
Fleury's Ray dances in violet-green bands and whirled turbillons
of flame. The jointed U-tubes of the vacuum-chamber are
pressure-tempered colloid (no glass would endure the strain for
an instant) and a junior engineer with tinted spectacles watches
the Ray intently. It is the very heart of the machine--a mystery
to this day. Even Fleury who begat it and, unlike Magniac, died a
multi-millionaire, could not explain how the restless little imp
shuddering in the U-tube can, in the fractional fraction of a
second, strike the furious blast of gas into a chill
greyish-green liquid that drains (you can hear it trickle) from
the far end of the vacuum through the eduction-pipes and the
mains back to the bilges. Here it returns to its gaseous, one had
almost written sagacious, state and climbs to work afresh.
Bilge-tank, upper tank, dorsal-tank, expansion-chamber, vacuum,
main-return (as a liquid), and bilge-tank once more is the
ordained cycle. Fleury's Ray sees to that; and the engineer with
the tinted spectacles sees to Fleury's Ray. If a speck of oil, if
even the natural grease of the human finger touch the hooded
terminals, Fleury's Ray will wink and disappear and must be
laboriously built up again. This means half a day's work for all
hands and an expense of, one hundred and seventy-odd pounds to
the G.P.O. for radium-salts and such trifles.

"Now look at our thrust-collars. You won't find much German compo
there. Full-jewelled, you see," says Captain Hodgson as the
engineer shunts open the top of a cap. Our shaft-bearings are
C.M.C. (Commercial Minerals Company) stones, ground with as much
care as the lens of a telescope. They cost L837 apiece. So far we
have not arrived at their term of life. These bearings came from
"No. 97," which took them over from the old Dominion of Light
which had them out of the wreck of the Persew aeroplane in the
years when men still flew wooden kites over oil engines!

They are a shining reproof to all low-grade German "ruby"
enamels, so-called "boort" facings, and the dangerous and
unsatisfactory alumina compounds which please dividend-hunting
owners and turn skippers crazy. The rudder-gear and the gas
lift-shunt, seated side by side under the engine-room dials, are
the only machines in visible motion. The former sighs from time
to time as the oil plunger rises and falls half an inch. The
latter, cased and guarded like the U-tube aft, exhibits another
Fleury Ray, but inverted and more green than violet. Its function
is to shunt the lift out of the gas, and this it will do without
watching. That is all! A tiny pump-rod wheezing and whining to
itself beside a sputtering green lamp. A hundred and fifty feet
aft down the flat-topped tunnel of the tanks a violet light,
restless and irresolute. Between the two, three white-painted
turbine-trunks, like eel-baskets laid on their side, accentuate
the empty perspectives. You can hear the trickle of the liquefied
gas flowing from the vacuum into the bilge-tanks and the soft
gluck-glock of gaslocks closing as Captain Purnall brings "162"
down by the head. The hum of the turbines and the boom of the air
on our skin is no more than a cotton-wool wrapping to the
universal stillness. And we are running an eighteen-second mile.

I peer from the fore end of the engine-room over the
hatch-coamings into the coach. The mail-clerks are sorting the
Winnipeg, Calgary, and Medicine Hat bags; but there is a pack of
cards ready on the table.

Suddenly a bell thrills; the engineers run to the turbine-valves
and stand by; but the spectacled slave of the Ray in the U-tube
never lifts his head. He must watch where he is. We are
hard-braked and going astern; there is language from the Control
Platform.

"Tim's sparking badly about something," says the unruffled
Captain Hodgson. "Let's look."

Captain Purnall is not the suave man we left half an hour since,
but the embodied authority of the G.P.O. Ahead of us floats an
ancient, aluminum-patched, twin-screw tramp of the dingiest, with
no more right to the 5000-foot lane than has a horse-cart to a
modern road. She carries an obsolete "barbette" conning tower--a
six-foot affair with railed platform forward--and our warning
beam plays on the top of it as a policeman's lantern flashes on
the area sneak. Like a sneak-thief, too, emerges a shock-headed
navigator in his shirt-sleeves. Captain Purnall wrenches open the
colloid to talk with him man to man. There are times when Science
does not satisfy.

"What under the stars are you doing here, you sky-scraping
chimney-sweep?" he shouts as we two drift side by side. "Do you
know this is a Mail-lane? You call yourself a sailor, sir? You
ain't fit to peddle toy balloons to an Esquimaux. Your name and
number! Report and get down, and be--!"

"I've been blown up once," the shock-headed man cries, hoarsely,
as a dog barking. "I don't care two flips of a contact for
anything you can do, Postey."

"Don't you, sir? But I'll make you care. I'll have you towed
stern first to Disko and broke up. You can't recover insurance if
you're broke for obstruction. Do you understand that?"

Then the stranger bellows: "Look at my propellers! There's been a
wulli-wa down below that has knocked us into umbrella-frames!
We've been blown up about forty thousand feet! We're all one
conjuror's watch inside! My mate's arm's broke; my engineer's
head's cut open; my Ray went out when the engines smashed; and
... and ... for pity's sake give me my height, Captain! We doubt
we're dropping."

"Six thousand eight hundred. Can you hold it?" Captain Purnall
overlooks all insults, and leans half out of the colloid, staring
and snuffing. The stranger leaks pungently.

"We ought to blow into St. John's with luck. We're trying to plug
the fore-tank now, but she's simply whistling it away," her
captain wails.

"She's sinking like a log," says Captain Purnall in an undertone.
"Call up the Banks Mark Boat, George." Our dip-dial shows that
we, keeping abreast the tramp, have dropped five hundred feet the
last few minutes.

Captain Purnall presses a switch and our signal beam begins to
swing through the night, twizzling spokes of light across
infinity.

"That'll fetch something," he says, while Captain Hodgson watches
the General Communicator. He has called up the North Banks Mark
Boat, a few hundred miles west, and is reporting the case.

"I'll stand by you," Captain Purnall roars to the lone figure on
the conning-tower.

"Is it as bad as that?" comes the answer. "She isn't insured.
She's mine."

"Might have guessed as much," mutters Hodgson. "Owner's risk is
the worst risk of all!"

"Can't I fetch St. John's--not even with this breeze?" the voice
quavers.

"Stand by to abandon ship. Haven't you any lift in you, fore or
aft?"

"Nothing but the midship tanks, and they're none too tight. You
see, my Ray gave out and--" he coughs in the reek of the escaping
gas.

"You poor devil!" This does not reach our friend. "What does the
Mark Boat say, George?"

"Wants to know if there's any danger to traffic. Says she's in a
bit of weather herself, and can't quit station. I've turned in a
General Call, so even if they don't see our beam some one's bound
to help--or else we must. Shall I clear our slings? Hold on! Here
we are! A Planet liner, too! She'll be up in a tick!"

"Tell her to have her slings ready," cries his brother captain.
"There won't be much time to spare ... Tie up your mate," he
roars to the tramp.

"My mate's all right. It's my engineer. He's gone crazy."

"Shunt the lift out of him with a spanner. Hurry!"

"But I can make St. John's if you'll stand by."

"You'll make the deep, wet Atlantic in twenty minutes. You're
less than fifty-eight hundred now. Get your papers."

A Planet liner, east bound, heaves up in a superb spiral and
takes the air of us humming. Her underbody colloid is open land
her transporter-slings hang down like tentacles. We shut off our
beam as she adjusts herself--steering to a hair--over the tramp's
conning-tower. The mate comes up, his arm strapped to his side,
and stumbles into the cradle. A man with a ghastly scarlet head
follows, shouting that he must go back and build up his Ray. The
mate assures him that he will find a nice new Ray all ready in
the liner's engine-room. The bandaged head goes up wagging
excitedly. A youth and a woman follow. The liner cheers hollowly
above us, and we see the passengers' faces at the saloon colloid.

"That's a pretty girl. What's the fool waiting for now?" says
Captain Purnall.

The skipper comes up, still appealing to us to stand by and see
him fetch St. John's. He dives below and returns--at which we
little human beings in the void cheer louder than ever--with the
ship's kitten. Up fly the liner's hissing slings; her underbody
crashes home and she hurtles away again. The dial shows less than
3000 feet. The Mark Boat signals we must attend to the derelict,
now whistling her death-song, as she falls beneath us in long
sick zigzags.

"Keep our beam on her and send out a General Warning," says
Captain Purnall, following her down. There is no need. Not a
liner in air but knows the meaning of that vertical beam and
gives us and our quarry a wide berth.

"But she'll drown in the water, won't she?" I ask. "Not always,"
is his answer. "I've known a derelict up-end and sift her engines
out of herself and flicker round the Lower Lanes for three weeks
on her forward tanks only. We'll run no risks. Pith her, George,
and look sharp. There's weather ahead."

Captain Hodgson opens the underbody colloid, swings the heavy
pithing-iron out of its rack which in liners is generally cased
as a smoking-room settee, and at two hundred feet releases the
catch. We hear the whir of the crescent-shaped arms opening as
they descend. The derelict's forehead is punched in, starred
across, and rent diagonally. She falls stern first, our beam upon
her; slides like a lost soul down that pitiless ladder of light,
and the Atlantic takes her.

"A filthy business," says Hodgson. "I wonder what it must have
been like in the old days?"

The thought had crossed my mind, too. What if that wavering
carcass had been filled with the men of the old days, each one of
them taught (that is the horror of it!) that, after death he
would very possibly go for ever to unspeakable torment?

And scarcely a generation ago, we (one knows now that we are only
our fathers re-enlarged upon the earth), we, I say, ripped and
rammed and pithed to admiration.

Here Tim, from the Control Platform, shouts that we are to get
into our inflators and to bring him his at once.

We hurry into the heavy rubber suits--the engineers are already
dressed--and inflate at the air-pump taps. G.P.O. inflators are
thrice as thick as a racing man's "flickers," and chafe
abominably under the armpits. George takes the wheel until Tim
has blown himself up to the extreme of rotundity. If you kicked
him off the c. p. to the deck he would bounce back. But it is
"162" that will do the kicking.

"The Mark Boat's mad--stark ravin' crazy," he snorts, returning
to command. "She says there's a bad blow-out ahead and wants me
to pull over to Greenland. I'll see her pithed first! We wasted
half an hour fussing over that dead duck down under, and now I'm
expected to go rubbin' my back all round the Pole. What does she
think a Postal packet's made of? Gummed silk? Tell her we're
coming on straight, George."

George buckles him into the Frame and switches on the Direct
Control. Now under Tim's left toe lies the port-engine
Accelerator; under his left heel the Reverse, and so with the
other foot. The lift-shunt stops stand out on the rim of the
steering-wheel where the fingers of his left hand can play on
them. At his right hand is the midships engine lever ready to be
thrown into gear at a moment's notice. He leans forward in his
belt, eyes glued to the colloid, and one ear cocked toward the
General Communicator. Henceforth he is the strength and direction
of "162," through whatever may befall.

The Banks Mark Boat is reeling out pages of A. B. .C. Directions
to the traffic at large. We are to secure all "loose objects";
hood up our Fleury Rays; and "on no account to attempt to clear
snow from our conning-towers till the weather abates."
Under-powered craft, we are told, can ascend to the limit of
their lift, mail-packets to look out for them accordingly; the
lower lanes westward are pitting very badly, "with frequent
blow-outs, vortices, laterals, etc."

Still the clear dark holds up unblemished. The only warning is
the electric skin-tension (I feel as though I were a lace-maker's
pillow) and an irritability which the gibbering of the General
Communicator increases almost to hysteria.

We have made eight thousand feet since we pithed the tramp and
our turbines are giving us an honest two hundred and ten knots.

Very far to the west an elongated blur of red, low down, shows us
the North Banks Mark Boat. There are specks of fire round her
rising and falling--bewildered planets about an unstable
sun--helpless shipping hanging on to her light for company's
sake. No wonder she could not quit station.

She warns us to look out for the back-wash of the bad vortex in
which (her beam shows it) she is even now reeling.

The pits of gloom about us begin to fill with very faintly
luminous films--wreathing and uneasy shapes. One forms itself
into a globe of pale flame that waits shivering with eagerness
till we sweep by. It leaps monstrously across the blackness,
alights on the precise tip of our nose, pirouettes there an
instant, and swings off. Our roaring bow sinks as though that
light were lead--sinks and recovers to lurch and stumble again
beneath the next blow-out. Tim's fingers on the lift-shunt strike
chords of numbers--1:4:7:--2:4:6:--7:5:3, and so on; for he is
running by his tanks only, lifting or lowering her against the
uneasy air. All three engines are at work, for the sooner we have
skated over this thin ice the better. Higher we dare not go. The
whole upper vault is charged with pale krypton vapours, which our
skin friction may excite to unholy manifestations. Between the
upper and lower levels--5000 and 7000, hints the Mark Boat--we
may perhaps bolt through if ... Our bow clothes itself in blue
flame and falls like a sword. No human skill can keep pace with
the changing tensions. A vortex has us by the beak and we dive
down a two-thousand foot slant at an angle (the dip-dial and my
bouncing body record it) of thirty-five. Our turbines scream
shrilly; the propellers cannot bite on the thin air; Tim shunts
the lift out of five tanks at once and by sheer weight drives her
bullet wise through the maelstrom till she cushions with jar on
an up-gust, three thousand feet below.

"Now we've done it," says George in my ear: "Our skin-friction,
that last slide, has played Old Harry with the tensions! Look out
for laterals, Tim; she'll want some holding."

"I've got her," is the answer. "Come up, old woman."

She comes up nobly, but the laterals buffet her left and right
like the pinions of angry angels. She is jolted off her course
four ways at once, and cuffed into place again, only to be swung
aside and dropped into a new chaos. We are never without a
corposant grinning on our bows or rolling head over heels from
nose to midships, and to the crackle of electricity around and
within us is added once or twice the rattle of hail--hail that
will never fall on any sea. Slow we must or we may break our
back, pitch-poling.

"Air's a perfectly elastic fluid," roars George above the tumult.
"About as elastic as a head sea off the Fastnet, ain't it?"

He is less than just to the good element. If one intrudes on the
Heavens when they are balancing their volt-accounts; if one
disturbs the High Gods' market-rates by hurling steel hulls at
ninety knots across tremblingly adjusted electric tensions, one
must not complain of any rudeness in the reception. Tim met it
with an unmoved countenance, one corner of his under lip caught
up on a tooth, his eyes fleeting into the blackness twenty miles
ahead, and the fierce sparks flying from his knuckles at every
turn of the hand. Now and again he shook his head to clear the
sweat trickling from his eyebrows, and it was then that George,
watching his chance, would slide down the life-rail and swab his
face quickly with a big red handkerchief. I never imagined that a
human being could so continuously labour and so collectedly think
as did Tim through that Hell's half-hour when the flurry was at
its worst. We were dragged hither and yon by warm or, frozen
suctions, belched up on the tops of wulii-was, spun down by
vortices and clubbed aside by laterals under a dizzying rush of
stars in the, company of a drunken moon.

I heard the rushing click of the midship-engine-lever sliding in
and out, the low growl of the lift-shunts, and, louder than the
yelling winds without, the scream of the bow-rudder gouging into
any lull that promised hold for an instant. At last we began to
claw up on a cant, bow-rudder and port-propeller together; only
the nicest balancing of tanks saved us from spinning like the
rifle-bullet of the old days.

"We've got to hitch to windward of that Mark Boat somehow,"
George cried.

"There's no windward," I protested feebly, where I swung shackled
to a stanchion. "How can there be?"

He laughed--as we pitched into a thousand foot blow-out--that red
man laughed beneath his inflated hood!

"Look!" he said. "We must clear those refugees with a high lift."

The Mark Boat was below and a little to the sou'west of us,
fluctuating in the centre of her distraught galaxy. The air was
thick with moving lights at every level. I take it most of them
were trying to lie head to wind, but, not being hydras, they
failed. An under-tanked Moghrabi boat had risen to the limit of
her lift, and, finding no improvement, had dropped a couple of
thousand. There she met a superb wulli-wa, and was blown up
spinning like a dead leaf. Instead of shutting off she went
astern and, naturally, rebounded as from a wall almost into the
Mark Boat, whose language (our G. C. took it in) was humanly
simple.

"If they'd only ride it out quietly it 'ud be better," said
George in a calm, while we climbed like a bat above them all.
"But some skippers -will navigate without enough lift. What does
that Tad-boat think she is doing, Tim?"

"Playin' kiss in the ring," was Tim's unmoved reply. A
Trans-Asiatic Direct liner had found a smooth and butted into it
full power. But there was a vortex at the tail of that smooth, so
the T. A. D. was flipped out like a pea from off a finger-nail,
braking madly as she fled down and all but over-ending.

"Now I hope she's satisfied," said Tim. "I'm glad I'm not a Mark
Boat . . . Do I want help?" The General Communicator dial had
caught his ear. "George, you may tell that gentleman with my
love--love, remember, George--that I do not want help. Who is the
officious sardine-tin?"

"A Rimouski drogher on the look-out for a tow."

"Very kind of the Rimouski drogher. This postal packet isn't
being towed at present."

"Those droghers will go anywhere on a chance of salvage," George
explained. "We call' em kittiwakes."

A long-beaked, bright steel ninety-footer floated at ease for one
instant within hail of us, her slings coiled ready for rescues,
and a single hand in her open tower. He was smoking. Surrendered
to the insurrection of the airs through which we tore our way, he
lay in absolute peace. I saw the smoke of his pipe ascend
untroubled ere his boat dropped, it seemed, like a stone in a
well.

We had just cleared the Mark Boat and her disorderly neighbours
when the storm ended as suddenly as it had begun. A shooting-star
to northward filled the sky with the green blink of a meteorite
dissipating itself in our atmosphere.

Said George: "That may iron out all the tensions." Even as he
spoke, the conflicting winds came to rest; the levels filled; the
laterals died out in long, easy swells; the air-ways were
smoothed before us. In less than three minutes the covey round
the Mark Boat had shipped their power-lights and whirred away
upon their businesses.

"What's happened?" I gasped. The nerve-store within and the
volt-tingle without had passed: my inflators weighed like lead.

"God, He knows!" said Captain George soberly "That old
shooting-star's skin-friction has discharged the different
levels. I've seen it happen before. Phew: What a relief!"

We dropped from ten to six thousand and got rid of our clammy
suits. Tim shut off and stepped out of the Frame. The Mark Boat
was coming up behind us. He opened the colloid in that heavenly
stillness and mopped his face.

"Hello, Williams!" he cried. "A degree or two out o' station,
ain't you?"

"May be," was the answer from the Mark Boat. "I've had some
company this evening."

"So I noticed. Wasn't that quite a little draught?"

"I warned you. Why didn't you pull out north? The east-bound
packets have."

"Me? Not till I'm running a Polar consumptives' sanatorium boat.
I was squinting through a colloid before you were out of your
cradle, my son."

"I'd be the last man to deny it," the captain of the Mark Boat
replies softly. "The way you handled her just now--I'm a pretty
fair judge of traffic in a volt-hurry--it was a thousand
revolutions beyond anything even I've ever seen."

Tim's back supples visibly to this oiling. Captain George on the
c. p. winks and points to the portrait of a singularly attractive
maiden pinned up on Tim's telescope bracket above the
steering-wheel.

I see. Wholly and entirely do I see!

There is some talk overhead of "coming round to tea on Friday," a
brief report of the derelict's fate, and Tim volunteers as he
descends: "For an A. B. C. man young Williams is less of a
high-tension fool than some. Were you thinking of taking her on,
George? Then I'll just have a look round that port-thrust seems
to me it's a trifle warm--and we'll jog along."

The Mark Boat hums off joyously and hangs herself up in her
appointed eyrie. Here she will stay a shutterless observatory; a
life-boat station; a salvage tug; a court of ultimate
appeal-cum-meteorological bureau for three hundred miles in all
directions, till Wednesday next when her relief slides across the
stars to take her buffeted place. Her black hull, double
conning-tower, and ever-ready slings represent all that remains
to the planet of that odd old word authority. She is responsible
only to the Aerial Board of Control the A. B. C. of which Tim
speaks so flippantly. But that semi-elected, semi-nominated body
of a few score of persons of both sexes, controls this planet.
"Transportation is Civilisation," our motto runs. Theoretically,
we do what we please so long as we do not interfere with the
traffic AND ALL IT IMPLIES. Practically , the A. B. C. confirms
or annuls all international arrangements and, to judge from its
last report, finds our tolerant, humorous, lazy little planet
only too ready to shift the whole burden of public administration
on its shoulders. 

I discuss this with Tim, sipping mate on the c. p. while George
fans her along over the white blur of the Banks in beautiful
upward curves of fifty miles each. The dip-dial translates them
on the tape in flowing freehand.

Tim gathers up a skein of it and surveys the last few feet, which
record "162's" path through the volt-flurry.

"I haven't had a fever-chart like this to show up in five years,"
he says ruefully.

A postal packet's dip-dial records every yard of every run. The
tapes then go to the A. B. C., which collates and makes composite
photographs of them for the instruction of captains. Tim studies
his irrevocable past, shaking his head.

"Hello! Here's a fifteen-hundred-foot drop at fifty-five degrees!
We must have been standing on our heads then, George."

"You don't say so," George answers. "I fancied I noticed it at
the time."

George may not have Captain Purnall's catlike swiftness, but he
is all an artist to the tips of the broad fingers that play on
the shunt-stops. The delicious flight-curves come away on the
tape with never a waver. The Mark Boat's vertical spindle of
light lies down to eastward, setting in the face of the following
stars. Westward, where no planet should rise, the triple
verticals of Trinity Bay (we keep still to the Southern route)
make a low-lifting haze. We seem the only thing at rest under all
the heavens; floating at ease till the earth's revolution shall
turn up our landing-towers.

And minute by minute our silent clock gives us a sixteen-second
mile.

"Some fine night," says Tim, "we'll be even with that clock's
Master."

"He's coming now," says George, over his shoulder. "I'm chasing
the night west."

The stars ahead dim no more than if a film of mist had been drawn
under unobserved, but the deep airboom on our skin changes to a
joyful shout.

"The dawn-gust," says Tim. "It'll go on to meet the Sun. Look!
Look! There's the dark being crammed back over our bows! Come to
the after-colloid. I'll show you something."

The engine-room is hot and stuffy; the clerks in the coach are
asleep, and the Slave of the Ray is ready to follow them. Tim
slides open the aft colloid and reveals the curve of the
world--the ocean's deepest purple--edged with fuming and
intolerable gold.

Then the Sun rises and through the colloid strikes out our lamps.
Tim scowls in his face.

"Squirrels in a cage," he mutters. "That's all we are. Squirrels
in a cage! He's going twice as fast as us. Just you wait a few
years, my shining friend, and we'll take steps that will amaze
you. We'll Joshua you!"

Yes, that is our dream: to turn all earth into the Yale of Ajalon
at our pleasure. So far, we can drag out the dawn to twice its
normal length in these latitudes. But some day--even on the
Equator--we shall hold the Sun level in his full stride.

Now we look down on a sea thronged with heavy traffic. A big
submersible breaks water suddenly. Another and another follows
with a swash and a suck and a savage bubbling of relieved
pressures. The deep-sea freighters are rising to lung up after
the long night, and the leisurely ocean is all patterned with
peacock's eyes of foam.

"We'll lung up, too," says Tim, and when we return to the c. p.
George shuts off, the colloids are opened, and the fresh air
sweeps her out. There is no hurry. The old contracts (they will
be revised at the end of the year) allow twelve hours for a run
which any packet can put behind her in ten. So we breakfast in
the arms of an easterly slant which pushes us along at a languid
twenty.

To enjoy life, and tobacco, begin both on a sunny morning half a
mile or so above the dappled Atlantic cloud-belts and after a
volt-flurry which has cleared and tempered your nerves. While we
discussed the thickening traffic with the superiority that comes
of having a high level reserved to ourselves, we heard (and I for
the first time) the morning hymn on a Hospital boat.

She was cloaked by a skein of ravelled fluff beneath us and we
caught the chant before she rose into the sunlight. "Oh, ye Winds
of God," sang the unseen voices: "bless ye the Lord! Praise Him
and magnify Him for ever!"

We slid off our caps and joined in. When our shadow fell across
her great open platforms they looked up and stretched out their
hands neighbourly while they sang. We could see the doctors and
the nurses and the white-button-like faces of the cot-patients.
She passed slowly beneath us, heading northward, her hull, wet
with the dews of the night, all ablaze in the sunshine. So took
she the shadow of a cloud and vanished, her song continuing. "Oh,
ye holy and humble men of heart, bless ye the Lord! Praise Him
and magnify Him for ever."

"She's a public lunger or she wouldn't have been singing the
Benedicite; and she's a Greenlander or she wouldn't have
snow-blinds over her colloids," said George at last. "She'll be
bound for Frederikshavn or one of the Glacier sanatoriums for a
month.

If she was an accident ward she'd be hung up at the
eight-thousand-foot level. Yes--consumptives."

"Funny how the new things are the old thing I've read in books,"
Tim answered, "that savages used to haul their sick and wounded
up to the tops of hills because microbes were fewer there. We
hoist 'em in sterilized air for a while. Same idea. How much do
the doctors say we've added to the average life of man?"

"Thirty years," says George with a twinkle in his eye. "Are we
going to spend 'em all up here, Tim?"

"Flap ahead, then. Flap ahead. Who's hindering?" the senior
captain laughed, as we went in.

We held a good lift to clear the coastwise and Continental
shipping; and we had need of it. Though our route is in no sense
a populated one, there is a steady trickle of traffic this way
along. We met Hudson Bay furriers out of the Great Preserve,
hurrying to make their departure from Bonavista with sable and
black fox for the insatiable markets. We overcossed Keewatin
liners, small and cramped; but their captains, who see no land
between Trepassy and Lanco, know what gold they bring back from
West Erica. Trans-Asiatic Directs we met, soberly ringing the
world round the Fiftieth Meridian at an honest seventy knots; and
white-painted Ackroyd & Hunt fruiters out of the south fled
beneath us, their ventilated hulls whistling like Chinese kites.
Their market is in the North among the northern sanatoria where
you can smell their grape-fruit and bananas across the cold
snows. Argentine beef boats we sighted too, of enormous capacity
and unlovely outline. They, too, feed the northern health
stations in icebound ports where submersibles dare not rise.

Yellow-bellied ore-flats and Ungava petrol-tanks punted down
leisurely out of the north, like strings of unfrightened wild
duck. It does not pay to "fly" minerals and oil a mile farther
than is necessary; but the risks of transhipping to submersibles
in the ice pack off Nain or Hebron are so great that these heavy
freighters fly down to Halifax direct, and scent the air as they
go. They are the biggest tramps aloft except the Athabasca
grain-tubs. But these last, now that the wheat is moved, are
busy, over the world's shoulder, timber-lifting in Siberia.

We held to the St. Lawrence (it is astonishing how the old
water-ways still pull us children of the air), and followed his
broad line of black between its drifting iceblocks, all down the
Park that the wisdom of our fathers--but every one knows the
Quebec run.

We dropped to the Heights Receiving Towers twenty minutes ahead
of time, and there hung at ease till the Yokohama Intermediate
Packet could pull out and give us our proper slip. It was curious
to watch the action of the holding-down clips all along the
frosty river front as the boats cleared or came to rest. A big
Hamburger was leaving Pont Levis and her crew, unshipping the
platform railings, began to sing "Elsinore"--the oldest of our
chanteys. You know it of course:

     Mother Rugen's tea-house on the Baltic 
      Forty couple waltzing on the floor!
     And you can watch my Ray,
     For I must go away 
      And dance with Ella Sweyn at Elsinore!

Then, while they sweated home the covering-plates:

     Nor-Nor-Nor-Nor
     West from Sourabaya to the Baltic--
      Ninety knot an hour to the Skaw!
     Mother Rugen's tea-house on the Baltic 
      And a dance with Ella Sweyn at Elsinore!

The clips parted with a gesture of indignant dismissal, as though
Quebec, glittering under her snows, were casting out these light
and unworthy lovers. Our signal came from the Heights. Tim turned
and floated up, but surely then it was with passionate appeal
that the great tower arms flung open--or did I think so because
on the upper staging a little hooded figure also opened her arms
wide toward her father?

   *     *    *     *    *     *    *     * 

In ten seconds the coach with its clerks clashed down to the
receiving-caisson; the hostlers displaced the engineers at the
idle turbines, and Tim, prouder of this than all, introduced me
to the maiden of the photograph on the shelf. "And by the way,"
said he to her, stepping forth in sunshine under the hat of civil
life, "I saw young Williams in the Mark Boat. I've asked him to
tea on Friday."



             AERIAL BOARD OF CONTROL

                Lights

No changes in English Inland lights for week ending Dec. 18th.

CAPE VERDE--Week ending Dec. 18. Verde inclined guide-light
changes from 1st proximo to triple flash--green white green--in
place of occulting red as heretofore. The warning light for
Harmattan winds will be continuous vertical glare (white) on all
oases of trans-Saharan N. E. by E. Main Routes.

INVERCARGIL (N. Z.)--From 1st prox.: extreme southerly light
(double red) will exhibit white beam inclined 45 degrees on
approach of Southerly Buster. Traffic flies high off this coast
between April and October.

TABLE BAY--Devil's Peak Glare removed to Simonsberg. Traffic
making Table Mountain coastwise keep all lights from Three Anchor
Bay at least two thousand feet under, and do not round to till
East of E. shoulder Devil's Peak.

SANDHEADS LIGHT -Green triple vertical marks new private
landing-stage for Bay and Burma traffic only.

SNAEFELL JOKUL--White occulting light withdrawn for winter.

PATAGONIA--No summer light south Cape Pilar. This includes Staten
Island and Port Stanley.

C. NAVARIN--Quadruple fog flash (white), one minute intervals
(new).

EAST CAPE--Fog--flash -single white with single bomb, 30 sec.
intervals (new).

MALAYAN ARCHIPELAGO--Lights unreliable owing eruptions. Lay from
Cape Somerset to Singapore direct, keeping highest levels.


For the Board:

 CATTERTHUN }
 ST. JUST   }    Lights.
 VAN HEDDER }



Casualties

Week ending Dec. 18th.

SABLE ISLAND--Green single barbette-tower freighter, number
indistinguishable, up-ended, and fore-tank pierced after
collision, passed 300-ft. level Q P. as. Dec. 15th. Watched
to water and pithed by Mark Boat.

N. F. BANKS--Postal Packet 162 reports Halma freighter
(Fowey--St. John's) abandoned, leaking after weather, 46 151 N.
50 15' W. Crew rescued by Planet liner Asteroid. Watched to
water and pithed by Postal Packet, Dec. 14th.

KERGUELEN, MARK BOAT reports last call from Cymena freighter
(Gayer
Tong Huk & Co.) taking water and sinking in snow-storm South
McDonald Islands. No wreckage recovered. Messages and wills of
crew at all A. B. C. offices.

FEZZAN--T. A. D. freighter Ulema taken ground during Harmattan on
Akakus Range. Under plates strained. Crew at Ghat where repairing
Dec. 13th.

BISCAY, MARK BOAT reports Caducci (Valandingham Line) slightly
spiked in western gorge Point de Benasdue. Passengers transferred
Andorra (Fulton Line). Barcelona Mark Boat salving cargo Dec.
12th.

ASCENSION, MARE BOAT--Wreck of unknown racing-plane, Parden
rudder, wire-stiffened xylonite vans, and Harliss engine-seating,
sighted and salved 7 20' S. 18 41' W. Dec. 15th. Photos at all A.
B. C. offices.


Missing

No answer to General Call having been received during the last
week from following overdues, they are posted as missing:

 Atlantis, W.17630 . Canton--Valparaiso
 Audhumla W. 889 . Stockholm--Odessa
 Berenice, W. 2206 .. . Riga--Vladivostock
 Draw, E. 446 . . Coventry--Pontes
 Arenas Tontine, E. 5068 . C. Wrath--Ungava
 Wu-Sung, E. 41776 . . Hankow--Lobito Bay

General Call (all Mark Boats) out for:

Jane Eyre, W. 6990 . Port Rupert--City of Mexico
Santander, W. 6514 . . Gobi Desert--Manila
Y. Edmundsun, E. 9690 . . Kandahar--Fiume

         Broke for Obstruction, and Quitting Levels

VALKYRIE (racing plane), A. J. Hartley owner, New York
     (twice warned).
 GEISHA (racing plane), S. van Cott owner, Philadelphia
     (twice warned).
 MARVEL of PERU (racing plane), J. X. Peixoto owner, Rio de
Janeiro (twice warned).
 For the Board:

 LAZAREFF }
 McKEOUGH }  Traffic
 GOLDBRATT } 



                NOTES

               High-Level Sleet

The Northern weather so far shows no sign of improvement. From
all quarters come complaints of the unusual prevalence of sleet
at the higher levels. Racing planes and digs alike have suffered
severely--the former from 'unequal deposits of half-frozen slush
on their vans (and only those who have "held up" a badly balanced
plane in a cross-wind know what that means), and the latter from
loaded bows and snow-cased bodies. As a consequence, the Northern
and North-western upper levels have been practically abandoned,
and the high fliers have returned to the ignoble security of the
Three, Five, and Six hundred foot levels. But there remain a few
undaunted sun-hunters who, in spite of frozen stays and
ice-jammed connecting-rods, still haunt the blue empyrean.


                Bat-Boat Racing

The scandals of the past few years have at last moved the
yachting world to concerted action in regard to "bat" boat
racing. We have been treated to the spectacle of what are
practically keeled racing-planes driven a clear five foot or more
above the water, and only eased down to touch their so-called "
native element" as they near the line. Judges and starters have
been conveniently blind to this absurdity, but the public
demonstration off St. Catherine's Light at the Autumn Regattas
has borne ample, if tardy, fruit. In the future the "bat" is to
be a boat, and the long-unheeded demand of the true sportsman for
"no daylight under mid-keel in smooth water" is in a fair way to
be conceded. The new rule severely restricts plane area and lift
alike. The gas compartments are permitted both fore and aft, as
in the old type, but the water-ballast central tank is rendered
obligatory. These things work, if not for perfection, at least
for the evolution of a sane and wholesome waterborne cruiser. The
type of rudder is unaffected by the new rules, so we may expect
to see the Long-Davidson make (the patent on which has just
expired) come largely into use henceforward, though the strain on
the sternpost in turning at speeds over forty miles an hour is
admittedly very severe. But bat-boat racing has a great future
before it.


                Crete and the A. B. C.

The story of the recent Cretan crisis, as told in the A. B. C.
Monthly Report, is not without humour. Till the 25th October
Crete, as all our planet knows, was the sole surviving European
repository of "autonomous institutions," "local self-government,"
and the rest of the archaic lumber devised in the past for the
confusion of human affairs. She has lived practically on the
tourist traffic attracted by her annual pageants of Parliaments,
Boards, Municipal Councils, etc., etc. Last summer the islanders
grew wearied, as their premier explained, of "playing at being
savages for pennies," and proceeded to pull down all the
landing-towers on the island and shut off general communication
till such time as the A. B. C. should annex them. For
side-splitting comedy we would refer our readers to the
correspondence between the Board of Control and the Cretan
premier during the "war." However, all's well that ends well. The
A. B. C. have taken over the administration of Crete on normal
lines; and tourists must go elsewhere to witness the"debates,"
"resolutions," and "popular movements" of the old days. The only
people to suffer will be the Board of Control, which is
grievously overworked already. It is easy enough to condemn the
Cretans for their laziness; but when one recalls the large,
prosperous, and presumably public-spirited communities which
during the last few years have deliberately thrown themselves
into the hands of the A. B. C., one, cannot be too hard upon St.
Paul's old friends.



                CORRESPONDENCE

                Skylarking on the Equator

To THE EDITOR: Only last week, while crossing the Equator (W.
26-15), I became aware of a furious and irregular cannonading
some fifteen or twenty knots S. 4 E. Descending to the 500 ft.
level, I found a party of Transylvanian tourists engaged in
exploding scores of the largest pattern atmospheric bombs (A. B.
C. standard) and, in the intervals of their pleasing labours,
firing bow and stern smoke-ring swivels. This orgie--I can give
it no other name--went on for at least two hours, and naturally
produced violent electric derangements. My compasses, of course,
were thrown out, my bow was struck twice, and I received two
brisk shocks from the lower platform-rail. On remonstrating, I
was told that these "professors" were engaged in scientific
experiments. The extent of their "scientific" knowledge, may be
judged by the fact that they expected to produce (I give their
own words)" a little blue sky" if "they went on long enough."
This in the heart of the Doldrums at 450 feet! I have no
objection to any amount of blue sky in its proper place (it can
be found at the 4000 level for practically twelve months out of
the year), but I submit, with all deference to the educational
needs of Transylvania, that "skylarking" in the centre of a
main-travelled road where, at the best of times, electricity
literally drips off one's stanchions and screw blades, is
unnecessary. When my friends had finished, the road was seared,
and blown, and pitted with unequal pressure layers, spirals,
vortices, and readjustments for at least an hour. I pitched badly
twice in an upward rush--solely due to these diabolical
throw-downs--that came near to wrecking my propeller. Equatorial
work at low levels is trying enough in all conscience without the
added terrors of scientific hooliganism in the Doldrums.
     Rhyl. J. VINCENT MATHEN.

[We entirely sympathize with Professor Mathen's views, but till
the Board sees fit to further regulate the Southern areas in
which scientific experiments may be conducted, we shall always be
exposed to the risk which our correspondent describes.
Unfortunately, a chimera bombinating in a vacuum is, nowadays,
only too capable of producing secondary causes.- Editor.]


                Answers to Correspondents

VIGILANS--The Laws of Auroral Derangements are still imperfectly
understood. Any overheated motor may of course "seize" without
warning; but so many complaints have reached us of accidents
similar to yours while shooting the Aurora that we are inclined
to believe with Lavalle that the upper strata of the Aurora
Borealis are practically one big electric "leak," and that the
paralysis of your engines was due to complete magnetization of
all metallic parts. Low-flying planes often "glue up" when near
the Magnetic Pole, and there is no reason in science why the same
disability should not be experienced at higher levels when the
Auroras are "delivering" strongly.

INDIGNANT--On your own showing, you were not under control. That
you could not hoist the necessary N. U. C. lights on approaching
a traffic-lane because your electrics had short-circuited is a
misfortune which might befall any one. The A. B. C., being
responsible for the planet's traffic, cannot, however, make
allowance for this kind of misfortune. A reference to the Code
will show that you were fined on the lower scale.

PLANISTON--(1) The Five Thousand Kilometre (overland) was won
last year by L. V. Rautsch; R. M. Rautsch, his brother, in the
same week pulling off the Ten Thousand (oversee). R. M.'s average
worked out at a fraction over 500 kilometres per hour, thus
constituting a record. (2) Theoretically, there is no limit to
the lift of a dirigible. For commercial and practical purposes
15,000 tons is accepted as the most manageable.

PATERFAMILIAS--None whatever. He is liable for direct damage both
to your chimneys and any collateral damage caused by fall of
bricks into garden, etc., etc. Bodily inconvenience and mental
anguish may be included, but the average courts are not, as a
rule, swayed by sentiment. If you can prove that his grapnel
removed any portion of your roof, you had better rest your case
on decoverture of domicile (see Parkins v. Duboulay). We
sympathize with your position, but the night of the 14th was
stormy and confused, and--you may have to anchor on a stranger's
chimney yourself some night. Verbum sap!

ALDEBARAN--(1) war, as a paying concern, ceased in 1987. (2) The
Convention of London expressly reserves to every nation the right
of waging war so long as it does not interfere with the traffic
and all that implies. (3) The A. B. C. was constituted in 1949.

L. M. P.--(1) Keep her full head-on at half power, taking
advantage of the lulls to speed up and creep into it. She will
strain much less this way than in quartering across a gale. (2)
Nothing is to be gained by reversing into a following gale, and
there is always risk of a turnover. (3) The formulae for stun'sle
brakes are uniformly unreliable, and will continue to be so as
long as air is compressible.

PEGAMOID- (1) Personally we prefer glass or flux compounds to any
other material for winter work nose-caps as being absolutely
non-hygroscopic. (2) We cannot recommend any particular make.

PULMONAR--(1) For the symptoms you describe, try the Gobi Desert
Sanatoria. The low levels of most of the Saharan Sanatoria are
against them except at the outset of the disease. (2) We do not
recommend boarding-houses or hotels in this column.

BEGINNER--On still days the air above a large inhabited city
being slightly warmer--i.e., thinner--than the atmosphere of the
surrounding country, a plane drops a little on entering the
rarefied area, precisely as a ship sinks a little in fresh water.
Hence the phenomena of "jolt" and your "inexplicable collisions"
with factory chimneys. In air, as on earth, it is safest to fly
high.

EMERGENCY--There is only one rule of the road in air, earth, and
water. Do you want the firmament to yourself?

PICCIOLA--Both Poles have been overdone in Art and Literature.
Leave them to Science for the next twenty years. You did not send
a stamp with your verses.

NORTH NIGERIA--The Mark Boat was within her right in warning you
off the Reserve. The shadow of a low-flying dirigible scares the
game. You can buy all the photos you need at Sokoto.

NEW ERA--It is not etiquette to overcross an A. B. C. official's
boat without asking permission. He is one of the body responsible
for the planet's traffic, and for that reason must not be
interfered with. You, presumably, are out on your own business or
pleasure, and must leave him alone. For humanity's sake don't try
to be "democratic."

EXCORIATED--All inflators chafe sooner or later. You must go on
till your skin hardens by practice. Meantime vaseline.



                REVIEW

           The Life of Xavier Lavalle
     (Reviewed by Rene Talland. Ecole Aeronautique, Paris)

Ten years ago Lavalle, "that imperturbable dreamer of the
heavens," as Lazareff hailed him, gathered together the fruits of
a lifetime's labour, and gave it, with well-justified contempt,
to a world bound hand and foot to Barald's Theory of Vertices and
"compensating electric nodes." "They shall see," he wrote--in
that immortal postscript to The Heart of the Cyclone--"the Laws
whose existence they derided written in fire beneath them."

"But even here," he continues, "there is no finality. Better a
thousand times my conclusions should be discredited than that my
dead name should lie across the threshold of the temple of
Science--a bar to further inquiry."

So died Lavalle--a prince of the Powers of the Air, and even at
his funeral Cellier jested at "him who had gone to discover the
secrets of the Aurora Borealis."

If I choose thus to be banal, it is only to remind you that
Collier's theories are today as exploded as the ludicrous
deductions of the Spanish school. In the place of their fugitive
and warring dreams we have, definitely, Lavalle's Law of the
Cyclone which he surprised in darkness and cold at the foot of
the overarching throne of the Aurora Borealis. It is there that
I, intent on my own investigations, have passed and re-passed a
hundred times the worn leonine face, white as the snow beneath
him, furrowed with wrinkles like the seams and gashes upon the
North Cape; the nervous hand, integrally a part of the mechanism
of his flighter; and above all, the wonderful lambent eyes turned
to the zenith.

"Master," I would cry as I moved respectfully beneath him, "what
is it you seek today?" and always the answer, clear and without
doubt, from above: "The old secret, my son!"

The immense egotism of youth forced me on my own path, but (cry
of the human always!) had I known--if I had known--I would many
times have bartered my poor laurels for the privilege, such as
Tinsley and Herrera possess, of having aided him in his
monumental researches.

It is to the filial piety of Victor Lavalle that we owe the two
volumes consecrated to the ground-life of his father, so full of
the holy intimacies of the domestic hearth. Once returned from
the abysms of the utter North to that little house upon the
outskirts of Meudon, it was not the philosopher, the daring
observer, the man of iron energy that imposed himself on his
family, but a fat and even plaintive jester, a farceur incarnate
and kindly, the co-equal of his children, and, it must be
written, not seldom the comic despair of Madame Lavalle, who, as
she writes five years after the marriage, to her venerable
mother, found "in this unequalled intellect whose name I bear the
abandon of a large and very untidy boy." Here is her letter:

"Xavier returned from I do not know where at midnight, absorbed
in calculations on the eternal question of his Aurora--la belle
Aurore, whom I begin to hate. Instead of anchoring,--I had set
out the guide-light above our roof, so he had but to descend and
fasten the plane--he wandered, profoundly distracted, above the
town with his anchor down! Figure to yourself, dear mother, it is
the roof of the mayor's house that the grapnel first engages!
That I do not regret, for the mayor's wife and I are not
sympathetic; but when Xavier uproots my pet araucaria and bears
it across the garden into the conservatory I protest at the top
of my voice. Little Victor in his night-clothes runs to the
window, enormously amused at the parabolic flight without reason,
for it is too dark to see the grapnel, of my prized tree. The
Mayor of Meudon, thunders at our door in the name of the Law,
demanding, I suppose, my husband's head. Here is the conversation
through the megaphone--Xavier is two hundred feet above us:

"'Mons. Lavalle, descend and make reparation for outrage of
domicile. Descend, Mons. Lavalle!'

"No one answers.

"'Xavier Lavalle, in the name of the Law, descend arid submit to
process for outrage of domicile.'

"Xavier, roused from his calculations, comprehending only the
last words: 'Outrage of domicile? My dear mayor, who is the man
that has corrupted thy Julie?'

"The mayor, furious, 'Xavier Lavalle--'

"Xavier, interrupting: 'I have not that felicity. I am only a
dealer in cyclones!'

"My faith, he raised one then! All Meudon attended in the
streets, and my Xavier, after a long time comprehending what he
had done, excused himself in a thousand apologies. At last the
reconciliation was effected in our house over a supper at two in
the morning--Julie in a wonderful costume of compromises, and I
have her and the mayor pacified in bed in the blue room."

And on the next day, while the mayor rebuilds his roof, her
Xavier departs anew for the Aurora Borealis, there to commence
his life's work. M. Victor Lavalle tells us of that historic
collision (en plane) on the flank of Hecla between Herrera, then
a pillar of the Spanish school, and the man destined to confute
his theories and lead him intellectually captive. Even through
the years, the immense laugh of Lavalle as he sustains the
Spaniard's wrecked plane, and cries: "Courage! I shall not fall
till I have found Truth, and I hold you fast!" rings like the
call of trumpets. This is that Lavalle whom the world, immersed
in speculations of immediate gain, did not know nor suspect--the
Lavalle whom they adjudged to the last a pedant and a theorist.

The human, as apart from the scientific, side (developed in his
own volumes) of his epoch-making discoveries is marked with a
simplicity, clarity, and good sense beyond praise. I would
specially refer such as doubt the sustaining influence of
ancestral faith upon character and will to the eleventh and
nineteenth chapters, in which are contained the opening and
consummation of the Tellurionical Records extending over nine
years. Of their tremendous significance be sure that the modest
house at Meudon knew as little as that the Records would one day
be the planet's standard in all official meteorology. It was
enough for them that their Xavier--this son, this father, this
husband--ascended periodically to commune with powers, it might
be angelic, beyond their comprehension, and that they united
daily in prayers for his safety.

"Pray for me," he says upon the eve of each of his excursions,
and returning, with an equal simplicity, he renders thanks "after
supper in the little room where he kept his barometers."

To the last Lavalle was a Catholic of the old school,
accepting--he who had looked into the very heart of the
lightnings--the dogmas of papal infallibility, of absolution, of
confession--of relics great and small. Marvellous--enviable
contradiction!

The completion of the Tellurionical Records closed what Lavalle
himself was pleased to call the theoretical side of his
labours--labours from which the youngest and least impressionable
planeur might well have shrunk. He had traced through cold and
heat, across the deeps of the oceans, with instruments of his own
invention, over the inhospitable heart of the polar ice and the
sterile visage of the deserts, league by league, patiently,
unweariedly, remorselessly, from their ever-shifting cradle under
the magnetic pole to their exalted death-bed in the utmost ether
of the upper atmosphere each one of the Isoconical Tellurions
Lavalle's Curves, as we call them today. He had disentangled the
nodes of their intersections, assigning to each its regulated
period of flux and reflux. Thus equipped, he summons Herrera and
Tinsley, his pupils, to the final demonstration as calmly as
though he were ordering his flighter for some mid-day journey to
Marseilles.

"I have proved my thesis," he writes. "It remains now only that
you should witness the proof. We go to Manila to-morrow. A
cyclone will form off the Pescadores S. 17 E. in four days, and
will reach its maximum intensity twenty-seven hours after
inception. It is there I will show you the Truth."

A letter heretofore unpublished from Herrera to Madame Lavalle
tells us how the Master's prophecy was verified.

I will not destroy its simplicity or its significance by any
attempt to quote. Note well, though, that Herrera's preoccupation
throughout that day and night of superhuman strain is always for
the Master's bodily health and comfort.

"At such a time," he writes, "I forced the Master to take the
broth"; or "I made him put on the fur coat as you told me." Nor
is Tinsley (see pp. 184, 85) less concerned. He prepares the
nourishment. He cooks eternally, imperturbably, suspended in the
chaos of which the Master interprets the meaning. Tinsley, bowed
down with the laurels of both hemispheres, raises himself to yet
nobler heights in his capacity of a devoted chef. It is almost
unbelievable! And yet men write of the Master as cold, aloof,
self-contained. Such characters do not elicit the joyous and
unswerving devotion which Lavalle commanded throughout life.
Truly, we have changed very little in the course of the ages! The
secrets of earth and sky and the links that bind them, we
felicitate ourselves we are on the road to discover; but our
neighbours' heart and mind we misread, we misjudge, we condemn
now as ever. Let all, then, who love a man read these most human,
tender, and wise volumes.


               *************

transcriber's note: These "advertisements" appeared in the format
that would have been used in a newspaper or magazine ad
section--that is in two columns for the smaller ads, and in
quarter, half, full and double page layouts for the others. also
L is used as the symbol for pounds.
               *************


------------------------------------------------

                MISCELLANEOUS
                 [ WANTS ]

REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY, FOR East Africa, a thoroughly competent
Plane and Dirigible Driver, acquainted with Petrol Radium and
Helium motors and generators. Low-level work only, but must
understand heavy-weight digs.
      MOSSAMEDES TRANSPORT ASSOC.
             84 Palestine Buildings, E. C. 

------------------------------------------------

MAN WANTED-DIG DRIVER for Southern Alps with Saharan summer
trips. High levels, high speed. high wages:
               Apply M. SIDNEY
         Hotel San Stefano. Monte Carlo.

------------------------------------------------

FAMILY DIRIGIBLE. A COMPETENT, steady man wanted for slow speed,
low level Tangye dirigible. No night work, no sea trips. Must be
member of the Church of England, and make himself useful in the
garden.
                M. R.
         The Rectory, Gray's Barton, Wilts.

------------------------------------------------

COMMERCIAL DIG, CENTRAL and Southern Europe. A smart, active man
for a L. M. T. Dig. Night work only. Headquarters London and
Cairo. A linguist preferred.
                BAGMAN
    Charing Cross Hotel, W. C. (urgent.)

------------------------------------------------

FOR SALE--A BARGAIN--Single Plane, narrow-gauge vans, Pinke
motor. Restayed this autumn. Hansen air-kit, 58 in. chest, 153
collar. Can be seen by appointment.
             N. 2650 This office.

------------------------------------------------

             The BEE-LINE BOOKSHOP

BELT'S WAY-BOOKS, giving town lights for all towns over 4,000
pop. as laid down by A. B. O. 
THE WORLD. Complete 2 vols. Thin Oxford, limp back. 12L 6d.
BELT'S COASTAL ITINERARY. Short Lights of the World. 7s. 6d.
THE TRANSATLANTIC AND MEDITERRANEAN TRAFFIC LINES.
        (By authority of the A.B.C.) Paper,
       1s. 6d.; cloth. 2s. 6d. Ready, Jan. 16.
ARCTIC AEROPLANING. Siemens and Gait. Cloth, bds. Ss. 6d.
LAVALLE'S HEART OF THE CYCLONE, with supplementary charts. 4s.
6d.
RIMINGTON'S PITFALLS IN THE AIR, and Table of Comparative
Densities  3s. 6d.
ANGELO'S DESERT IN A DIRIGIBLE. New edition, revised. 5s. 9d.
VAUGHAN'S PLANE RACING IN CALM AND STORM. 2s. 6d.
VAUGHAN'S HINTS TO THE AIRMATEUR 1s.
HOFMAN'S LAWS OF LIFT AND VELOCITY. With diagrams, 3s. 6d.
DE VITRE'S THEORY OF SHIFTING BALLAST IN DIRIGIBLES. 2s. 6d.
SANGERS WEATHERS OF THE WORLD. 4s.
SANGER'S TEMPERATURES AT HIGH ALTITUDES. 4s.
HAWKIN'S FOG AND HOW To AVOID IT. 3s.
VAN ZUYLAN'S SECONDARY EFFECTS OF THUNDERSTORMS. 4s. 6d.
DAHLGREN'S AIR CURRENTS AND EPIDEMIC DISEASES. 5s. 6d.
REDMAYNE'S DISEASE AND THE BAROMETER. 7s. 6d.
WALTON'S HEALTH RESORTS OF THE GOBI AND SHAMO. 3s. 6d.
WALTON'S THE POLE AND PULMONARY COMPLAINTS. 7s. ad.
MUTLOWS HIGH LEVEL BACTERIOLOGY. 7s. 6d.
HALLIWELL'S ILLUMINATED STAR MAP, with clockwork attachment,
 giving apparent motion of heavens, boxed, complete with
 clamps for binnacle, 36 inch size, only L2. 2. 0.
 Invaluable for night work.) With A.B.C. certificate. L3. 10s.
0d. Zalinski's Standard Works:
 PASSES OF THE HIMALAYAS, 5s.
 PASSES OF THE SIERRAS, 5s.
 PASSES OF THE ROOKIES. 5s.
 PASSES OF THE URALS, 5s.
  The four boxed, limp cloth, with charts, 15s.
GRAY'S AIR CURRENTS at MOUNTAIN GORGES, 7s. 6d.

        A. C. BELT & SON, READING
------------------------------------------------
            SAFETY WEAR FOR AERONAUTS
------------------------------------------------
Fickers!             Flickers!            Flickers!

             HIGH LEVEL FLICKERS

         "He that is down need fear no fall,"
        Fear not! You will fall lightly as down!

Hansen's air-kits are down in all respects. Tremendous reductions
in prices previous to winter stocking. Pure para kit with
cellulose seat and shoulder-pads, weighted to balance. Unequalled
for all drop-work.

     Our trebly resilient heavy kit is the ne plus ultra of
              comfort and safety.

Gas-buoyed, waterproof, hail-proof, nonconducting Flickers with
pipe and nozzle fitting all types of generator. Graduated tap on
left hip.

         Hansen's Flickers Lead the Aerial Flight
               197 Oxford Street

   The new weighted Flicker with tweed or cheviot surface
 cannot be distinguished from the ordinary suit till inflated.

Fickers!             Flickers!            Flickers!
------------------------------------------------

             APPLIANCES FOR AIR PLANES

------------------------------------------------
        What
                 "SKID"
         was to our forefathers on the ground,
                 "PITCH"
             is to their sons in the air.

The popularity of the large, unwieldy, slow, expensive Dirigible
over the light swift, Plane is mainly due to the former's
immunity from pitch.

Collison's forward-socketed Air Van renders it impossible for any
plane to pitch. The C.F.S. is automatic, simple as a shutter,
certain\ as a power hammer, safe as oxygen. Fitted to any make of
plane.

                 COLLISON
                186 Brompton Road
               Workshops, Chiswick

                LUNDIE do MATTERS
           Sole Agts for East'n Hemisphere

------------------------------------------------

              STARTERS AND GUIDES

Hotel, club, and private house plane-starters, slips and guides
affixed by skilled workmen in accordance with local building
laws.

Rackstraww's forty-foot collapsible steel starters with automatic
release at end of travel--prices per foot run, clamps and
crampons included. The safest on the market.


              Weaver & Denison
                Middleboro

------------------------------------------------

            AIR PLANES AND DIRIGIBLE GOODS

------------------------------------------------

                 REMEMBER

              Planes are swift--so is Death
              Planes are cheap--so is Life

Why does the plane builder insist on the safety of his machines?
      Methinks the gentleman protests too much.

The Standard Dig Construction Company do not build kites.

      They build, equip and guarantee dirigibles.


             Standard Dig construction Co.
             Millwall and Buenos Ayres

------------------------------------------------
HOVERS

                 POWELL'S
                Wind Hovers

for 'planes lying-to in heavy weather, save the motor and strain
on the forebody. Will not send to leeward. "Albatross"
wind-hovers, rigid-ribbed; according to h.p. and weight.

             We fit and test free to
           40 east of Greenwich Village

                L. & W. POWELL
             196 Victoria Street, W.

------------------------------------------------

                 REMEMBER

        We shall always be pleased to see you.

We build and test and guarantee our dirigibles or all purposes.
They go up when you please and they do not come down till you
please.

You can please yourself, but--you might as well choose a
dirigible.

         STANDARD DIRIGIBLE CONSTRUCTION CO.
            Millwall and Buenos Ayres

------------------------------------------------

               GAYER AND HUNT
             Birmingham   and   Birmingham
                 Eng.          Ala.

               Towers. Landing Stages,
                 Slips and Lifts
                 public and private

   Contractors to the A. B. C., South-Western European Postal
             Construction Dept. Sole patentees and owners of the
Collison anti-quake diagonal tower-tie. Only gold medal Kyoto
Exhibition of Aerial Appliances, 1997.

------------------------------------------------

               AIR PLANES AND DIRIGIBLES

------------------------------------------------

                 C. M. C.
             Our Synthetical Mineral
               BEARINGS

are chemically and crystal logically identical with the minerals
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                 107 Minories

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                 RESURGAM!

     If you have not Clothed YOURSELF in a

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                HYMANS & GRAHAM
             1198 Lower Broadway, New York

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                   REMEMBER!

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* It is now nearly, a generation since the Plane was to
supersede the Dirigible for all purposes. * TO-DAY none of the
Planet's freight is carried en plane. * Less than two per rent of
the Planet's passengers are carried en plane.

We design, equip guarantee Dirigibles for all purposes.

Standard Dig Construction Company MILLWALL and BUENOS AYRES
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                 BAT-BOATS
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     FLINT & MANTEL
          SOUTHAMPTON
              FOR SALE

at the end of Season the following Bat-Boats:

GRISELDA, 65 knt., 42 ft., 430(nom.) Maginnis Motor,
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               J. D. ARDAGH

I AM NOT CONCERNED WITH YOUR PLANE I AFTER IT LEAVES MY GUIDES,
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                  ESTABLISHED 1924

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Head, side, and riding lights (by size) Nos.00 to 20 A.B.C.
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Wind-noses for dirigibles--Pegamoid, cane-stiffened, lacquered
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                THE FOUR ANGELS

    As ADAM lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,
    The Angel of the Earth came down, and offered Earth in fee.
          But Adam did not need it,
          Nor the plough he would not speed it,
    Singing:--"Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
           What more can mortal man desire?"
             (The Apple Tree's in bud.)

    As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,
    The Angel of the Waters offered all the Seas in fee.
         But Adam would not take 'em,
         Nor the ships he wouldn't make 'em,
    Singing:--"Water, Earth and Air and Fire,
           What more can mortal man desire?"
             (The Apple Tree's in leaf.)

    As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,
    The Angel of the Air he offered all the Air in fee.
          But Adam did not crave it,
          Nor the flight he wouldn't brave it,
    Singing:--"Air and Water, Earth and Fire,
           What more can mortal man desire?"
             (The Apple Tree's in bloom.)

    As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,
    The Angel of the Fire rose up and not a word said he.
          But he wished a fire and made it,
          And in Adam's heart he laid it,
    Singing.--"Fire, fire, burning Fire,
           Stand up and reach your heart's desire!"
             (The Apple Blossom's set.)

    As Adam was a-working outside of Eden-Wall,
    He used the Earth, he used the Seas, he used the Air and all;
           And out of black disaster
           He arose to be the master
    Of Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
           But never reached his heart's desire!
             (The Apple Tree's cut down!)



A DEAL IN COTTON

Long and long ago, when Devadatta was King of Benares, I wrote
some tales concerning Strickland of the Punjab Police (who
married Miss Youghal), and Adam, his son. Strickland has finished
his Indian Service, and lives now at a place in England called
Weston-super-Mare, where his wife plays the organ in one of the
churches. Semi-occasionally he comes up to London, and
occasionally his wife makes him visit his friends. Otherwise he
plays golf and follows the harriers for his figure's sake.

If you remember that Infant who told a tale to Eustace Cleever
the novelist, you will remember that he became a baronet with a
vast estate. He has, owing to cookery, a little lost his figure,
but he never loses his friends. I have found a wing of his house
turned into a hospital for sick men, and there I once spent a
week in the company of two dismal nurses and a specialist in
"Sprue." Another time the place was full of schoolboys--sons of
Anglo-Indians whom the Infant had collected for the holidays, and
they nearly broke his keeper's heart.

But my last visit was better. The Infant called me up by wire,
and I fell into the arms of a friend of mine, Colonel A.L.
Corkran, so that the years departed from us, and we praised
Allah, who had not yet terminated the Delights, nor separated the
Companions.

Said Corkran, when he had explained how it felt to command a
native Infantry regiment on the border: "The Stricks are coming
for to-night-with their boy."

"I remember him. The little fellow I wrote a story about," I
said. "Is he in the Service?"

"No. Strick got him into the Centro-Euro-Africa Protectorate.
He's Assistant-Commissioner at Dupe--wherever that is.
Somaliland, ain't it, Stalky?" asked the Infant.

Stalky puffed out his nostrils scornfully. "You're only three
thousand miles out. Look at the atlas."

"Anyhow, he's as rotten full of fever as the rest of you," said
the Infant, at length on the big divan. "And he's bringing a
native servant with him. Stalky be an athlete, and tell Ipps to
put him in the stable room."

"Why?  Is he a Yao--like the fellow Wade brought here--when your
housekeeper had fits?" Stalky often visits the Infant, and has
seen some odd things.

"No. He's one of old Strickland's Punjabi policemen--and quite
European--I believe."

"Hooray!  Haven't talked Punjabi for three months--and a Punjabi
from Central Africa ought to be amusin'."

We heard the chuff of the motor in the porch, and the first to
enter was Agnes Strickland, whom the Infant makes no secret of
adoring.

He is devoted, in a fat man's placid way, to at least eight
designing women; but she nursed him once through a bad bout of
Peshawur fever, and when she is in the house, it is more than all
hers.

"You didn't send rugs enough," she began. "Adam might have taken
a chill."

"It's quite warm in the tonneau. Why did you let him ride in
front? "

"Because he wanted to," she replied, with the mother's smile, and
we were introduced to the shadow of a young man leaning heavily
on the shoulder of a bearded Punjabi Mohammedan.

"That is all that came home of him," said his father to me. There
was nothing in it of the child with whom I had journeyed to
Dalhousie centuries since."

"And what is this uniform?" Stalky asked of Imam Din, the
servant, who came to attention on the marble floor.

"The uniform of the Protectorate troops, Sahib. Though I am the
Little Sahib's body-servant, it is not seemly for us white men to
be attended by folk dressed altogether as servants."

"And--and you white men wait at table on horseback?" Stalky
pointed to the man's spurs.

"These I added for the sake of honour when I came to England,"
said Imam Din Adam smiled the ghost of a little smile that I
began to remember, and we put him on the big couch for
refreshments. Stalky asked him how much leave he had, and he said
"Six months."

"But he'll take another six on medical certificate," said Agnes
anxiously. Adam knit his brows.

"You don't want to--eh? I know. Wonder what my second in command
is doing." Stalky tugged his moustache, and fell to thinking of
his Sikhs.

"Ah!" said the Infant. "I've only a few thousand pheasants to
look after. Come along and dress for dinner. We're just
ourselves. What flower is your honour's ladyship commanding for
the table?"

"Just ourselves?" she said, looking at the crotons in the great
hall. "Then let's have marigolds the little cemetery ones."

So it was ordered.

Now, marigolds to us mean hot weather, discomfort, parting, and
death. That smell in our nostrils, and Adam's servant in waiting,
we naturally fell back more and more on the old slang, recalling
at each glass those who had gone before. We did not sit at the
big table, but in the bay window overlooking the park, where they
were carting the last of the hay. When twilight fell we would not
have candles, but waited for the moon, and continued our talk in
the dusk that makes one remember.

Young Adam was not interested in our past except where it had
touched his future. I think his mother held his hand beneath the
table. Imam Din--shoeless, out of respect to the floors--brought
him his medicine, poured it drop by drop, and asked for orders.

"Wait to take him to his cot when he grows weary," said his
mother, and Imam Din retired into the shadow by the ancestral
portraits.

"Now what d'you expect to get out of your country?" the Infant
asked, when--our India laid aside we talked Adam's Africa. It
roused him at once.

"Rubber -nuts -gums -and so on," he said. "But our real future is
cotton. I grew fifty acres of it last year in my District."

"My District!" said his father. "Hear him, Mummy!"

"I did though! I wish I could show you the sample. Some
Manchester chaps said it was as good as any Sea Island cotton on
the market."

"But what made you a cotton-planter, my son?" she asked.

"My Chief said every man ought to have a shouk (a hobby) of
sorts, and he took the trouble to ride a day out of his way to
show me a belt of black soil that was just the thing for cotton."

"Ah! What was your Chief like?" Stalky asked, in his silkiest
tones.

"The best man alive--absolutely. He lets you blow your own nose
yourself. The people call him"--Adam jerked out some heathen
phrase--"that means the Man with the Stone Eyes, you know."

"I'm glad of that. Because I've heard from other quarters"
Stalky's sentence burned like a slow match, but the explosion was
not long delayed. "Other quarters!" Adam threw out a thin hand.
"Every dog has his fleas. If you listen to them, of course!" The
shake of his head was as I remembered it among his father's
policemen twenty years before, and his mother's eyes shining
through the dusk called on me to adore it. I kicked Stalky on the
shin. One must not mock a young man's first love or loyalty.

A lump of raw cotton appeared on the table.

"I thought there might be a need. Therefore I packed it between
our shirts," said the voice of Imam Din.

"Does he know as much English as that?" cried the Infant, who had
forgotten his East.

We all admired the cotton for Adam's sake, and, indeed, it was
very long and glossy.

"It's--it's only an experiment," he said. "We're such awful
paupers we can't even pay for a mailcart in my District. We use a
biscuit-box on two bicycle wheels. I only got the money for
that"--he patted the stuff--"by a pure fluke."

"How much did it cost?" asked Strickland.

"With seed and machinery--about two hundred pounds. I had the
labour done by cannibals."

"That sounds promising." Stalky reached for a fresh cigarette.

"No, thank you," said Agnes. "I've been at Weston-super-Mare a
little too long for cannibals. I'll go to the music-room and try
over next Sunday's hymns."

She lifted the boy's hand lightly to her lips, and tripped across
the acres of glimmering floor to the music-room that had been the
Infant's ancestors' banqueting hall. Her grey and silver dress
disappeared under the musicians' gallery; two electrics broke
out, and she stood backed against the lines of gilded pipes.

"There's an abominable self-playing attachment here!" she called.

"Me!" the Infant answered, his napkin on his shoulder. "That's
how I play Parsifal."

"I prefer the direct expression. Take it away, Ipps."

We heard old Ipps skating obediently all over the floor.

"Now for the direct expression," said Stalky, and moved on the
Burgundy recommended by the faculty to enrich fever-thinned
blood.

"It's nothing much. Only the belt of cotton-soil my chief showed
me ran right into the Sheshaheli country. We haven't been able to
prove cannibalism against that tribe in the courts; but when a
Sheshaheli offers you four pounds of woman's breast, tattoo marks
and all, skewered up in a plantain leaf before breakfast, you--"

"Naturally burn the villages before lunch," said Stalky.

Adam shook his head. "No troops," he sighed. "I told my Chief
about it, and he said we must wait till they chopped a white man.
He advised me if ever I felt like it not to commit a--a barren
felo de se, but to let the Sheshaheli do it. Then he could
report, and then we could mop 'em up!"

"Most immoral! That's how we got--" Stalky quoted the name of a
province won by just such a sacrifice.

"Yes, but the beasts dominated one end of my cotton-belt like
anything. They chivied me out of it when I went to take soil for
analysis--me and Imam Din."

"Sahib! Is there a need?" The voice came out of the darkness, and
the eyes shone over Adam's shoulder ere it ceased.

"None. The name was taken in talk." Adam abolished him with a
turn of the finger. "I couldn't make a casus belli of it just
then, because my Chief had taken all the troops to hammer a gang
of slave kings up north. Did you ever hear of our war against Ibn
Makarrah? He precious nearly lost us the Protectorate at one
time, though he's an ally of ours now."

"Wasn't he rather a pernicious brute, even as they go?" said
Stalky. "Wade told me about him last year."

"Well, his nickname all through the country was 'The Merciful,'
and he didn't get that for nothing. None of our people ever
breathed his proper name. They said 'He' or 'That One,' and they
didn't say it aloud, either. He fought us for eight months."

"I remember. There was a paragraph about it in one of the
papers," I said.

"We broke him, though. No--the slavers don't come our way,
because our men have the reputation of dying too much, the first
month after they're captured. That knocks down profits, you see."

"What about your charming friends, the Sheshahelis?" said the
Infant.

"There's no market for Sheshaheli. People would as soon buy
crocodiles. I believe, before we annexed the country, Ibn
Makarrah dropped down on 'em once--to train his young men--and
simply hewed 'em in pieces. The bulk of my people are
agriculturists just the right stamp for cotton-growers. What's
Mother playing?--'Once in royal'?"

The organ that had been crooning as happily as a woman over her
babe restored, steadied to a tune.

"Magnificent! Oh, magnificent! " said the Infant loyally. I had
never heard him sing but once, and then, though it was early in
the tolerant morning, his mess had rolled him into a lotus pond.

"How did you get your cannibals to work for you?" asked
Strickland.

"They got converted to civilization after my Chief smashed Ibn
Makarrah--just at the time I wanted 'em. You see my Chief had
promised me in writing that if I could scrape up a surplus he
would not bag it for his roads this time, but I might have it for
my cotton game. I only needed two hundred pounds. Our revenues
didn't run to it."

"What is your revenue?" Stalky asked in the vernacular.

"With hut-tax, traders' game and mining licenses, not more than
fourteen thousand rupees; every penny of it ear-marked months
ahead." Adam sighed.

"Also there is a fine for dogs straying in the Sahib's camp. Last
year it exceeded three rupees," Imam Din said quietly.

"Well, I thought that was fair. They howled so. We were rather
strict on fines. I worked up my native clerk--Bulaki Ram--to a
ferocious pitch of enthusiasm. He used to calculate the profits
of our cotton-scheme to three points of decimals, after office. I
tell you I envied your magistrates here hauling money out of
motorists every week I had managed to make our ordinary revenue
and expenditure just about meet, and I was crazy to get the odd
two hundred pounds for my cotton. That sort of thing grows on a
chap when he's alone--and talks aloud!"

"Hul-lo! Have you been there already?" the father said, and Adam
nodded.

"Yes. Used to spout what I could remember of 'Marmion' to a tree,
sir. Well then my luck turned. One evening an English-speaking
nigger came in towing a corpse by the feet. (You get used to
little things like that.) He said he'd found it, and please would
I identify, because if it was one of Ibn Makarrah's men there
might be a reward. It was an old Mohammedan, with a strong dash
of Arab--a smallboned, bald-headed chap, and I was just wondering
how it had kept so well in our climate when it sneezed. You ought
to have seen the nigger! He fetched a howl and bolted like--like
the dog in 'Tom Sawyer,' when he sat on the what's-its-name
beetle. He yelped as he ran, and the corpse went on sneezing. I
could see it had been sarkied. (That's a sort of gum-poison,
pater, which attacks the nerve centres. Our chief medical officer
is writing a monograph about it.) So Imam Din and I emptied out
the corpse one time, with my shaving soap and trade gunpowder,
and hot water.

"I'd seen a case of sarkie before; so when the skin peeled off
his feet, and he stopped sneezing, I knew he'd live. He was bad,
though; lay like a log for a week while Imam Din and I massaged
the paralysis out of him. Then he told us he was a Hajji--had
been three times to Mecca--come in from French Africa, and that
he'd met the nigger by the wayside--just like a case of thuggee,
in India--and the nigger had poisoned him. That seemed reasonable
enough by what I knew of Coast niggers."

"You believed him?" said his father keenly.

"There was no reason I shouldn't. The nigger never came back, and
the old man stayed with me for two months," Adam returned. "You
know what the best type of a Mohammedan gentleman can be, pater?
He was that."

"None finer, none finer," was the answer.

"Except a Sikh," Stalky grunted.

"He'd been to Bombay; he knew French Africa inside out; he could
quote poetry and the Koran all day long. He played chess--you
don't know what that meant to me -like a master. We used to talk
about the regeneration of Turkey and the Sheik-ul-Islam between
moves. Oh, everything under the sun we talked about! He was
awfully open-minded. He believed in slavery, of course, but he
quite saw that it would have to die out. That's why he agreed
with me about developing the resources of the district by
cotton-growing, you know."

"You talked of that too?" said Strickland.

"Rather. We discussed it for hours. You don't know what it meant
to me. A wonderful man. Imam Din, was not our Hajji marvellous?"

"Most marvellous! It was all through the Hajji that we found the
money for our cotton-play." Imam Din had moved, I fancy, behind
Strickland's chair.

"Yes. It must have been dead against his convictions too. He
brought me news when I was down with fever at Dupe that one of
Ibn Makarrah's men was parading through my District with a bunch
of slaves--in the Fork!"

"What's the matter with the Fork, that you can't abide it?" said
Stalky. Adam's voice had risen at the last word.

"Local etiquette, sir," he replied, too earnest to notice
Stalky's atrocious pun. "If a slaver runs slaves through British
territory he ought to pretend that they're his servants. Hawkin'
'em about in the Fork--the forked stick that you put round their
necks, you know--is insolence--same as not backing your topsails
in the old days. Besides, it unsettles the District."

"I thought you said slavers didn't come your way," I put in.

"They don't. But my Chief was smoking 'em out of the North all
that season, and they were bolting into French territory any road
they could find. My orders were to take no notice so long as they
circulated, but open slave-dealing in the Fork, was too much. I
couldn't go myself, so I told a couple of our Makalali police and
Imam Din to make talk with the gentleman one time. It was rather
risky, and it might have been expensive, but it turned up trumps.
They were back in a few days with the slaver (he didn't show
fight) and a whole crowd of witnesses, and we tried him in my
bedroom, and fined him properly. Just to show you how demoralized
the brute must have been (Arabs often go dotty after a defeat),
he'd snapped up four or five utterly useless Sheshaheli, and was
offering 'em to all and sundry along the road. Why, he offered
'em to you, didn't he, Imam Din?"

"I was witness that he offered man-eaters' for sale," said Imam
Din.

"Luckily for my cotton-scheme, that landed, him both ways. You
see, he had slaved and exposed slaves for sale in British
territory. That meant the double fine if I could get it out of
him."

"What was his defence?" said Strickland, late of the Punjab
Police.

"As far as I remember--but I had a temperature of 104 degrees at
the time--he'd mistaken the meridians of longitude. Thought he
was in French territory. Said he'd never do it again, if we'd let
him off with a fine. I could have shaken hands with the brute for
that. He paid up cash like a motorist and went off one time."

"Did you see him?"

"Ye-es. Didn't I, Imam Din?"

"Assuredly the Sahib both saw and spoke to the slaver. And the
Sahib also made a speech to the man-eaters when he freed them,
and they swore to supply him with labour for all his cotton-play.
The Sahib leaned on his own servant's shoulder the while."

"I remember something of that. I remember Bulaki Ram giving me
the papers to sign, and I distinctly remember him locking up the
money in the safe--two hundred and ten beautiful English
sovereigns. You don't know what that meant to me! I believe it
cured my fever; and as soon as I could, I staggered off with the
Hajji to interview the Sheshaheli about labour. Then I found out
why they had been so keen to work! It wasn't gratitude. Their big
village had been hit by lightning and burned out a week or two
before, and they lay flat in rows around me asking me for a job.
I gave it 'em."

"And so you were very happy?" His mother had stolen up behind us.
"You liked your cotton, dear?" She tidied the lump away.

"By Jove, I was happy!" Adam yawned. "Now if any one," he looked
at the Infant, "cares to put a little money into the scheme,
it'll be the making of my District. I can't give you figures,
sir, but I assure--"

"You'll take your arsenic, and Imam Din'll take you up to bed,
and I'll come and tuck you in."

Agnes leaned forward, her rounded elbows on his shoulders, hands
joined across his dark hair, and "Isn't he a darling?" she said
to us, with just the same heart-rending lift to the left eyebrow
and the same break of her voice as sent Strickland mad among the
horses in the year '84. We were quiet when they were gone. We
waited till Imam Din returned to us from above and coughed at the
door, as only dark-hearted Asia can.

"Now," said Strickland, "tell us what truly befell, son of my
servant."

"All befell as our Sahib has said. Only--only there was an
arrangement--a little arrangement on account of his cotton-play."

"Tell! Sit! I beg your pardon, Infant," said Strickland.

But the Infant had already made the sign, and we heard Imam Din
hunker down on the floor: One gets little out of the East at
attention.

"When the fever came on our Sahib in our roofed house at Dupe,"
he began, "the Hajji listened intently to his talk. He expected
the names of women; though I had already told him that Our virtue
was beyond belief or compare, and that Our sole desire was this
cotton-play. Being at last convinced, the Hajji breathed on our
Sahib's forehead, to sink into his brain news concerning a
slave-dealer in his district who had made a mock of the law.
Sahib," Imam Din turned to Strickland, "our Sahib answered to
those false words as a horse of blood answers to the spur. He sat
up. He issued orders for the apprehension of the slavedealer.
Then he fell back. Then we left him."

"Alone--servant of my son, and son of my servant?" said his
father.

"There was an old woman which belonged to the Hajji. She had come
in with the Hajji's money-belt. The Hajji told her that if our
Sahib died, she would die with him. And truly our Sahib had given
me orders to depart."

"Being mad with fever--eh?"

"What could we do, Sahib? This cotton-play was his heart's
desire. He talked of it in his fever. Therefore it was his
heart's desire that the Hajji went to fetch. Doubtless the Hajji
could have given him money enough out of hand for ten
cottonplays; but in this respect also our Sahib's virtue was
beyond belief or compare. Great Ones do not exchange moneys.
Therefore the Hajji said--and I helped with my counsel--that we
must make arrangements to get the money in all respects
conformable with the English Law. It was great trouble to us,
but--the Law is the Law. And the Hajji showed the old woman the
knife by which she would die if our Sahib died. So I accompanied
the Hajji."

"Knowing who he was?" said Strickland.

"No! Fearing the man. A virtue went out from him overbearing the
virtue of lesser persons. The Hajji told Bulaki Ram the clerk to
occupy the seat of government at Dupe till our return. Bulaki Ram
feared the Hajji, because the Hajji had often gloatingly
appraised his skill in figures at five thousand rupees upon any
slave-block. The Hajji then said to me: 'Come, and we will make
the man-eaters play the cotton-game for my delight's delight' The
Hajji loved our Sahib with the love of a father for his son, of a
saved for his saviour, of a Great One for a Great One. But I
said: 'We cannot go to that Sheshaheli place without a hundred
rifles. We have here five.' The Hajji said: 'I have untied as
knot in my head-handkerchief which will be more to us than a
thousand.' I saw that he had so loosed it that it lay flagwise on
his shoulder. Then I knew that he was a Great One with virtue in
him.

"We came to the highlands of the Sheshaheli on the dawn of the
second day--about the time of the stirring of the cold wind. The
Hajji walked delicately across the open place where their filth
is, and scratched upon the gate which was shut. When it opened I
saw the man-eaters lying on their cots under the eaves of the
huts. They rolled off: they rose up, one behind the other the
length of the street, and the fear on their faces was as leaves
whitening to a breeze. The Hajji stood in the gate guarding his
skirts from defilement. The Hajji said: 'I am here once again.
Give me six and yoke up.' They zealously then pushed to us with
poles six, and yoked them with a heavy tree. The Hajji then said:
"Fetch fire from the morning hearth, and come to windward.' The
wind is strong on those headlands at sunrise, so when each had
emptied his crock of fire in front of that which was before him,
the broadside of the town roared into flame, and all went. The
Hajji then said: 'At the end of a time there will come here the
white man ye once chased for sport. He will demand labour to
plant such and such stuff. Ye are that labour, and your spawn
after you.' They said, lifting their heads a very little from the
edge of the ashes: ' We are that labour, and our spawn after us.'
The Hajji said: 'What is also my name?' They said: 'Thy name is
also The Merciful' The Hajji said: 'Praise then my mercy'; and
while they did this, the Hajji walked away, I following."

The Infant made some noise in his throat, and reached for more
Burgundy.

"About noon one of our six fell dead. Fright only frights Sahib!
None had--none could--touch him. Since they were in pairs, and
the other of the Fork was mad and sang foolishly, we waited for
some heathen to do what was needful. There came at last Angari
men with goats. The Hajji said: 'What do ye see? They said: 'Oh,
our Lord, we neither see nor hear.' The Hajji said: 'But I
command ye to see and to hear and to say.' They said: 'Oh, our
Lord, it is to our commanded eyes as though slaves stood in a
Fork.' The Hajji said: 'So testify before the officer who waits
you in the town of Dupe.' They said: 'What shall come to us
after?' The Hajji said: 'The just reward for the informer. But if
ye do not testify, then a punishment which shall cause birds, to
fall from the trees in terror and monkeys to scream for pity.'
Hearing this, the Angari men hastened to Dupe. The Hajji then
said to me: 'Are those things sufficient to establish our case,
or must I drive in a village full?' I said that three witnesses
amply established any case, but as yet, I said, the Hajji had not
offered his slaves for sale. It is true, as our Sahib said just
now, there is one fine for catching slaves, and yet another for
making to sell them. And it was the double fine that we needed,
Sahib, for our Sahib's cotton-play. We had fore-arranged all this
with Bulaki Ram, who knows the English Law, and, I thought the
Hajji remembered, but he grew angry, and cried out: 'O God,
Refuge of the Afflicted, must I, who am what I am, peddle this'
dog's meat by the roadside to gain his delight for my heart's
delight?" None the less, he admitted it was the English Law, and
so he offered me the six--five--in a small voice, with an averted
head. The Sheshaheli do not smell of sour milk as heathen should.
They smell like leopards, Sahib. This is because they eat men."

"Maybe," said Strickland. "But where were thy wits? One witness
is not sufficient to establish the fact of a sale."

"What could we do, Sahib? There was the Hajji's reputation to
consider. We could not have called in a heathen witness for such
a thing. And, moreover, the Sahib forgets that the defendant
himself was making this case. He would not contest his own
evidence. Otherwise, I know the law of evidence well enough.

"So then we went to Dupe, and while Bulaki Ram waited among the
Angari men, 'I ran to see our Sahib in bed. His eyes were very
bright, and his mouth was full of upside-down orders, but the old
woman had not loosened her hair for death. The Hajji said: 'Be
quick with my trial. I am not Job!' The Hajji was a learned man.
We made the trial swiftly to a sound of soothing voices round the
bed. Yet--yet, because no man can be sure whether a Sahib of that
blood sees, or does not see, we made it strictly in the manner of
the forms of the English Law. Only the witnesses and the slaves
and the prisoner we kept without for his nose's sake."

"Then he did not see the prisoner?" said Strickland.

"I stood by to shackle up an Angari in case he should demand it,
but by God's favour he was too far fevered to ask for one. It is
quite true he signed the papers. It is quite true he saw the
money put away in the safe--two hundred and ten English pounds
and it is quite true that the gold wrought on him as a strong
cure. But as to his seeing the prisoner, and having speech with
the man-eaters--the Hajji breathed all that on his forehead to
sink into his sick brain. A little, as ye have heard, has
remained . . . . Ah, but when the fever broke, and our Sahib
called for the fine-book, and the thin little picture-books from
Europe with the pictures of ploughs and hoes, and
cotton=3Dmills--ah, then he laughed as he used to laugh, Sahib.
It was his heart's desire, this cotton-play. The Hajji loved him,
as who does not? It was a little, little arrangement, Sahib, of
which--is it necessary to tell all the world?"

"And when didst thou know who the Hajji was?" said Strickland.

"Not for a certainty till he and our Sahib had returned from
their visit to the Sheshaheli country. It is quite true as our
Sahib says, the man-eaters lay, flat around his feet, and asked
for spades to cultivate cotton. That very night, when I was
cooking the dinner, the Hajji said to me: 'I go to my own place,
though God knows whether the Man with the Stone Eyes have left me
an ox, a slave, or a woman.' I said: 'Thou art then That One?'
The Hajji said: 'I am ten thousand rupees reward into thy hand.
Shall we make another law-case and get more cotton machines for
the boy?' I said: 'What dog am I to do this? May God prolong thy
life a thousand years!' The Hajji said: 'Who has seen to-morrow?
God has given me as it were a son in my old age, and I praise
Him. See that the breed is not lost!'

"He walked then from the cooking-place to our Sahib's
office-table under the tree, where our Sahib held in his hand a
blue envelope of Service newly come in by runner from the North.
At this, fearing evil news for the Hajji, I would have restrained
him, but he said: 'We be both Great Ones. Neither of us will
fail.' Our Sahib looked up to invite the Hajji to approach before
he opened the letter, but the Hajji stood off till our Sahib had
well opened and well read the letter. Then the Hajji said: 'Is it
permitted to say farewell?' Our Sahib stabbed the letter on the
file with a deep and joyful breath and cried a welcome. The Hajji
said: 'I go to my own place,' and he loosed from his neck a
chained heart of ambergris set in soft gold and held it forth.
Our Sahib snatched it swiftly in the closed fist, down turned,
and said 'If thy name be written hereon, it is needless, for a
name is already engraved on my heart.' The Hajji said: 'And on
mine also is a name engraved; but there is no name on the
amulet.' The Hajji stooped to our Sahib's feet, but our Sahib
raised and embraced him, and the Hajji covered his mouth with his
shoulder-cloth, because it worked, and so he went away."

"And what order was in the Service letter?" Stalky murmured.

"Only an order for our Sahib to write a report on some new cattle
sickness. But all orders come in the same make of envelope. We
could not tell what order it might have been."

"When he opened the letter--my son--made he no sign? A cough? An
oath?" Strickland asked.

"None, Sahib. I watched his hands. They did not shake. Afterward
he wiped his face, but he was sweating before from the heat."

"Did he know? Did he know who the Hajji was?" said the Infant in
English.

"I am a poor man. Who can say what a Sahib of that get knows or
does not know? But the Hajji is right. The breed should not be
lost. It is not very hot for little children in Dupe, and as
regards nurses, my sister's cousin at Jull--"

"H'm! That is the boy's own concern. I wonder if his Chief ever
knew?" said Strickland.

"Assuredly," said Imam Din. "On the night before our Sahib went
down to the sea, the Great Sahib--the Man with the Stone
Eyes--dined with him in his camp, I being in charge of the table.
They talked a long while and the Great Sahib said: 'What didst
thou think of That One?' (We do not say Ibn Makarrah yonder.) Our
Sahib said: 'Which one?' The Great Sahib said: 'That One which
taught thy man-eaters to grow cotton for thee. He was in thy
District three months to my certain knowledge, and I looked by
every runner that thou wouldst send me in his head.' Our Sahib
said: 'If his head had been needed, another man should have been
appointed to govern my District, for he was my friend.' The Great
Sahib laughed and said: 'If I had needed a lesser man in thy
place be sure I would have sent him, as, if I had needed the head
of That One, be sure I would have sent men to bring it to me. But
tell me now, by what means didst thou twist him to thy use and
our profit in this cotton-play?' Our Sahib said: 'By God, I did
not use that man in any fashion whatever. He was my friend.' The
Great Sahib said: ' 'Toh Vac! (Bosh!) Tell!' Our Sahib shook his
head as he does--as he did when a child--and they looked at each
other like sword-play men in the ring at a fair. The Great Sahib
dropped his eyes first and he said: 'So be it. I should perhaps
have answered thus in my youth. No matter. I have made treaty
with That One as an ally of the State. Some day he shall tell me
the tale.' Then I brought in fresh coffee, and they ceased. But I
do not think That One will tell the Great Sahib more than our
Sahib told him."

"Wherefore?" I asked.

"Because they are both Great Ones, and I have observed in my life
that Great Ones employ words very little between each other in
their dealings; still less when they speak to a third concerning
those dealings. Also they profit by silence . . . . Now I think
that the mother has come down from the room, and I will go rub
his feet till he sleeps."

His ears had caught Agnes's step at the stair-head and presently
she passed us on her way to the music room humming the
Magnificat.



               THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD

            Who gives him the Bath?
              "I," said the wet,
            Rank Jungle-sweat,
              "I'll give him the Bath!"

            Who'll sing the psalms?
              "We," said the Palms.
            "Ere the hot wind becalms,
              We'll sing the psalms."

            Who lays on the sword?
              "I," said the Sun,
            "Before he has done,
              I'll lay on the sword."

            Who fastens his belt?
              "I," said Short-Rations,
            "I know all the fashions
              Of tightening a belt!"

            Who buckles his spur?
              "I," said his Chief,
            Exacting and brief,
              "I'll give him the spur."

            Who'll shake his hand?
              "I," said the Fever,
            "And I'm no deceiver,
              I'll shake his hand."

            Who brings him the wine?
              "I," said Quinine,
            "It's a habit of mine,
              I'll come with his wine."

            Who'll put him to proof?
              "I," said All Earth,
            "Whatever he's worth,
              I'll put to the proof."

            Who'll choose him for Knight?
              "I," said his Mother,
            "Before any other,
              My very own knight!"

         And after this fashion, adventure to seek,
         Was Sir Galahad made--as it might be last week!



THE PUZZLER

I had not seen Penfentenyou since the Middle Nineties, when he
was Minister of Ways and Woodsides in De Thouar's first
Administration. Last summer, though he nominally held the same
portfolio, he was his Colony's Premier in all but name, and the
idol of his own province, which is two and a half times the size
of England. Politically, his creed was his growing country; and
he came over to England to develop a Great Idea in her behalf.

Believing that he had put it in train, I made haste to welcome
him to my house for a week.

That he was chased to my door by his own Agent-General in a
motor; that they turned my study into a Cabinet Meeting which I
was not invited to attend; that the local telegraph all but broke
down beneath the strain of hundred word coded cables; and that I
practically broke into the house of a stranger to get him
telephonic facilities on a Sunday, are things I overlook. What I
objected to was his ingratitude, while I thus tore up England to
help him. So I said: "Why on earth didn't you see your Opposite
Number in Town instead of bringing your office work here?"

"Eh? Who?" said he, looking up from his fourth cable since lunch.

"See the English Minister for Ways and Woodsides."

"I saw him," said Penfentenyou, without enthusiasm.

It seemed that he had called twice on the gentleman, but without
an appointment--("I thought if I wasn't big enough, my business
was")--and each time had found him engaged. A third party
intervening, suggested that a meeting might be arranged if due
notice were given.

"Then," said Penfentenyou, "I called at the office at ten
o'clock."

"But they'd be in bed," I cried.

"One of the babies was awake. He told me that--that 'my sort of
questions "'--he slapped the pile of cables--"were only taken
between 11 and 2 P.M. So I waited."

"And when you got to business?" I asked.

He made a gesture of despair. "It was like talking to children.
They'd never heard of it."

"And your Opposite Number?"

Penfentenyou described him.

"Hush! You mustn't talk like that!" I shuddered. "He's one of the
best of good fellows. You should meet him socially."

"I've done that too," he said. "Have you?"

"Heaven forbid!" I cried; "but that's the proper thing to say."

"Oh, he said all the proper things. Only I thought as this was
England that they'd more or less have the hang of all
the--general hang-together of my Idea. But I had to explain it
from the beginning."

"Ah!  They'd probably mislaid the papers," I said, and I told him
the story of a three-million pound insurrection caused by a
deputy Under-Secretary sitting upon a mass of green-labelled
correspondence instead of reading it.

"I wonder it doesn't happen every week," the answered. "D'you
mind my having the Agent-General to dinner again tonight? I'll
wire, and he can motor down."

The Agent-General arrived two hours later, a patient and
expostulating person, visibly torn between the pulling Devil of a
rampant Colony, and the placid Baker of a largely uninterested
England. But with Penfentenyou behind him he had worked; for he
told us that Lord Lundie--the Law Lord was the final authority on
the legal and constitutional aspects of the Great Idea, and to
him it must be referred.

"Good Heavens alive!" thundered Penfentenyou. "I told you to get
that settled last Christmas."

"It was the middle of the house-party season," said the
Agent-General mildly. "Lord Lundie's at Credence Green now--he
spends his holidays there. It's only forty miles off."

"Shan't I disturb his Holiness?" said Penfentenyou heavily.
"Perhaps 'my sort of questions,"' he snorted, "mayn't be
discussed except at midnight."

"Oh, don't be a child," I said.

"What this country needs," said Penfentenyou, "is--" and for ten
minutes he trumpeted rebellion.

"What you need is to pay for your own protection," I cut in when
he drew breath, and I showed him a yellowish paper, supplied
gratis by Government, which is called Schedule D. To my merciless
delight he had never seen the thing before, and I completed my
victory over him and all the Colonies with a Brassey's "Naval
Annual" and a "Statesman's Year Book."

The Agent-General interposed with agent-generalities (but they
were merely provocateurs) about Ties of Sentiment.

"They be blowed!" said Penfentenyou. "What's the good of
sentiment towards a Kindergarten?"

"Quite so. Ties of common funk are the things that bind us
together; and the sooner you new nations realize it the better.
What you need is an annual invasion. Then you'd grow up."

"Thank you! Thank you!" said the Agent-General. "That's what I am
always trying to tell my people."

"But, my dear fool," Penfentenyou almost wept, "do you pretend
that these banana-fingered amateurs at home are grown up?"

"You poor, serious, pagan man," I retorted, "if you take 'em that
way, you'll wreck your Great Idea."

"Will you take him to Lord Lundie's to-morrow?" said the
Agent-General promptly.

"I suppose I must," I said, "if you won't."

"Not me! I'm going home," said the Agent-General, and departed. I
am glad that I am no colony's Agent-General.

Penfentenyou continued to argue about naval contributions till
1.15 A.M., though I was victor from the first.

At ten o'clock I got him and his correspondence into the motor,
and he had the decency to ask whether he had been unpolished
over-night. I replied that I waited an apology. This he made
excuse for renewed arguments, and used wayside shows as
illustrations of the decadence of England.

For example we burst a tyre within a mile of Credence Green, and,
to save time, walked into the beautifully kept little village.
His eye was caught by a building of pale-blue tin, stencilled
"Calvinist Chapel," before whose shuttered windows an Italian
organ-grinder .with a petticoated monkey was playing "Dolly
Grey-"

"Yes. That's it!" snapped the egoist. "That's a parable of the
general situation in England. And look at those brutes!" A huge
household removals van was halted at a public-house. The men in
charge were drinking beer from blue and white mugs. It seemed to
me a pretty sight, but Penfentenyou said it represented Our
National Attitude.

Lord Lundie's summer resting-place we learned was a farm, a
little out of the village, up a hill round which curled a high
hedged road. Only an initiated few spend their holidays at
Credence Green, and they have trained the householders to keep
the place select. Penfentenyou made a grievance of this as we
walked up the lane, followed at a distance by the organ-grinder.

"Suppose he is having a house-party," he said: "Anything's
possible in this insane land."

Just at that minute we found ourselves opposite an empty villa.
Its roof was of black slate, with bright unweathered
ridge-tiling; its walls were of blood-coloured brick, cornered
and banded with vermiculated stucco work, and there was cobalt,
magenta, and purest apple-green window-glass on either side of
the front door. The whole was fenced from the road by a low,
brick-pillared, flint wall, topped with a cast-iron Gothic rail,
picked out in blue and gold.

Tight beds of geranium, calceolaria, and lobelia speckled the
glass-plat, from whose centre rose one of the finest araucarias
(its other name by the way is "monkey-puzzler"), that it has ever
been my lot to see. It must have been full thirty feet high, and
its foliage exquisitely answered the iron railings. Such bijou ne
plus ultras, replete with all the amenities, do not, as I pointed
out to Penfentenyou, transpire outside of England.

A hedge, swinging sharp right, flanked the garden, and above it
on a slope of daisy-dotted meadows we could see Lord Lundie's
tiled and half-timbered summer farmhouse. Of a sudden we heard
voices behind the tree--the fine full tones of the unembarrassed
English, speaking to their equals--that tore through the hedge
like sleet through rafters.

"That it is not called 'monkey-puzzler' for nothing, I willingly
concede"--this was a rich and rolling note--"but on the other
hand--"

"I submit, me lud, that the name implies that it might, could,
would, or should be ascended by a monkey, and not that the ascent
is a physical impossibility. I believe one of our South American
spider monkeys wouldn't hesitate . . . By Jove, it might be worth
trying, if--"

This was a crisper voice than the first. A third, higher-pitched,
and full of pleasant affectations, broke in.

"Oh, practical men, there is no ape here. Why do you waste one of
God's own days on unprofitable discussion? Give me a match!"

"I've a good mind to make you demonstrate in your own person.
Come on, Bubbles! We'll make Jimmy climb!"

There was a sound of scuffling, broken by squeaks from Jimmy of
the high voice. I turned back and drew Penfentenyou into the side
of the flanking hedge. I remembered to have read in a society
paper that Lord Lundie's lesser name was "Bubbles."

"What are they doing?" Penfentenyou said sharply. "Drunk?"

"Just playing! Superabundant vitality of the Race, you know.
We'll watch 'em," I answered. The noise ceased.

"My deliver," Jimmy gasped. "The ram caught in the thicket,
and--I'm the only one who can talk Neapolitan! Leggo my collar!"
He cried aloud in a foreign tongue, and was answered from the
gate.

"It's the Calvinistic organ-grinder," I whispered. I had already
found a practicable break at the bottom of the hedge. "They're
going to try to make the monkey climb, I believe."

"Here--let me look!" Penfentenyou flung himself down, and rooted
till he too broke a peep-hole. We lay side by side commanding the
entire garden at ten yards' range.

"You know 'em?" said Penfentenyou, as I made some noise or other.

"By sight only. The big fellow in flannels is Lord Lundie; the
light-built one with the yellow beard painted his picture at the
last Academy: He's a swell R.A., James Loman."

"And the brown chap with the hands?"

"Tomling, Sir Christopher Tomling, the South American engineer
who built the--"

"San Juan Viaduct. I know," said Penfentenyou. "We ought to have
had him with us . . . . Do you think a monkey would climb the
tree?"

The organ-grinder at the gate fenced his beast with one arm as
Jimmy-talked.

"Don't show off your futile accomplishments," said Lord Lundie.
"Tell him it's an experiment. Interest him!"

"Shut up, Bubbles. You aren't in court," Jimmy',replied. "This
needs delicacy. Giuseppe says--"

"Interest the monkey," the brown engineer interrupted. "He won't
climb for love. Cut up to the house and get some biscuits,
Bubbles--sugar ones and an orange or two. No need to tell our
womenfolk."

The huge white figure lobbed off at a trot which would not have
disgraced a boy of seventeen. I gathered from something Jimmy let
fall that the three had been at Harrow together.

"That Tomling has a head on his Shoulders," muttered
Penfentenyou. "Pity we didn't get him for the Colony. But the
question is, will the monkey climb?"

"Be quick, Jimmy. Tell the man we'll give him five bob for the
loan of the beast. Now run the organ under the tree, and we'll
dress it when Bubbles comes back," Sir Christopher cried.

"I've often wondered," said Penfentenyou, "whether it would
puzzle a monkey?" He had forgotten the needs of his Growing
Nation, and was earnestly parting the white-thorn stems with his
fingers.

   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Giuseppe and Jimmy did as they were told, the monkey following
them with a wary and malignant eye.

"Here's a discovery," said Jimmy. "The singing part of this organ
comes off the wheels." He spoke volubly to the proprietor. "Oh,
it's so as Giuseppe can take it to his room o' nights. And play
it. D'you hear that? The organ-grinder, after his day's crime,
plays his accursed machine for love. For love, Chris! And Michael
Angelo was one of 'em!"

"Don't jaw! Tell him to take the beast's petticoat off," said Sir
Christopher Tomling.

Lord Lundie returned, very little winded, through a gap higher up
the hedge.

"They're all out, thank goodness!" he cried, "but I've raided
what I could. Macrons glaces, candied fruit, and a bag of
oranges."

"Excellent!" said the world-renowned contractor.

"Jimmy, you're the light-weight; jump up on the organ and impale
these things on the leaves as I hand 'em!"

"I see," said Jimmy, capering like a springbuck. "Upward and
onward, eh? First, he'll reach out for--how infernal prickly
these leaves are!--this biscuit. Next we'll lure him on--(that's
about the reach of his arm)--with the marron glare, and then
he'll open out this orange. How human! How like your ignoble
career, Bubbles!"

With care and elaboration they ornamented that tree's lower
branches with sugar-topped biscuits, oranges, bits of banana, and
marrons glares till it looked very ape's path to Paradise.

"Unchain the Gyascutis!" said Sir Christopher commandingly.
Giuseppe placed the monkey atop of the organ, where the beast,
misunderstanding, stood on his head.

"He's throwing himself on the mercy of the Court, me lud," said
Jimmy. "No--now he's interested. Now he's reaching after higher
things. What wouldn't I give to have here" (he mentioned a name
not unhonoured in British Art). "Ambition plucking apples of
Sodom!" (the monkey had pricked himself and was swearing).
"Genius hampered by Convention? Oh, there's a whole bushelful of
allegories in it!"

"Give him time. He's balancing the probabilities," said Lord
Lundie.

The three closed round the monkey,--hanging on his every motion
with an earnestness almost equal to ours. The great judge's
head--seamed and vertical forehead, iron mouth, and pike-like
under-jaw, all set on that thick neck rising out of the white
flannelled collar--was thrown against the puckered green silk of
the organ-front as it might have been a cameo of Titus. Jimmy,
with raised eyes and parted lips, fingered his grizzled chestnut
beard, and I was near enough to-note, the capable beauty of his
hands. Sir Christopher stood a little apart, his arms folded
behind his back, one heavy brown boot thrust forward, chin in as
curbed, and black eyebrows lowered to shade the keen eyes.

Giuseppe's dark face between flashing earrings, a twisted rag of
red and yellow silk round his throat, turned from the reaching
yearning monkey to the pink and white biscuits spiked on the
bronzed leafage. And upon them all fell the serious and
workmanlike sun of an English summer forenoon.

"Fils de Saint Louis, montez au ciel!" said Lord Lundie suddenly
in a voice that made me think of Black Caps. I do not know what
the monkey thought, because at that instant he leaped off the
organ and disappeared.

There was a clash of broken glass behind the tree.

The monkey's face, distorted with passion, appeared at an upper
window of the house, and a starred hole in the stained-glass
window to the left of 'the front door showed the first steps of
his upward path.

"We've got to catch him," cried Sir Christopher. "Come along!"

They pushed at the door, which was unlocked.

"Yes. But consider the ethics of the case," said Jimmy. "Isn't
this burglary or something, Bubbles?"

"Settle that when he's caught," said Sir Christopher. We're
responsible for the beast."

A furious clanging of bells broke out of the empty house,
followed by muffed gurglings and trumpetings.

"What the deuce is that?" I asked, half aloud.

"The plumbing, of course," said Penfentenyou. "What a pity! I
believe he'd have climbed if Lord Lundie hadn't put him off!"

"Wait a moment, Chris," said Jimmy the interpreter; " Guiseppe
says he may answer to the music of his infancy. Giuseppe,
therefore, will go in with the "organ. Orpheus with his lute, you
know. Avante, Orpheus! There's no Neapolitan for bathroom, but I
fancy your friend is there."

"I'm not going into another man's house with a, hurdy-gurdy,"
said Lord Lundie, recoiling, as Giuseppe unshipped the working
mechanism of the organ (it developed a hang-down leg) from its
wheels, slipped a strap round his shoulders, and gave the handle
a twist.

"Don't be a cad, Bubbles," was Jimmy's answer. "You couldn't
leave us now if you were on the Woolsack. Play, Orpheus! The Cadi
accompanies."

   *    *    *     *   *    *    *    *    *  


With a whoop, a buzz, and a crash, the organ sprang to life under
the hand of Giuseppe, and the procession passed through the
rained-to-imitate-walnut front door. A moment later we saw the
monkey ramping on the roof.

"He'll be all over the township in a minute if we don't head
him," said Penfentenyou, leaping to his feet, and crashing into
the garden. We headed him with pebbles till he retired through a
window to the tuneful reminder that he had left a lot of little
things behind him. As we passed the front door it swung open, and
showed Jimmy the artist sitting at the bottom of a newly-cleaned
staircase. He waggled his hands at us, and when we entered we saw
that the man was stricken speechless. His eyes grew red--red like
a ferret's--and what little breath he had whistled shrilly. At
first we thought it was a fit, and then we saw that it was
mirth--the inopportune mirth of the Artistic Temperament.

The house palpitated to an infamous melody punctuated by the
stump of the barrel-organ's one leg, as Giuseppe, above, moved
from room to room after his rebel slave. Now and again a floor
shook a little under the combined rushes of Lord Lundie and Sir
Christopher Tomling, who gave many and contradictory orders. But
when they could they cursed Jimmy with splendid thoroughness.

"Have you anything to do with the house?" panted Jimmy at last.
"Because we're using it just now." He gulped. "And I'm
ah--keeping cave."

"All right," said Penfentenyou, and shut the hall door.

"Jimmy, you unspeakable blackguard) Jimmy, you cur! You coward!"
(Lord Lundie's voice overbore the flood of melody.) "Come up
here! Giussieppe's saying something we don't understand."

Jimmy listened and interpreted between hiccups.

"He says you'd better play the organ, Bubbles, and let him do the
stalking. The monkey knows him."

"By Jove, he's quite right," said Sir Christopher ,from the
landing. "Take it, Bubbles, at once."

"My God!" said Lord Lundie in horror.

The chase reverberated over our heads, from the attics to the
first floor and back again. Bodies and Voices met in collision
and argument, and once or twice the organ hit walls and doors.
Then it broke forth in a new manner.

"He's playing it," said Jimmy. "I know his acute Justinian ear.
Are you fond of music?"

"I think Lord Lundie plays very well for a beginner," I ventured.

"Ah! That's the trained legal intellect. Like mastering a brief.
I haven't got it." He wiped his eyes and shook.

"Hi!" said Penfentenyou, looking through the stained glass window
down the garden. "What's that!"

   *    *    *     *   *    *    *    *    * 


A household removals van, in charge of four men, had halted at
the gate. A husband and his wife householders beyond
question--quavered irresolutely up the path. He looked tired. She
was certainly cross. In all this haphazard world the last couple
to understand a scientific experiment.

I laid hands on Jimmy--the clamour above drowning speech and with
Penfentenyou's aid, propped him against the window, that he
should see.

He saw, nodded, fell as an umbrella can fall, and kneeling, beat
his forehead on the shut door. Penfentenyou slid the bolt.

The furniture men reinforced the two figures on the path, and
advanced, spreading generously.

"Hadn't we better warn them up-stairs?" I suggested:

"No. I'll die first!" said Jimmy. "I'm pretty near it now.
Besides, they called me names."

I turned from the Artist to the Administrator.

"Coeteris paribus, I think we'd better be going," said
Penfentenyou, dealer in crises.

"Ta--take me with you," said Jimmy. "I've no reputation to lose,
but I'd like to watch 'em from--er--outside the picture."

"There's always a modus viviendi," Penfentenyou murmured, and
tiptoed along the hall to a back door, which he opened quite
silently. We passed into a tangle of gooseberry bushes where, at
his statesmanlike example, we crawled on all fours, and regained
the hedge.

Here we lay up, secure in our alibi.

"But your firm,"--the woman was wailing to the furniture removals
men--"your firm promised me everything should be in yesterday.
And it's to-day! You should have been here yesterday!"

"The last tenants ain't out yet, lydy," said one of them.

Lord Lundie was rapidly improving in technique, though
organ-grinding, unlike the Law, is more of a calling than a
trade, and he hung occasionally on a dead centre. Giuseppe, I
think, was singing, but I could not understand the drift of Sir
Christopher's remarks. They were Spanish.

The woman said something we did not catch.

"You might 'ave sub-let it," the man insisted. "Or your gentleman
'ere might."

"But I didn't. Send for the Police at once."

"I wouldn't do that, lydy. They're only fruit pickers on a beano.
They aren't particular where they sleep."

"D'you mean they've been sleeping there? I only had it cleaned
last week. Get them out."

"Oh, if you say so, we'll 'ave 'em out of it in two twos. Alf,
fetch me the spare swingle-bar."

"Don't! You'll knock the paint off the door. Get them out!"

"What the 'ell else am I trying to do for you, lydy?" the man
answered with pathos; but the woman wheeled on her mate.

"Edward! They're all drunk here, and they're all mad there. Do
something!" she said.

Edward took one short step forward, and sighed "Hullo!" in the
direction of the turbulent house. The woman walked up and down,
the very figure of Domestic Tragedy. The furniture men swayed a
little on their heels, and -

"Got him!" The shout rang through all the windows at once. It was
followed by a blood-hound-like bay from Sir Christopher, a
maniacal prestissimo on the organ, and loud cries, for Jimmy. But
Jimmy, at my side, rolled his congested eyeballs, owl-wise.

"I never knew them," he said. "I'm an orphan."

   *    *    *     *   *    *    *    *    * 


The front, door opened, and the three came forth to short-lived
triumph. I had never before seen a Law Lord dressed as for
tennis, with a stump-leg barrel-organ strapped to his shoulder.
But it is a shy bird in this plumage. Lord Lundie strove to
disembarrass himself of his accoutrements much as an ill-trained
Punch and Judy dog tries to escape backwards through his frilled
collar. Sir Christopher, covered with limewash, cherished a
bleeding thumb, and the almost crazy monkey tore at Giuseppe's
hair.

The men on both sides reeled, but the woman stood her ground.
"Idiots!" she said, and once more, "Idiots!"

I could have gladdened a few convicts of my acquaintance with a
photograph of Lord Lundie at that instant.

"Madam," he began, wonderfully preserving the roll in his voice,
"it was a monkey."

Sir Christopher sucked his thumb and nodded.

"Take it away and go," she replied. "Go away!"

I would have gone, and gladly, on this permission, but these
still strong men must ever be justifying themselves. Lord Lundie
turned to the husband, who for the first time spoke.

"I have rented this house. I am moving in," he said.

"We ought to have been in yesterday," the woman interrupted.

"Yes. We ought to have been in yesterday. Have you slept there
overnight?" said the man peevishly.

"No; I assure you we haven't," said Lord Lundie.

"Then go away. Go quite away," cried the woman.

They went--in single file down the path. They went silently,
restrapping the organ on its wheels, and rechaining the monkey to
the organ.

"Damn it all!" said Penfentenyou. "They do face the music, and
they do stick by each other in private life!"

"Ties of Common Funk," I answered. Giuseppe ran to the gate and
fled back to the possible world. Lord Lundie and Sir Christopher,
constrained by tradition, paced slowly.

Then it came to pass that the woman, who walked behind them,
lifted up her eyes, and beheld the tree which they had dressed.

"Stop!" she called; and they stopped. "Who did that?"

There was no answer. The Eternal Bad Boy in every man hung its
head before the Eternal Mother in every woman.

"Who put these disgusting things there?" she repeated.

Suddenly Penfentenyou, Premier of his Colony in all but name,
left Jimmy and me, and appeared at the gate. (If he is not turned
out of office, that is how he will appear on the Day of
Armageddon.)

"Well done you!" he cried zealously, and doffed his hat to the
woman. "Have you any children, madam?" he demanded.

"Yes, two. They should have been here to-day. The firm promised 
--"

"Then we're not a minute too soon. That monkey escaped. It was a
very dangerous beast. 'Might have frightened your children into
fits. All the organ-grinder's fault! A most lucky thing these
gentlemen caught it when they did. I hope you aren't badly
mauled, Sir Christopher?" Shaken as I was (I wanted to get away
and laugh) I could not but admire the scoundrel's consummate tact
in leading his second highest trump. An ass would have introduced
Lord Lundie and they would not have believed him.

It took the trick. The couple smiled, and gave respectful thanks
for their deliverance by such hands from such perils.

"Not in the least," said Lord Lundie. "Anybody--any father would
have done as much, and pray don't apologize your mistake was
quite natural." A furniture man sniggered here, and Lord Lundie
rolled an Eye of Doom on their ranks. "By the way, if you have
trouble with these persons--they seem to have taken as much as is
good for them--please let me know. Er--Good morning!"

They turned into the lane.

"Heavens!" said Jimmy, brushing himself down. "Who's that real
man with the real head?" and we hurried after them, for they were
running unsteadily, squeaking like rabbits as they ran. We
overtook them in a little nut wood half a mile up the road, where
they had turned aside, and were rolling. So we rolled with them,
and ceased not till we had arrived at the extremity of
exhaustion.

"You--you saw it all, then?" said Lord Lundie, rebuttoning his
nineteen-inch collar.

"I saw it was a vital question from the first," responded
Penfentenyou, and blew his nose.

"It was. By the way, d'you mind telling me your name?"


Summa. Penfentenyou's Great Idea has gone through, a little
chipped at the edges, but in fine and far-reaching shape. His
Opposite Number worked at it like a mule--a bewildered mule,
beaten from behind, coaxed from in front, and propped on either
soft side by Lord Lundie of the compressed mouth and the searing
tongue.

Sir Christopher Tomling has been ravished from the Argentine,
where, after all, he was but preparing trade-routes for hostile
peoples, and now adorns the forefront of Penfentenyou's Advisory
Board. This was an unforeseen extra, as was Jimmy's gratis
full-length--(it will be in this year's Academy) of Penfentenyou,
who has returned to his own place.

Now and again, from afar off, between the slam and bump of his
shifting scenery, the glare of his manipulated limelight, and the
controlled rolling of his thunder-drums, I catch his voice,
lifted in encouragement and advice to his fellow-countrymen. He
is quite sound on Ties of Sentiment, and--alone of Colonial
Statesmen ventures to talk of the Ties of Common Funk.

Herein I have my reward.



               THE PUZZLER

 The Celt in all his variants from Builth to Ballyhoo,
 His mental processes are plain--one knows what he will do,
 And can logically predicate his finish by his start:
 But the English--ah, the English!--they are quite a race apart.

 Their psychology is bovine, their outlook crude and rare;
 They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw;
 But the straw that they were tickled with--the chaff that
       they were fed with--
 They convert into a weaver's beam to break their foeman's head   
     with.

  For undemocratic reasons and for motives not of State,
  They arrive at their conclusions--largely inarticulate.
  Being void of self-expression they confide their views to none;
  But sometimes, in a smoking-room, one learns why things were    
      done.

  In telegraphic sentences, half swallowed at the ends,
  They hint a matter's inwardness--and there the matter ends.
  And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall,
  The English--ah, the English!--don't say anything at all!



LITTLE FOXES

A TALE OF THE GIHON HUNT

A fox came out of his earth on the banks of the Great River
Gihon, which waters Ethiopia. He saw a white man riding through
the dry dhurra-stalks, and, that his destiny might be fulfilled,
barked at him.

The rider drew rein among the villagers round his stirrup.

"What," said he, "is that?"

"That," said the Sheikh of the village, "is a fox, O Excellency
Our Governor."

"It is not, then, a jackal?"

"No jackal, but Abu Hussein the father of cunning."

"Also," the white man spoke half aloud, "I am Mudir of this
Province."

"It is true," they cried. "Ya, Saart el Mudir" (O Excellency Our
Governor).

The Great River Gihon, well used to the moods of kings, slid
between his mile-wide banks toward the sea, while the Governor
praised God in a loud and searching cry never before heard by the
river.

When he had lowered his right forefinger from behind his right
ear, the villagers talked to him of their crops--barley, dhurrah,
millet, onions, and the like. The Governor stood in his stirrups.
North he looked up a strip of green cultivation a few hundred
yards wide that lay like a carpet between the river and the tawny
line of the desert. Sixty miles that strip stretched before him,
and as many behind. At every half-mile a groaning water-wheel
lifted the soft water from the river to the crops by way of a
mud-built aqueduct. A foot or so wide was the water-channel; five
foot or more high was the bank on which it ran, and its base was
broad in proportion. Abu Hussein, misnamed the Father of Cunning,
drank from the river below his earth, and his shadow was long in
the low sun. He could not understand the loud cry which the
Governor had cried.

The Sheikh of the village spoke of the crops from which the
rulers of all lands draw revenue; but the Governor's eyes were
fixed, between his horse's ears, on the nearest water-channel.

"Very like a ditch in Ireland," he murmured, and smiled, dreaming
of a razor-topped bank in distant Kildare.

Encouraged by that smile, the Sheikh continued. "When crops fail
it is necessary to remit taxation. Then it is a good thing, O
Excellency Our Governor, that you come and see the crops which
have failed, and discover that we have not lied."

"Assuredly." The Governor shortened his reins. The horse cantered
on, rose at the embankment of the water-channel, changed leg
cleverly on top, and hopped down in a cloud of golden dust.

Abu Hussein from his earth watched with interest. He had never
before seen such things.

"Assuredly," the Governor repeated, and came back by the way he
had gone. "It is always best to see for one's self."

An ancient and still bullet-speckled stern-wheel steamer, with a
barge lashed to her side, came round the river bend. She whistled
to tell the Governor his dinner was ready, and the horse, seeing
his fodder piled on the barge, whinnied back.

"Moreover," the Sheikh added, "in the days of the Oppression the
Emirs and their creatures dispossessed many people of their
lands. All up and down the river our people are waiting to return
to their lawful fields."

"Judges have been appointed to settle that matter," said the
Governor. "They will presently come in steamers and hear the
witnesses."

"Wherefore? Did the Judges kill the Emirs? We would rather be
judged by the men who executed God's judgment on the Emirs. We
would rather abide by your decision, O Excellency Our Governor."

The Governor nodded. It was a year since he had seen the Emirs
stretched close and still round the reddened sheepskin where lay
El Mahdi, the Prophet of God. Now there remained no trace of
their dominion except the old steamer, once part of a Dervish
flotilla, which was his house and office. She sidled into the
shore, lowered a plank, and the Governor followed his horse
aboard.

Lights burned on her till late, dully reflected in the river that
tugged at her mooring-ropes. The Governor read, not for the first
time, the administration reports of one John Jorrocks, M.F.H.

"We shall need," he said suddenly to his Inspector, "about ten
couple. I'll get 'em when I go home. You'll be Whip, Baker?"

The Inspector, who was not yet twenty-five, signified his assent
in the usual manner, while Abu Hussein barked at the vast desert
moon.

"Ha!" said the Governor, coming out in his pyjamas, "we'll be
giving you capivi in another three months, my friend."

     *      *      *      *      *     

It was four, as a matter of fact, ere a steamer with a melodious
bargeful of hounds anchored at that landing. The Inspector leaped
down among them, and the homesick wanderers received him as a
brother.

"Everybody fed 'em everything on board ship, but they're real
dainty hounds at bottom," the Governor explained. "That's Royal
you've got hold of--the pick of the bunch--and the bitch that's
got, hold of you--she's a little excited--is May Queen. Merriman,
out of Cottesmore Maudlin, you know."

"I know. 'Grand old betch with the tan eyebrows,"' the Inspector
cooed. "Oh, Ben!  I shall take an interest in life now. Hark to
'em! O hark!"

Abu Hussein, under the high bank, went about his night's work. An
eddy carried his scent to the barge, and three villages heard the
crash of music that followed. Even then Abu Hussein did not know
better than to bark in reply.

"Well, what about my Province?" the Governor asked.

"Not so bad," the Inspector answered, with Royal's head between
his knees. "Of course, all the villages want remission of taxes,
but, as far as I can see, the whole country's stinkin' with
foxes. Our trouble will be choppin' 'em in cover. I've got a list
of the only villages entitled to any remission. What d'you call
this flat-sided, blue-mottled beast with the jowl?"

"Beagle-boy. I have my doubts about him. Do you think we can get
two days a week?"

"Easy; and as many byes as you please. The Sheikh of this village
here tells me that his barley has failed, and he wants a fifty
per cent remission."

"We'll begin with him to-morrow, and look at his crops as we go.
Nothing like personal supervision," said the Governor.

They began at sunrise. The pack flew off the barge in every
direction, and, after gambols, dug like terriers at Abu Hussein's
many earths. Then they drank themselves pot-bellied on Gihon
water while the Governor and the Inspector chastised them with
whips. Scorpions were added; for May Queen nosed one, and was
removed to the barge lamenting. Mystery (a puppy, alas!) met a
snake, and the blue-mottled Beagle-boy (never a dainty hound) ate
that which he should have passed by. Only Royal, of the Belvoir
tan head and the sad, discerning eyes, made any attempt to uphold
the honour of England before the watching village.

"You can't expect everything," said the Governor after breakfast.

"We got it, though--everything except foxes. Have you seen May
Queen's nose?" said the Inspector.

"And Mystery's dead. We'll keep 'em coupled next time till we get
well in among the crops. I say, what a babbling body-snatcher
that Beagle-boy is! Ought to be drowned!"

"They bury people so damn casual hereabouts. Give him another
chance," the Inspector pleaded, not knowing that he should live
to repent most bitterly.

"Talkin' of chances," said the Governor, "this Sheikh lies about
his barley bein' a failure. If it's high enough to hide a hound
at this time of year, it's all right. And he wants a fifty per
cent remission, you said?"

"You didn't go on past the melon patch where I tried to turn
Wanderer. It's all burned up from there on to the desert. His
other water-wheel has broken down, too," the Inspector replied.

"Very good. We'll split the difference and allow him twenty-five
per cent off. Where'll we meet to-morrow?"

"There's some trouble among the villages down the river about
their land-titles. It's good goin' ground there, too," the
Inspector said.

The next meet, then, was some twenty miles down the river, and
the pack were not enlarged till they were fairly among the
fields. Abu Hussein was there in force--four of him. Four
delirious hunts of four minutes each--four hounds per fox--ended
in four earths just above the river. All the village looked on.

"We forgot about the earths. The banks are riddled with 'em.
This'll defeat us," said the Inspector.

"Wait a moment!" The Governor drew forth a sneezing hound. "I've
just remembered I'm Governor of these parts."

"Then turn out a black battalion to stop for us. We'll need 'em,
old man."

The Governor straightened his back. "Give ear, O people!" he
cried. "I make a new Law!"

The villagers closed in. He called:--

"Henceforward I will give one dollar to the man on whose land Abu
Hussein is found. And another dollar"--he held up the coin--"to
the man on whose land these dogs shall kill him. But to the man
on whose land Abu Hussein shall run into a hole such as is this
hole, I will give not dollars, but a most unmeasurable beating.
Is it understood?"

"Our Excellency," a man stepped forth, "on my land Abu Hussein
was found this morning. Is it not so, brothers?"

None denied. The Governor tossed him over four dollars without a
word.

"On my land they all went into their holes," cried another.
"Therefore I must be beaten."

"Not so. The land is mine, and mine are the beatings."

This second speaker thrust forward his shoulders already bared,
and the villagers shouted.

"Hullo! Two men anxious to be licked? There must be some swindle
about the land," said the Governor. Then in the local vernacular:
"What are your rights to the beating?"

As a river-reach changes beneath a slant of the sun, that which
had been a scattered mob changed to a court of most ancient
justice. The hounds tore and sobbed at Abu Hussein's hearthstone,
all unnoticed among the legs of the witnesses, and Gihon, also
accustomed to laws, purred approval.

"You will not wait till the Judges come up the river to settle
the dispute?" said the Governor at last.

"No!" shouted all the village save the man who had first asked to
be beaten. "We will abide by Our Excellency's decision. Let Our
Excellency turn out the creatures of the Emirs who stole our land
in the days of the Oppression."

"And thou sayest?" the Governor turned to the man who had first
asked to be beaten.

"I say 1 will wait till the wise Judges come down in the steamer.
Then I will bring my many witnesses," he replied.

"He is rich. He will bring many witnesses," the village Sheikh
muttered.

"No need. Thy own mouth condemns thee!" the Governor cried. "No
man lawfully entitled to his land would wait one hour before
entering upon it. Stand aside!" The man, fell back, and the
village jeered him.

The second claimant stooped quickly beneath the lifted
hunting-crop. The village rejoiced.

"Oh, Such an one; Son of such an one," said the Governor,
prompted by the Sheikh, "learn, from the day when I send the
order, to block up all the holes where Abu Hussein may hide
on--thy--land!"

The light flicks ended. The man stood up triumphant. By that
accolade had the Supreme Government acknowledged his title before
all men.

While the village praised the perspicacity of the Governor, a
naked, pock-marked child strode forward to the earth, and stood
on one leg, unconcerned as a young stork.

"Hal" he said, hands behind his back. "This should be blocked up
with bundles of dhurra stalks--or, better, bundles of thorns."

"Better thorns," said the Governor. "Thick ends innermost."

The child nodded gravely and squatted on the sand.

"An evil day for thee, Abu Hussein," he shrilled into the mouth
of the earth. "A day of obstacles to thy flagitious returns in
the morning."

"Who is it?" the Governor asked the Sheikh. "It thinks."

"Farag the Fatherless. His people were slain in the days of the
Oppression. The man to whom Our Excellency has awarded the land
is, as it were, his maternal uncle."

"Will it come with me and feed the big dogs?" said the Governor.

The other peering children drew back. "Run!" they cried. "Our
Excellency will feed Farag to the big dogs."

"I will come," said Farag. "And I will never go." He threw his
arm round Royal's neck, and the wise beast licked his face.

"Binjamin, by Jove!" the Inspector cried.

"No!" said the Governor. "I believe he has the makings of a James
Pigg!"

Farag waved his hand to his uncle, and led Royal on to the barge.
The rest of the pack followed.

     *      *      *      *      *     

Gihon, that had seen many sports, learned to know the Hunt barge
well. He met her rounding his bends on grey December dawns to
music wild and lamentable as the almost forgotten throb of
Dervish drums, when, high above Royal's tenor bell, sharper even
than lying Beagle-boy's falsetto break, Farag chanted deathless
war against Abu Hussein and all his seed. At sunrise the river
would shoulder her carefully into her place, and listen to the
rush and scutter of the pack fleeing up the gang-plank, and the
tramp of the Governor's Arab behind them. They would pass over
the brow into the dewless crops where Gihon, low and shrunken,
could only guess what they were about when Abu Hussein flew down
the bank to scratch at a stopped earth, and flew back into the
barley again. As Farag had foretold, it was evil days for Abu
Hussein ere he learned to take the necessary steps and to get
away crisply. Sometimes Gihon saw the whole procession of the
Hunt silhouetted against the morning-blue, bearing him company
for many merry miles. At every half mile the horses and the
donkeys jumped the water-channels--up, on, change your leg, and
off again like figures in a zoetrope, till they grew small along
the line of waterwheels. Then Gibon waited their rustling return
through the crops, and took them to rest on his bosom at ten
o'clock. While the horses ate, and Farag slept with his head on
Royal's flank, the Governor and his Inspector worked for the good
of the Hunt and his Province.

After a little time there was no need to beat any man for
neglecting his earths. The steamer's destination was telegraphed
from waterwheel to waterwheel, and the villagers stopped out and
put to according. If an earth were overlooked, it meant some
dispute as to the ownership of the land, and then and there the
Hunt checked and settled it in this wise: The Governor and the
Inspector side by side, but the latter half a horse's length to
the rear; both bare-shouldered claimants well in front; the
villagers half-mooned behind them, and Farag with the pack, who
quite understood the performance, sitting down on the left.
Twenty minutes were enough to settle the most complicated case,
for, as the Governor said to a judge on the steamer, "One gets at
the truth in a hunting-field a heap quicker than in your
lawcourts."

"But when the evidence is conflicting?" the Judge suggested.

"Watch the field. They'll throw tongue fast enough if you're
running a wrong scent. You've never had an appeal from one of my
decisions yet."

The Sheikhs on horseback--the lesser folk on clever donkeys--the
children so despised by Farag soon understood that villages which
repaired their waterwheels and channels stood highest in the
Governor's favour. He bought their barley, for his horses.

"Channels," he said, "are necessary that we may all jump them.
They are necessary, moreover, for the crops. Let there be many
wheels and sound channels--and much good barley."

"Without money," replied an aged Sheikh, "there are no
waterwheels."

"I will lend the money," said the Governor.

"At what interest, O Our Excellency?"

"Take you two of May Queen's puppies to bring up in your village
in such a manner that they do not eat filth, nor lose their hair,
nor catch fever from lying in the sun, but become wise hounds."

"Like Ray-yal--not like Bigglebai?" (Already it was an insult
along the River to compare a man to the shifty anthropophagous
blue-mottled harrier.)

"Certainly, like Ray-yal--not in the least like Bigglebai. That
shall be the interest on the loan. Let the puppies thrive and the
waterwheel be built, and I shall be content," said the Governor.

"The wheel shall be built, but, O Our Excellency, if by God's
favour the pups grow to be well-smelters, not filth-eaters, not
unaccustomed to their names, not lawless, who will do them and me
justice at the time of judging the young dogs?"

"Hounds, man, hounds! Ha-wands, O Sheikh, we call them in their
manhood."

"The ha-wands when they are judged at the Sha-ho. I have
unfriends down the river to whom Our Excellency has also
entrusted ha-wands to bring up."

"Puppies, man! Pah-peaz we call them, O Sheikh, in their
childhood."

"Pah-peat. My enemies may judge my pah-peaz unjustly at the
Sha-ho. This must be thought of."

"I see the obstacle. Hear now! If the new waterwheel is built in
a month without oppression, thou, O Sheikh, shalt be named one of
the judges to judge the pah-peaz at the Sha-ho. Is it
understood?"

"Understood. We will build the wheel. I and my seed are
responsible for the repayment of the loan. Where are my pah-peaz?
If they eat fowls, must they on any account eat the feathers?"

"On no account must they eat the feathers. Farag in the barge
will tell thee how they are to live."

There is no instance of any default on the Governor's personal
and unauthorized loans, for which they called him the Father of
Waterwheels. But the first puppyshow at the capital needed
enormous tact and the presence of a black battalion
ostentatiously drilling in the barrack square to prevent trouble
after the prize-giving.

But who can chronicle the glories of the Gihon Hunt--or their
shames? Who remembers the kill in the market-place, when the
Governor bade the assembled sheikhs and warriors observe how the
hounds would instantly devour the body of Abu Hussein; but how,
when he had scientifically broken it up, the weary pack turned
from it in loathing, and Farag wept because he said the world's
face had been blackened? What men who have not yet ridden beyond
the sound of any horn recall the midnight run which
ended--Beagleboy leading--among tombs; the hasty whip-off, and
the oath, taken Abo e bones, to forget the worry? The desert run,
when Abu Hussein forsook the cultivation, and made a six-mile
point to earth in a desolate khor--when strange armed riders on
camels swooped out of a ravine, and instead of giving battle,
offered to take the tired hounds home on their beasts. Which they
did, and vanished.

Above all, who remembers the death of Royal, when a certain
Sheikh wept above the body of the stainless hound as it might
have been his son's--and that day the Hunt rode no more? The
badly-kept log-book says little of this, but at the end of their
second season (forty-nine brace) appears the dark entry: "New
blood badly wanted. They are beginning to listen to beagle-boy."

     *      *      *      *      *     

The Inspector attended to the matter when his leave fell due.

"Remember," said the Governor, "you must get us the best blood in
England--real, dainty hounds--expense no object, but don't trust
your own judgment. Present my letters of introduction, and take
what they give you.

The Inspector presented his letters in a society where they make
much of horses, more of hounds, and are tolerably civil to men
who can ride. They passed him from house to house, mounted him
according to his merits, and fed him, after five years of goat
chop and Worcester sauce, perhaps a thought too richly.

The seat or castle where he made his great coup does not much
matter. Four Masters of Foxhounds were at table, and in a mellow
hour the Inspector told them stories of the Gihon Hunt. He ended:
"Ben said I wasn't to trust my own judgment about hounds, but I
think there ought to be a special tariff for Empire-makers."

As soon as his hosts could speak, they reassured him on this
point.

"And now tell us about your first puppy-show all over again,"
said one.

"And about the earth-stoppin'. Was that all Ben's own invention?"
said another.

"Wait a moment," said a large, clean-shaven man--not an
M.F.H.--at the end of the table. "Are your villagers habitually
beaten by your Governor when they fail to stop foxes' holes?"

The tone and the phrase were enough even if, as the Inspector
confessed afterwards, the big, blue double-chinned man had not
looked so like Beagle-boy. He took him on for the honour of
Ethiopia.

"We only hunt twice a week--sometimes three times. I've never
known a man chastised more than four times a week unless there's
a bye."

The large loose-lipped man flung his napkin down, came round the
table, cast himself into the chair next the Inspector, and leaned
forward earnestly, so that he breathed in the Inspector's face.

"Chastised with what?" he said.

"With the kourbash--on the feet. A kourbash is a strip of old
hippo-hide with a sort of keel on it, like the cutting edge of a
boar's tusk. But we use the rounded side for a first offender."

"And do any consequences follow this sort of thing? For the
victim, I mean--not for you?"

Ve-ry rarely. Let me be fair. I've never seen a man die under the
lash, but gangrene may set up if the kourbash has been pickled."

"Pickled in what?" All the table was still and interested.

"In copperas, of course. Didn't you know that" said the
Inspector.

"Thank God I didn't." The large man sputtered visibly.

The Inspector wiped his face and grew bolder.

"You mustn't think we're careless about our earthstoppers. We've
a Hunt fund for hot tar. Tar's a splendid dressing if the
toe-nails aren't beaten off. But huntin' as large a country as we
do, we mayn't be back at that village for a month, and if the
dressings ain't renewed, and gangrene sets in, often as not you
find your man pegging about on his stumps. We've a well-known
local name for 'em down the river. We call 'em the Mudir's
Cranes. You see, I persuaded the Governor only to bastinado on
one foot."

"On one foot? The Mudir's Cranes!" The large man turned purple to
the top of his bald head. " Would you mind giving me the local
word for Mudir's Cranes?"

From a too well-stocked memory the Inspector drew one short
adhesive word which surprises by itself even unblushing Ethiopia.
He spelt it out, saw the large man write it down on his cuff and
withdraw. Then the Inspector translated a few of its
significations and implications to the four Masters of Foxhounds.
He left three days later with eight couple of the best hounds in
England--a free and a friendly and an ample gift from four packs
to the Gihon Hunt. He had honestly meant to undeceive the large
blue mottled man, but somehow forgot about it.

The new draft marks a new chapter in the Hunt's history. From an
isolated phenomenon in a barge it became a permanent institution
with brick-built kennels ashore, and an influence social,
political, and administrative, co-terminous with the boundaries
of the province. Ben, the Governor, departed to England, where he
kept a pack of real dainty hounds, but never ceased to long for
the old lawless lot. His successors were ex-officio Masters of
the Gihon Hunt, as all Inspectors were Whips. For one reason;
Farag, the kennel huntsman, in khaki and puttees, would obey
nothing under the rank of an Excellency, and the hounds would
obey no one but Farag; for another, the best way of estimating
crop returns and revenue was by riding straight to hounds; for a
third, though Judges down the river issued signed and sealed
land-titles to all lawful owners, yet public opinion along the
river never held any such title valid till it had been confirmed,
according to precedent, by the Governor's hunting crop in the
hunting field, above the wilfully neglected earth. True, the
ceremony had been cut down to three mere taps on the shoulder,
but Governors who tried to evade that much found themselves and
their office compassed about with a great cloud of witnesses who
took up their time with lawsuits and, worse still, neglected the
puppies. The older sheikhs, indeed, stood out for the
unmeasurable beatings of the old days--the sharper the
punishment, they argued, the surer the title; but here the hand
of modern progress was against them, and they contented
themselves with telling tales of Ben the first Governor, whom
they called the Father of Waterwheels, and of that heroic age
when men, horses, and hounds were worth following.

This same Modern Progress which brought dog biscuit and brass
water-taps to the kennels was at work all over the world. Forces,
Activities, and Movements sprang into being, agitated themselves,
coalesced, and, in one political avalanche, overwhelmed a
bewildered, and not in the least intending it, England. The
echoes of the New Era were borne into the Province on the wings
of inexplicable cables. The Gihon Hunt read speeches and
sentiments, and policies which amazed them, and they thanked God,
prematurely, that their Province was too far off, too hot, and
too hard worked to be reached by those speakers or their
policies. But they, with others, under-estimated the scope and
purpose of the New Era.

One by one, the Provinces of the Empire were hauled up and
baited, hit and held, lashed under the belly, and forced back on
their haunches for the amusement of their new masters in the
parish of Westminster. One by one they fell away, sore and angry,
to compare stripes with each other at the ends of the uneasy
earth. Even so the Gihon Hunt, like Abu Hussein in the old days,
did not understand. Then it reached them through the Press that
they habitually flogged to death good revenue-paying cultivators
who neglected to stop earths; but that the few, the very few who
did not die under hippohide whips soaked in copperas, walked
about on their gangrenous ankle-bones, and were known in derision
as the Mudir's Cranes. The charges were vouched for in the House
of Commons by a Mr. Lethabie Groombride, who had formed a
Committee, and was disseminating literature: The Province
groaned; the Inspector--now an Inspector of Inspectors--whistled.
He had forgotten the gentleman who sputtered in people's faces.

"He shouldn't have looked so like Beagle-boy!" was his sole
defence when he met the Governor at breakfast on the steamer
after a meet.

"You shouldn't have joked with an animal of that class," said
Peter the Governor. "Look what Farag has brought me!"

It was a pamphlet, signed on behalf of a Committee by a lady
secretary, but composed by some person who thoroughly understood
the language of the Province. After telling the tale of the
beatings, it recommended all the beaten to institute criminal
proceedings against their Governor, and, as soon as might be, to
rise against English oppression and tyranny. Such documents were
new in Ethiopia in those days.

The Inspector read the last half page. "But--but," he stammered,
"this is impossible. White men don't write this sort of stuff."

"Don't they, just?" said the Governor. "They get made Cabinet
Ministers for doing it too. I went home last year. I know."

"It'll blow over," said the Inspector weakly.

"Not it. Groombride is coming down here to investigate the matter
in a few days."

"For himself?"

"The Imperial Government's behind him. Perhaps you'd like to look
t my orders." The Governor laid down an uncoded cable. The
whiplash to it ran: "You will afford Mr. Groombride every
facility for his inquiry, and will be held responsible that no
obstacles are put in his way to the fullest possible examination
of any witnesses which he may consider necessary. He will be
accompanied by his own interpreter, who must not be tampered
with."

"That's to me--Governor of the Province!" said Peter the
Governor.

"It seems about enough," the Inspector answered.

Farag, kennel-huntsman, entered the saloon, as was his privilege.

"My uncle, who was beaten by the Father of Waterwheels, would
approach, O Excellency," he said, "and there are others on the
bank."

"Admit," said the Governor.

There tramped aboard sheikhs and villagers to the number of
seventeen. In each man's hand was a copy of the pamphlet; in each
man's eye terror and uneasiness of the sort that Governors spend
and are spent to clear away. Farag's uncle, now Sheikh of the
village, spoke: "It is written in this book, Excellency, that the
beatings whereby we hold our lands are all valueless. It is
written that every man who received such a beating from the
Father of Waterwheels who slow the Emirs, should instantly begin
a lawsuit, because the title to his land is not valid."

"It is so written. We do not wish lawsuits. We wish to hold the
land as it was given to us after the days of the Oppression,"
they cried.

The Governor glanced at the Inspector. This was serious. To cast
doubt on the ownership of land means, in Ethiopia, the letting in
of waters, and the getting out of troops.

"Your titles are good," said the Governor. The Inspector
confirmed with a nod.

"Then what is the meaning of these writings which came from down
the river where the Judges are?" Farag's uncle waved his copy.
"By whose order are we ordered to slay you, O Excellency Our
Governor?"

"It is not written that you are to slay me."

"Not in those very words, but if we leave an earth unstopped, it
is the same as though we wished to save Abu Hussein from the
hounds. These writings say: 'Abolish your rulers.' How can we
abolish except we kill? We hear rumours of one who comes from
down the river soon to lead us to kill."

"Fools!" said the Governor. "Your titles are good. This is
madness!"

"It is so written," they answered like a pack.

"Listen," said the Inspector smoothly. "I know who caused the
writings to be written and sent. He is a man of a blue-mottled
jowl, in aspect like Bigglebai who ate unclean matters. He will
come up the river and will give tongue about the beatings."

"Will he impeach our land-titles? An evil day for him!"

"Go slow, Baker," the Governor whispered. "They'll kill him if
they get scared about their land."

"I tell a parable." The Inspector lit a cigarette. "Declare which
of you took to walk the children of Milkmaid?"

"Melik-meid First or Second?" said Farag quickly.

"The second--the one which was lamed by the thorn."

"No--no. Melik-meid the Second strained her shoulder leaping my
water-channel," a sheikh cried. "Melik-meid the First was lamed
by the thorns on the day when Our Excellency fell thrice."

"True--true. The second Melik-meid's mate was Malvolio, the pied
hound," said the Inspector.

"I had two of the second Melik-meid's pups," said Farag's uncle.
"They died of the madness in their ninth month."

"And how did they do before they died?" said the Inspector.

"They ran about in the sun, and slavered at the mouth till they
died."

"Wherefore?"

"God knows. He sent the madness. It was no fault of mine."

"Thy own mouth hath answered thee." The Inspector laughed. "It is
with men as it is with dogs. God afflicts some with a madness. It
is no fault of ours if such men run about in the sun and froth at
the mouth. The man who is coming will emit spray from his mouth
in speaking, and will always edge and push in towards his
hearers. When ye see and hear him ye will understand that he is
afflicted of God: being mad. He is in God's hands."

"But our titles--are our titles to our lands good?" the crowd
repeated.

"Your titles are in my hands--they are good," said the Governor.

"And he who wrote the writings is an afflicted of God?" said
Farag's uncle.

"The Inspector hath said it," cried the Governor. "Ye will see
when the man comes. O sheikhs and men, have we ridden together
and walked puppies together, and bought and sold barley for the
horses that after these years we should run riot on the scent of
a madman--an afflicted of God?"

"But the Hunt pays us to kill mad jackals," said Farag's uncle.
"And he who questions my titles to my land "

"Aahh! 'Ware riot!" The Governor's hunting-crop cracked like a
three-pounder. "By Allah," he thundered, "if the afflicted of God
come to any harm at your hands, I myself will shoot every hound
and every puppy, and the Hunt shall ride no more. On your heads
be it. Go in peace, and tell the others."

"The Hunt shall ride no more," said Farag's uncle. "Then how can
the land be governed? No--no, O Excellency Our Governor, we will
not harm a hair on the head of the afflicted of God. He shall be
to us as is Abu Hussein's wife in the breeding season."

When they were gone the Governor mopped his forehead.

"We must put a few soldiers in every village this Groombride
visits, Baker. Tell 'em to keep out of sight, and have an eye on
the villagers. He's trying 'em rather high."

"O Excellency," said the smooth voice of Farag, laying the Field
and Country Life square on the table, "is the afflicted of God
who resembles Bigglebai one with the man whom the Inspector met
in the great house in England, and to whom he told the tale of
the Mudir's Cranes?"

"The same man, Farag," said the Inspector.

"I have often heard the Inspector tell the tale to ,Our
Excellency at feeding-time in the kennels; but since I am in the
Government service I have never told it to my people. May I loose
that tale among the villages?"

     *      *      *      *      *     

The Governor nodded. " No harm," said he.

The details of Mr. Groombride's arrival, with his interpreter,
whom he proposed should eat with him at the Governor's table, his
allocution to the Governor on the New Movement, and the sins of
Imperialism, I purposely omit. At three in the afternoon Mr.
Groombride said: "I will go out now and address your victims in
this village."

"Won't you find it rather hot?" said the Governor. "They
generally take 'a nap till sunset at this time of year."

Mr. Groombride's large, loose lips set. "That," he replied
pointedly, "would be enough to decide me. I fear you have not
quite mastered your instructions. May I ask you to send for my
interpreter? I hope he has not been tampered with by your
subordinates."

He was a yellowish boy called Abdul, who had well eaten and drunk
with Farag. The Inspector, by the way, was not present at the
meal.

"At whatever risk, I shall go unattended," said Mr. Groombride.
"Your presence would cow them -from giving evidence. Abdul, my
good friend, would you very kindly open the umbrella?"

He passed up the gang-plank to the village, and with no more
prelude than a Salvation Army picket in a Portsmouth slum, cried:
"Oh, my brothers!"

He did not guess how his path had been prepared. The village was
widely awake. Farag, in loose, flowing garments, quite unlike a
kennel huntsman's khaki and puttees, leaned against the wall of
his uncle's house. "Come and see the afflicted of God,." he cried
musically, "whose face, indeed, resembles that of Bigglebai."

The village came, and decided that on the whole Farag was right.

"I can't quite catch what they are saying," said Mr. Groombride.

"They saying they very much pleased to see you, Sar," Adbul
interpreted.

"Then I do think they might have sent a deputation to the
steamer; but I suppose they were frightened of the officials.
Tell them not to be frightened, Abdul."

"He says you are not to be frightened," Abdul explained. A child
here sputtered with laughter. "Refrain from mirth," Farag cried.
"The afflicted of God is the guest of The Excellency Our
Governor. We are responsible for every hair of his head."

"He has none," a voice spoke. "He has the white and the shining
mange."

"Now tell them what I have come for, Abdul, and please keep the
umbrella well up. I think I shall reserve myself for my little
vernacular speech at the end."

"Approach! Look! Listen!" Abdul chanted. "The afflicted of God
will now make sport. Presently he will speak in your tongue, and
will consume you with mirth. I have been his servant for three
weeks. I will tell you about his undergarments and his perfumes
for his head."

He told them at length.

"And didst thou take any of his perfume bottles?" said Farag at
the end.

"I am his servant. I took two," Abdul replied.

"Ask him," said Farag's uncle, "what he knows about our
land-titles. Ye young men are all alike." He waved a pamphlet.
Mr. Groombride smiled to see how the seed sown in London had
borne fruit by Gihon. Lo! All the seniors held copies of the
pamphlet.

"He knows less than a buffalo. He told me on the steamer that he
was driven out of his own land by Demah-Kerazi which is a devil
inhabiting crowds and assemblies," said Abdul.

"Allah between us and evil!" a woman cackled from the darkness of
a hut. "Come in, children, he may have the Evil Eye."

"No, my aunt," said Farag. "No afflicted of God has an evil eye.
Wait till ye hear his mirth-provoking speech which he will
deliver. I have heard it twice from Abdul."

"They seem very quick to grasp the point. How far have you got,
Abdul?"

"All about the beatings, sar. They are highly interested."

"Don't forget about the local self-government, and please hold
the umbrella over me. It is hopeless to destroy unless one first
builds up."

"He may not have the Evil Eye," Farag's uncle grunted, "but his
devil led him too certainly to question my land-title. Ask him
whether he still doubts my land-title?"

"Or mine, or mine?" cried the elders.

"What odds? He is an afflicted of God," Farag called. "Remember
the tale I told you."

"Yes, but he is an Englishman, and doubtless of influence, or Our
Excellency would not entertain him. Bid the down-country jackass
ask him."

"Sar," said Abdul, "these people, much fearing they may be turned
out of their land in consequence of your remarks. Therefore they
ask you to make promise no bad consequences following your
visit."

Mr. Groombride held his breath and turned purple. Then he stamped
his foot.

"Tell them," he cried, "that if a hair of any one of their heads
is touched by any official on any account whatever, all England
shall ring with it. Good God! What callous oppression! The dark
places of the earth are full of cruelty." He wiped his face, and
throwing out his arms cried: "Tell them, oh! tell the poor, serfs
not to be afraid of me. Tell them I come to redress their
wrongs--not, heaven knows, to add to their burden."

The long-drawn gurgle of the practised public speaker pleased
them much.

"That is how the new water-tap runs out in the kennel," said
Farag. "The Excellency Our Governor entertains him that he may
make sport. Make him say the mirth-moving speech."

"What did he say about my land-titles?" Farag's uncle was not to
be turned.

"He says," Farag interpreted, "that he desires, nothing better
than that you should live on your lands in peace. He talks as
though he believed himself to be Governor."

"Well. We here are all witnesses to what he has said. Now go
forward with the sport." Farag's uncle smoothed his garments.
"How diversely hath Allah made His creatures! On one He bestows
strength to slay Emirs; another He causes to go mad and wander in
the sun, like the afflicted sons of Melik-meid."

"Yes, and to emit spray from the mouth, as the Inspector told us.
All will happen as the Inspector foretold," said Farag. " I have
never yet seen the Inspector thrown out during any run."

"I think," Abdul plucked at Mr. Groombride's sleeves, "I think
perhaps it is better now, Sar, if you give your fine little
native speech. They not understanding English, but much pleased
at your condescensions."

"Condescensions?" Mr. Groombride spun round. "If they only knew
how I felt towards them in my heart! If I could express a tithe
of my feelings! I must stay here and learn the language. Hold up
the umbrella, Abdull I think my little speech will show them I
know something of their vie intime."

It was a short, simple; carefully learned address, and the
accent, supervised by Abdul on the steamer, allowed the hearers
to guess its meaning, which was a request to see one of the
Mudir's Cranes; since the desire of the speaker's life, the
object to which he would consecrate his days, was to improve the
condition of the Mudir's Cranes. But first he must behold them
with his own eyes. Would, then, his brethren, whom he loved, show
him a Mudir's Crane whom he desired to love?

Once, twice, and again in his peroration he repeated his demand,
using always--that they might see he was acquainted with their
local argot--using always, I say, the word which the Inspector
had given him in England long ago--the short, adhesive word
which, by itself, surprises even unblushing Ethiopia.

There are limits to the sublime politeness of an ancient people.
A bulky, blue-chinned man in white clothes, his name red-lettered
across his lower shirtfront, spluttering from under a green-lined
umbrella almost tearful appeals to be introduced to the
Unintroducible; naming loudly the Unnameable; dancing, as it
seemed, in perverse joy at mere mention of the
Unmentionable--found those limits. There was a moment's hush, and
then such mirth as Gihon through his centuries had never heard--a
roar like to the roar of his own cataracts in flood. Children
cast themselves on the ground, and rolled back and forth cheering
and whooping; strong men, their faces hidden in their clothes,
swayed in silence, till the agony became insupportable, and they
threw up their heads and bayed at the sun; women, mothers and
virgins, shrilled shriek upon mounting shriek, and slapped their
thighs as it might have been the roll of musketry. When they
tried to draw breath, some half-strangled voice would quack out
the word, and the riot began afresh. Last to fall was the
city-trained Abdul. He held on to the edge of apoplexy, then
collapsed, throwing the umbrella from him.

Mr. Groombride should not be judged too harshly. Exercise and
strong emotion under a hot sun, the shock of public ingratitude,
for the moment rued his spirit. He furled the umbrella, and with
t beat the prostrate Abdul, crying that he had been betrayed. In
which posture the Inspector, on horseback, followed by the
Governor, suddenly found him.

     *      *      *      *      *     

"That's all very well," said the Inspector, when he had taken
Abdul's dramatically dying depositions on the steamer, "but you
can't hammer a native merely because he laughs at you. I see
nothing for it but the law to take its course."

"You might reduce the charge to--er--tampering with an
interpreter," said the Governor. Mr. Groombride was too far gone
to be comforted.

"It's the publicity that I fear," he wailed. "Is there no
possible means of hushing up the affair? You don't know what a
question--a single question in the House means to a man of my
position--the ruin of my political career, I assure you."

"I shouldn't have imagined it," said the Governor thoughtfully.

"And, though perhaps I ought not to say it, I am not without
honour in my own country--or influence. A word in season, as you
know, Your Excellency. It might carry an official far."

The Governor shuddered.

"Yes, that had to come too," he said to himself. "Well, look
here. If I tell this man of yours to withdraw the charge against
you, you can go to Gehenna for aught I care. The only condition I
make is that if you write--I suppose that's part of your business
about your travels, you don't praise me!"

So far Mr. Groombride has loyally adhered to this understanding.



               GALLIO'S SONG

          All day long to the judgment-seat
           The crazed Provincials drew--
          All day long at their ruler's feet
           Howled for the blood of the Jew.
          Insurrection with one accord
           Banded itself and woke:
          And Paul was about to open his mouth
           When Achaia's Deputy spoke

          "Whether the God descend from above
           Or the man ascend upon high,
          Whether this maker of tents be Jove
           Or a younger deity--
          I will be no judge between your gods
           And your godless bickerings,
          Lictor, drive them hence with rods--
           I care for none of these things!

          "Were it a question of lawful due
           Or a labourer's hire denied,
          Reason would I should bear with you
           And order it well to be tried
          But this is a question of words and names
           And I know the strife it brings,
          I will not pass upon any your claims.
           I care for none of these things.

          "One thing only I see most clear,
           As I pray you also see.
          Claudius Caesar hath set me here
           Rome's Deputy to be.
          It is Her peace that ye go to break
           Not mine, nor any king's,
          But, touching your clamour of 'conscience sake,'
           I care for none of these things!"



THE HOUSE SURGEON

On an evening after Easter Day, I sat at a table in a homeward
bound steamer's smoking-room, where half a dozen of us told ghost
stories. As our party broke up a man, playing Patience in the
next alcove, said to me: "I didn't quite catch the end of that
last story about the Curse on the family's first-born."

"It turned out to be drains," I explained. "As soon as new ones
were put into the house the Curse was lifted, I believe. I never
knew the people myself."

"Ah! I've had my drains up twice; I'm on gravel too."

"You don't mean to say you've a ghost in your house? Why didn't
you join our party?"

"Any more orders, gentlemen, before the bar closes?" the steward
interrupted.

"Sit down again, and have one with me," said the Patience player.
"No, it isn't a ghost. Our trouble is more depression than
anything else."

"How interesting? Then it's nothing any one can see?"

"It's--it's nothing worse than a little depression. And the odd
part is that there hasn't been a death in the house since it was
built--in 1863. The lawyer said so. That decided me--my good
lady, rather and he made me pay an extra thousand for it."

"How curious. Unusual, too!" I said.

"Yes; ain't it? It was built for three sisters--Moultrie was the
name--three old maids. They all lived together; the eldest owned
it. I bought it from her lawyer a few years ago, and if I've
spent a pound on the place first and last, I must have spent five
thousand. Electric light, new servants' wing, garden--all that
sort of thing. A man and his family ought to be happy after so
much expense, ain't it?" He looked at me through the bottom of
his glass.

"Does it affect your family much?"

"My good lady--she's a Greek, by the way--and myself are
middle-aged. We can bear up against depression; but it's hard on
my little girl. I say little; but she's twenty. We send her
visiting to escape it. She almost lived at hotels and hydros,
last year, but that isn't pleasant for her. She used to be a
canary--a perfect canary--always singing. You ought to hear her.
She doesn't sing now. That sort of thing's unwholesome for the
young, ain't it?"

"Can't you get rid of the place?" I suggested.

"Not except at a sacrifice, and we are fond of it. Just suits us
three. We'd love it if we were allowed."

"What do you mean by not being allowed?"

"I mean because of the depression. It spoils everything."

"What's it like exactly?"

"I couldn't very well explain. It must be seen to be appreciated,
as the auctioneers say. Now, I was much impressed by the story
you were telling just now."

"It wasn't true," I said.

"My tale is true. If you would do me the pleasure to come down
and spend a night at my little place, you'd learn more than you
would if I talked till morning. Very likely 'twouldn't touch your
good self at all. You might be--immune, ain't it? On the other
hand, if this influenza,--influence does happen to affect you,
why, I think it will be an experience."

While he talked he gave me his card, and I read his name was L.
Maxwell M'Leod, Esq., of Holmescroft. A City address was tucked
away in a corner.

"My business," he added, "used to be furs. If you are interested
in furs--I've given thirty years of my life to 'em."

"You're very kind," I murmured.

"Far from it, I assure you. I can meet you next Saturday
afternoon anywhere in London you choose to name, and I'll be only
too happy to motor you down. It ought to be a delightful run at
this time of year the rhododendrons will be out. I mean it. You
don't know how truly I mean it. Very probably--it won't affect
you at all. And--I think I may say I have the finest collection
of narwhal tusks in the world. All the best skins and horns have
to go through London, and L. Maxwell M'Leod, he knows where they
come from, and where they go to. That's his business."

For the rest of the voyage up-channel Mr. M'Leod talked to me of
the assembling, preparation, and sale of the rarer furs; and told
me things about the manufacture of fur-lined coats which quite
shocked me. Somehow or other, when we landed on Wednesday, I
found myself pledged to spend that week-end with him at
Holmescroft.

On Saturday he met me with a well-groomed motor, and ran me out,
in an hour and a half, to an exclusive residential district of
dustless roads and elegantly designed country villas, each
standing in from three to five acres of perfectly appointed land.
He told me land was selling at eight hundred pounds the acre, and
the new golf links, whose Queen Anne pavilion we passed, had cost
nearly twenty-four thousand pounds to create.

Holmescroft was a large, two-storied, low, creeper-covered
residence. A verandah at the south side gave on to a garden and
two tennis courts, separated by a tasteful iron fence from a most
park-like meadow of five or six acres, where two Jersey cows
grazed. Tea was ready in the shade of a promising copper beech,
and I could see groups on the lawn of young men and maidens
appropriately clothed, playing lawn tennis in the sunshine.

"A pretty scene, ain't it?" said Mr. M'Leod. "My good lady's
sitting under the tree, and that's my little girl in pink on the
far court. But I'll take you to your room, and you can see 'em
all later."

He led me through a wide parquet-floored hall furnished in pale
lemon, with huge Cloisonnee vases, an ebonized and gold grand
piano, and banks of pot flowers in Benares brass bowls, up a pale
oak staircase to a spacious landing, where there was a green
velvet settee trimmed with silver. The blinds were down, and the
light lay in parallel lines on the floors.

He showed me my room, saying cheerfully: "You may be a little
tired. One often is without knowing it after a run through
traffic. Don't come down till you feel quite restored. We shall
all be in the garden."

My room was rather warm, and smelt of perfumed soap. I threw up
the window at once, but it opened so close to the floor and
worked so clumsily that I came within an ace of pitching out,
where I should certainly have ruined a rather lop-sided laburnum
below. As I set about washing off the journey's dust, I began to
feel a little tired. But, I reflected, I had not come down here
in this weather and among these new surroundings to be depressed;
so I began to whistle.

And it was just then that I was aware of a little grey shadow, as
it might have been a snowflake seen against the light, floating
at an immense distance in the background of my brain. It annoyed
me, and I shook my head to get rid of it. Then my brain
telegraphed that it was the forerunner of a swift-striding gloom
which there was yet time to escape if I would force my thoughts
away from it, as a man leaping for life forces his body forward
and away from the fall of a wall. But the gloom overtook me
before I could take in the meaning of the message. I moved toward
the bed, every nerve already aching with the foreknowledge of the
pain that was to be dealt it, and sat down, while my amazed and
angry soul dropped, gulf by gulf, into that horror of great
darkness which is spoken of in the Bible, and which, as
auctioneers say, must be experienced to be appreciated.

Despair upon despair, misery upon misery, fear after fear, each
causing their distinct and separate woe, packed in upon me for an
unrecorded length of time, until at last they blurred together,
and I heard a click in my brain like the click in the ear when
one descends in a diving bell, and I knew that the pressures were
equalised within and without, and that, for the moment, the worst
was at an end. But I knew also that at any moment the darkness
might come down anew; and while, I dwelt on this speculation
precisely as a man torments a raging tooth with his tongue, it
ebbed away into the little grey shadow on the brain of its first
coming, and once more I heard my brain, which knew what would
recur, telegraph to every quarter fox help, release or diversion.

The door opened, and M'Leod reappeared. I thanked him politely,
saying I was charmed with my room, anxious to meet Mrs. M'Leod,
much refreshed with my wash, and so on and so forth. Beyond a
little stickiness at the corners of my mouth, it seemed to me
that I was managing my words admirably; the while that I myself
cowered at the bottom of unclimbable pits. M'Leod laid his hand
on my shoulder, and said "You've got it now already, ain't it?"

"Yes," I answered. "It's making me sick!"

"It will pass off when you come outside. I give you my word it
will then pass off. Come!"

I shambled out behind him, and wiped my forehead in the hall.

"You musn't mind," he said. "I expect the run tired you. My good
lady is sitting there under the copper beech."

She was a fat woman in an apricot-coloured gown, with a heavily
powdered face, against which her black long-lashed eyes showed
like currants in dough. I was introduced to many fine ladies and
gentlemen of those parts. Magnificently appointed landaus and
covered motors swept in and out of the drive, and the air was gay
with the merry outcries of the tennis players.

As twilight drew on they all went away, and I was left alone with
Mr. and Mrs. M'Leod, while tall menservants and maidservants took
away the tennis and tea things. Miss M'Leod had walked a little
down the drive with a light-haired young man, who apparently knew
everything about every South American railway stock. He had told
me at tea that these were the days of financial specialisation.

"I think it went off beautifully, my dear," said Mr. M'Leod to
his wife; and to me: "You feel all right now, ain't it? Of course
you do."

Mrs. M'Leod surged across the gravel. Her husband skipped nimbly
before her into the south verandah, turned a switch, and all
Holmescroft was flooded with light.

"You can do that from your room also," he said as they went in.
"There is something in money, ain't it?"

Miss M'Leod came up behind me in the dusk. "We have not yet been
introduced," she said, "but I suppose you are staying the night?"

"Your father was kind enough to ask me," I replied.

She nodded. "Yes, I know; and you know too, don't you? I saw your
face when you came to shake hands with mamma. You felt the
depression very soon. It is simply frightful in that bedroom
sometimes. What do you think it is--bewitchment? In Greece, where
I was a little girl, it might have been; but not in England, do
you think? Or do you?"

"Cheer up, Thea. It will all come right," he insisted.

"No, papa." She shook her dark head. "Nothing is right while it
comes."

"It is nothing that we ourselves have ever done in our lives that
I will swear to you," said Mrs. M'Leod suddenly. "And we have
changed our servants several times. So we know it is not them."

"Never mind. Let us enjoy ourselves while we can," said Mr.
M'Leod, opening the champagne.

But we did not enjoy ourselves. The talk failed. There were long
silences.

"I beg your pardon," I said, for I thought some one at my elbow
was about to speak.

"Ah! That is the other thing!" said Miss M'Leod. Her mother
groaned.

We were silent again, and, in a few seconds it must have been, a
live grief beyond words--not ghostly dread or horror, but aching,
helpless grief--overwhelmed us, each, I felt, according to his or
her nature, and held steady like the beam of a burning glass.
Behind that pain I was conscious there was a desire on somebody's
part to explain something on which some tremendously important
issue hung.

Meantime I rolled bread pills and remembered my sins; M'Leod
considered his own reflection in a spoon; his wife seemed to be
praying, and the girl fidgetted desperately with hands and feet,
till the darkness passed on--as though the malignant rays of a
burning-glass had been shifted from us."

"There," said Miss M'Leod, half rising. "Now you see what makes a
happy home. Oh, sell it--sell it, father mine, and let us go
away!"

"But I've spent thousands on it. You shall go to Harrogate next
week, Thea dear."

"I'm only just back from hotels. I am so tired of packing."

"Cheer up, Thea. It is over. You know it does not often come here
twice in the same night. I think we shall dare now to be
comfortable."

He lifted a dish-cover, and helped his wife and daughter. His
face was lined and fallen like an old man's after debauch, but
his hand did not shake, and his voice was clear. As he worked to
restore us by speech and action, he reminded me of a grey-muzzled
collie herding demoralised sheep.

After dinner we sat round the dining-room fire the drawing-room
might have been under the Shadow for aught we knew talking with
the intimacy of gipsies by the wayside, or of wounded comparing
notes after a skirmish. By eleven o'clock the three between them
had given me every name and detail they could recall that in any
way bore on the house, and what they knew of its history.

We went to bed in a fortifying blaze of electric light. My one
fear was that the blasting gust of depression would return--the
surest way, of course, to bring it. I lay awake till dawn,
breathing quickly and sweating lightly, beneath what De Quincey
inadequately describes as "the oppression of inexpiable guilt."
Now as soon as the lovely day was broken, I fell into the most
terrible of all dreams--that joyous one in which all past evil
has not only been wiped out of our lives, but has never been
committed; and in the very bliss of our assured innocence, before
our loves shriek and change countenance, we wake to the day we
have earned.

It was a coolish morning, but we preferred to breakfast in the
south verandah. The forenoon we spent in the garden, pretending
to play games that come out of boxes, such as croquet and clock
golf. But most of the time we drew together and talked. The young
man who knew all about South American railways took Miss M'Leod
for a walk in the afternoon, and at five M'Leod thoughtfully
whirled us all up to dine in town.

"Now, don't say you will tell the Psychological Society, and that
you will come again," said Miss M'Leod, as we parted. "Because I
know you will not."

"You should not say that," said her mother. "You should say,
'Goodbye, Mr. Perseus. Come again.'"

"Not him!" the girl cried. "He has seen the Medusa's head!"

Looking at myself in the restaurant's mirrors, it seemed to me
that I had not much benefited by my week-end. Next morning I
wrote out all my Holmescroft notes at fullest length, in the hope
that by so doing I could put it all behind me. But the experience
worked on my mind, as they say certain imperfectly understood
rays work on the body.

I am less calculated to make a Sherlock Holmes than any man I
know, for I lack both method and patience, yet the idea of
following up the trouble to its source fascinated me. I had no
theory to go on, except a vague idea that I had come between two
poles of a discharge, and had taken a shock meant for some one
else. This was followed by a feeling of intense irritation. I
waited cautiously on myself, expecting to be overtaken by horror
of the supernatural, but my self persisted in being humanly
indignant, exactly as though it had been the victim of a
practical joke. It was in great pains and upheavals--that I felt
in every fibre but its dominant idea, to put it coarsely, was to
get back a bit of its own. By this I knew that I might go forward
if I could find the way.

After a few days it occurred to me to go to the office of Mr.
J.M.M. Baxter--the solicitor who had sold Holmescroft to M'Leod.
I explained I had some notion of buying the place. Would he act
for me in the matter ?

Mr. Baxter, a large, greyish, throaty-voiced man, showed no
enthusiasm. "I sold it to Mr. M'Leod," he said. "It 'ud scarcely
do for me to start on the running-down tack now. But I can
recommend--"

"I know he's asking an awful price," I interrupted, "and atop of
it he wants an extra thousand for what he calls your clean bill
of health."

Mr. Baxter sat up in his chair. I had all his attention.

"Your guarantee with the house. Don't you remember it?"

"Yes, yes. That no death had taken place in the house since it
was built: I remember perfectly."

He did not gulp as untrained men do when they lie, but his jaws
moved stickily, and his eyes, turning towards the deed boxes on
the wall, dulled. I counted seconds, one, two, three--one, two,
three up to ten. A man, I knew, can live through ages of mental
depression in that time.

"I remember perfectly." His mouth opened a little as though it
had tasted old bitterness.

"Of course that sort of thing doesn't appeal to me." I went on.
"I don't expect to buy a house free from death."

"Certainly not. No one does. But it was Mr. M'Leod's fancy--his
wife's rather, I believe; and since we could meet it--it was my
duty to my clients at whatever cost to my own feelings--to make
him pay."

"That's really why I came to you. I understood from him you knew
the place well."

"Oh, yes. Always did. It originally belonged to some connections
of mine."

"The Misses Moultrie, I suppose. How interesting! They must have
loved the place before the country round about was built up."

"They were very fond of it indeed."

"I don't wonder. So restful and sunny. I don't see how they could
have brought themselves to part with it."

Now it is one of the most constant peculiarities of the English
that in polite conversation--and I had striven to be polite--no
one ever does or sells anything for mere money's sake.

"Miss Agnes--the youngest--fell ill" (he spaced his words a
little), "and, as they were very much attached to each other,
that broke up the home."

"Naturally. I fancied it must have been something of that kind.
One doesn't associate the Staffordshire Moultries" (my Demon of
Irresponsibility at that instant created 'em), "with--with being
hard up."

"I don't know whether we're related to them," he answered
importantly. "We may be, for our branch of the family comes from
the Midlands."

I give this talk at length, because I am so proud of my first
attempt at detective work. When I left him, twenty minutes later,
with instructions to move against the owner of Holmescroft, with
a view to purchase, I was more bewildered than any Doctor Watson
at the opening of a story.

Why should a middle-aged solicitor turn plovers' egg colour and
drop his jaw when reminded of so innocent and festal a matter as
that no death had ever occurred in a house that he had sold? If I
knew my English vocabulary at all, the tone in which he said the
youngest sister "fell ill" meant that she had gone out of her
mind. That might explain his change of countenance, and it was
just possible that her demented influence still hung about
Holmescroft; but the rest was beyond me.

I was relieved when I reached M'Leod's City office, and could
tell him what I had done--not what I thought.

M'Leod was quite willing to enter into the game of the pretended
purchase, but did not see how it would help if I knew Baxter.

"He's the only living soul I can get at who was connected with
Holmescroft," I said.

"Ah! Living soul is good," said M'Leod. "At any rate our little
girl will be pleased that you are still interested in us. Won't
you come down some day this week?"

"How is it there now?" I asked.

He screwed up his face. "Simply frightful!" he said. "Thea is at
Droitwich."

"I should like it immensely, but I must cultivate Baxter for the
present. You'll be sure and keep him busy your end, won't you?"

He looked at me with quiet contempt. "Do not be afraid. I shall
be a good Jew. I shall be my own solicitor."

Before a fortnight was over, Baxter admitted ruefully that M'Leod
was better than most firms in the business: We buyers were coy,
argumentative, shocked at the price of Holmescroft, inquisitive,
and cold by turns, but Mr. M'Leod the seller easily met and
surpassed us; and Mr. Baxter entered every letter, telegram, and
consultation at the proper rates in a cinematograph-film of a
bill. At the end of a month he said it looked as though M'Leod,
thanks to him, were really going to listen to reason. I was many
pounds out of pocket, but I had learned something of Mr. Baxter
on the human side. I deserved it. Never in my life have I worked
to conciliate, amuse, and flatter a human being as I worked over
my solicitor.

It appeared that he golfed. Therefore, I was an enthusiastic
beginner, anxious to learn. Twice I invaded his office with a bag
(M'Leod lent it) full of the spelicans needed in this detestable
game, and a vocabulary to match. The third time the ice broke,
and Mr. Baxter took me to his links, quite ten miles off, where
in a maze of tramway lines, railroads, and nursery-maids, we
skelped our divotted way round nine holes like barges plunging
through head seas. He played vilely and had never expected to
meet any one worse; but as he realised my form, I think he began
to like me, for he took me in hand by the two hours together.
After a fortnight he could give me no more than a stroke a hole,
and when, with this allowance, I once managed to beat him by one,
he was honestly glad, and assured me that I should be a golfer if
I stuck to it. I was sticking to it for my own ends, but now and
again my conscience pricked me; for the man was a nice man.
Between games he supplied me with odd pieces of evidence, such as
that he had known the Moultries all his life, being their cousin,
and that Miss Mary, the eldest, was an unforgiving woman who
would never let bygones be. I naturally wondered what she might
have against him; and somehow connected him unfavourably with mad
Agnes.

"People ought to forgive and forget," he volunteered one day
between rounds. "Specially where, in the nature of things, they
can't be sure of their deductions. Don't you think so?"

"It all depends on the nature of the evidence on which one forms
one's judgment," I answered.

"Nonsense!" he cried. "I'm lawyer enough to know that there's
nothing in the world so misleading as circumstantial evidence.
Never was."

"Why? Have you ever seen men hanged on it?"

"Hanged? People have been supposed to be eternally lost on it,"
his face turned grey again. "I don't know how it is with you, but
my consolation is that God must know. He must! Things that seem
on the face of 'em like murder, or say suicide, may appear
different to God. Heh?"

"That's what the murderer and the suicide can always hope--I
suppose."

"I have expressed myself clumsily as usual. The facts as God
knows 'em--may be different--even after the most clinching
evidence. I've always said that--both as a lawyer and a man, but
some people won't--I don't want to judge 'em--we'll say they
can't--believe it; whereas I say there's always a working
chance--a certainty--that the worst hasn't happened." He stopped
and cleared his throat. "Now, let's come on! This time next week
I shall be taking my holiday."

"What links?" I asked carelessly, while twins in a perambulator
got out of our line of fire.

"A potty little nine-hole affair at a hydro in the Midlands. My
cousins stay there. Always will. Not but what the fourth and the
seventh holes take some doing. You could manage it, though," he
said encouragingly. "You're doing much better. It's only your
approach shots that are weak."

"You're right. I can't approach for nuts! I shall go to pieces
while you're away--with no one to coach me," I said mournfully.

"I haven't taught you anything," he said, delighted with the
compliment.

"I owe all I've learned to you, anyhow. When will you come back?"

"Look here," he began. "I don't know, your engagements, but I've
no one to play with at Burry Mills. Never have. Why couldn't you
take a few days off and join me there? I warn you it will be
rather dull. It's a throat and gout place-baths, massage,
electricity, and so forth. But the fourth and the seventh holes
really take some doing."

"I'm for the game," I answered valiantly; Heaven well knowing
that I hated every stroke and word of it.

"That's the proper spirit. As their lawyer I must ask you not to
say anything to my cousins about Holmescroft. It upsets 'em.
Always did. But speaking as man to man, it would be very pleasant
for me if you could see your way to--"

I saw it as soon as decency permitted, and thanked him sincerely.
According to my now well-developed theory he had certainly
misappropriated his aged cousins' monies under power of attorney,
and had probably driven poor Agnes Moultrie out of her wits, but
I wished that he was not so gentle, and good-tempered, and
innocent eyed.

Before I joined him at Burry Mills Hydro, I spent a night at
Holmescroft. Miss M'Leod had returned from her Hydro, and first
we made very merry on the open lawn in the sunshine over the
manners and customs of the English resorting to such places. She
knew dozens of hydros, and warned me how to behave in them, while
Mr. and Mrs. M'Leod stood aside and adored her.

"Ah! That's the way she always comes back to us," he said. "Pity
it wears off so soon, ain't it? You ought to hear her sing 'With
mirth thou pretty bird.'"

We had the house to face through the evening, and there we
neither laughed nor sung. The gloom fell on us as we entered, and
did not shift till ten o'clock, when we crawled out, as it were,
from beneath it.

"It has been bad this summer," said Mrs. M'Leod in a whisper
after we realised that we were freed. "Sometimes I think the
house will get up and cry out--it is so bad."

"How?"

"Have you forgotten what comes after the depression ?"

So then we waited about the small fire, and the dead air in the
room presently filled and pressed down upon us with the sensation
(but words are useless here) as though some dumb and bound power
were striving against gag and bond to deliver its soul of an
articulate word. It passed in a few minutes, and I fell to
thinking about Mr. Baxter's conscience and Agnes Moultrie, gone
mad in the well-lit bedroom that waited me. These reflections
secured me a night during which I rediscovered how, from purely
mental causes, a man can be physically sick; but the sickness was
bliss compared to my dreams when the birds waked. On my
departure, M'Leod gave me a beautiful narwhal's horn, much as a
nurse gives a child sweets for being brave at a dentist's.

"There's no duplicate of it in the world," he said, "else it
would have come to old Max M'Leod;" and he tucked it into the
motor. Miss M'Leod on the far side of the car whispered, "Have
you found out anything, Mr. Perseus?"

I shook my head.

"Then I shall be chained to my rock all my life," she went on.
"Only don't tell papa."

I supposed she was thinking of the young gentleman who
specialised in South American rails, for I noticed a ring on the
third finger of her left hand.

I went straight from that house to Burry Mills Hydro, keen for
the first time in my life on playing golf, which is guaranteed to
occupy the mind. Baxter had taken me a room communicating with
his own, and after lunch introduced me to a tall, horse-headed
elderly lady of decided manners, whom a white-haired maid pushed
along in a bath-chair through the park-like grounds of the Hydro.
She was Miss Mary Moultrie, and she coughed and cleared her
throat just like Baxter. She suffered--she told me it was a
Moultrie castemark--from some obscure form of chronic bronchitis,
complicated with spasm of the glottis; and, in a dead, flat
voice, with a sunken eye that looked and saw not, told me what
washes, gargles, pastilles, and inhalations she had proved most
beneficial. From her I was passed on to her younger sister, Miss
Elizabeth, a small and withered thing with twitching lips,
victim, she told me, to very much the same sort of throat, but
secretly devoted to another set of medicines. When she went away
with Baxter and the bath-chair, I fell across a major of the
Indian army with gout in his glassy eyes, and a stomach which he
had taken all round the Continent. He laid everything before me;
and him I escaped only to be confided in by a matron with a
tendency to follicular tonsilitis and eczema. Baxter waited hand
and foot on his cousins till five o'clock, trying, as I saw, to
atone for his treatment of the dead sister. Miss Mary ordered him
about like a dog.

"I warned you it would be dull," he said when we met in the
smoking-room.

"It's tremendously interesting," I said. "But how about a look
round the links?"

"Unluckily damp always affects my eldest cousin. I've got to buy
her a new bronchitis-kettle. Arthurs broke her old one
yesterday."

We slipped out to the chemist's shop in the town, and he bought a
large glittering tin thing whose workings he explained.

"I'm used to this sort of work. I come up here pretty often," he
said. "I've the family throat too."

"You're a good man," I said. "A very good man."

He turned towards me in the evening light among the beeches, and
his face was changed to what it might have been a generation
before.

"You see," he said huskily, "there was the youngest--Agnes.
Before she fell ill, you know. But she didn't like leaving her
sisters. Never would." He hurried on with his odd-shaped load and
left me among the ruins of my black theories. The man with that
face had done Agnes Moultrie no wrong.

We never played our game. I was waked between two and three in
the morning from my hygienic bed by Baxter in an ulster over
orange and white pyjamas, which I should never have suspected
from his character.

"My cousin has had some sort of a seizure," he said. "Will you
come? I don't want to wake the doctor. Don't want to make a
scandal. Quick!"

So I came quickly, and led by the white-haired Arthurs in a
jacket and petticoat, entered a double-bedded room reeking with
steam and Friar's Balsam. The electrics were all on. Miss Mary--I
knew her by her height--was at the open window, wrestling with
Miss Elizabeth, who gripped her round the knees.

Miss Mary's hand was at her own throat, which was streaked with
blood.

"She's done it. She's done it too!" Miss Elizabeth panted. "Hold
her! Help me!"

"Oh, I say! Women don't cut their throats," Baxter whispered.

"My God! Has she cut her throat?" the maid cried out, and with no
warning rolled over in a faint. Baxter pushed her under the
wash-basins, and leaped to hold the gaunt woman who crowed and
whistled as she struggled toward the window. He took her by the
shoulder, and she struck out wildly:

"All right! She's only cut her hand," he said. "Wet towel quick!"

While I got that he pushed her backward. Her strength seemed
almost as great as his. I swabbed at her throat when I could, and
found no mark; then helped him to control her a little. Miss
Elizabeth leaped back to bed, wailing like a child.

"Tie up her hand somehow," said Baxter. "Don't let it drip about
the place. She"--he stepped on broken glass in his slippers, "she
must have smashed a pane."

Miss Mary lurched towards the open window again, dropped on her
knees, her head on the sill, and lay quiet, surrendering the cut
hand to me.

"What did she do?" Baxter turned towards Miss Elizabeth in the
far bed.

"She was going to throw herself out of the window," was the
answer. "I stopped her, and sent Arthurs for you. Oh, we can
never hold up our heads again!"

Miss Mary writhed and fought for breath. Baxter found a shawl
which he threw over her shoulders.

"Nonsense!" said he. "That isn't like Mary;" but his face worked
when he said it.

"You wouldn't believe about Aggie, John. Perhaps you will now!"
said Miss Elizabeth. "I saw her do it, and she's cut her throat
too!"

"She hasn't," I said. "It's only her hand."

Miss Mary suddenly broke from us with an indescribable grunt,
flew, rather than ran, to her sister's bed, and there shook her
as one furious schoolgirl would shake another.

"No such thing," she croaked. "How dare you think so, you wicked
little fool?"

"Get into bed, Mary," said Baxter. "You'll catch a chill."

She obeyed, but sat up with the grey shawl round her lean
shoulders, glaring at her sister. "I'm better now," she panted. "
Arthurs let me sit out too long. Where's Arthurs? The kettle."

"Never mind Arthurs," said Baxter. "You get the kettle." I
hastened to bring it from the side table. "Now, Mary, as God sees
you, tell me what you've done."

His lips were dry, and he could not moisten. them with his
tongue.

Miss Mary applied herself to the mouth of the kettle, and between
indraws of steam said: "The spasm came on just now, while I was
asleep. I was nearly choking to death. So I went to the window
I've done it often before, without, waking any one. Bessie's such
an old maid about draughts. I tell you I was choking to death. I
couldn't manage the catch, and I nearly fell out. That window
opens too low. I cut my hand trying to save myself. Who has tied
it up in this filthy handkerchief? I wish you had had my throat,
Bessie. I never was nearer dying!" She scowled on us all
impartially, while her sister sobbed.

From the bottom of the bed we heard a quivering voice: "Is she
dead? Have they took her away? Oh, I never could bear the sight
o' blood!"

"Arthurs," said Miss Mary, "you are an hireling. Go away!"

It is my belief that Arthurs crawled out on all fours, but I was
busy picking up broken glass from the carpet.

Then Baxter, seated by the side of the bed, began to
cross-examine in a voice I scarcely recognised. No one could for
an instant have doubted the genuine rage of Miss Mary against her
sister, her cousin, or her maid; and that a doctor should have
been called in for she did me the honour of calling me
doctor--was the last drop. She was choking with her throat; had
rushed to the window for air; had near pitched out, and in
catching at the window bars had cut her hand. Over and over she
made this clear to the intent Baxter. Then she turned on her
sister and tongue-lashed her savagely.

"You mustn't blame me," Miss Bessie faltered at last. "You know
what we think of night and day.".

"I'm coming to that," said Baxter. "Listen to me. What you did,
Mary, misled four people into thinking you--you meant to do away
with yourself."

"Isn't one suicide in the family enough? Oh God, help and pity
us! You couldn't have believed that!" she cried.

"The evidence was complete. Now, don't you think," Baxter's
finger wagged under her nose--"can't you think that poor Aggie
did the same thing at Holmescroft when she fell out of the
window?"

"She had the same throat," said Miss Elizabeth. "Exactly the same
symptoms. Don't you remember, Mary?"

"Which was her bedroom?" I asked of Baxter in an undertone.

"Over the south verandah, looking on to the tennis lawn."

"I nearly fell out of that very window when I was at
Holmescroft--opening it to get some air. The sill doesn't come
much above your knees," I said.

"You hear that, Mary? Mary, do you hear What this gentleman says?
Won't you believe that what nearly happened to you must have
happened to poor Aggie that night? For God's sake--for her
sake--Mary, won't you believe?"

There was a long silence while the steam kettle puffed.

"If I could have proof--if I could have proof," said she, and
broke into most horrible tears.

Baxter motioned to me, and I crept away to my room, and lay awake
till morning, thinking more specially of the dumb Thing at
Holmescroft which wished to explain itself. I hated Miss Mary as
perfectly as though I had known her for twenty years, but I felt
that, alive or dead, I should not like her to condemn me.

Yet at mid-day, when I saw Miss Mary in her bathchair, Arthurs
behind and Baxter and Miss Elizabeth on either side, in the
park-like grounds of the Hydro, I found it difficult to arrange
my words.

"Now that you know all about it," said Baxter aside, after the
first strangeness of our meeting was over, "it's only fair to
tell you that my poor cousin did not die in Holmescroft at all.
She was dead when they found her under the window in the morning.
Just dead."

"Under that laburnum outside the window?" I asked, for I suddenly
remembered the crooked evil thing.

"Exactly. She broke the tree in falling. But no death has ever
taken place in the house, so far as we were concerned. You can
make yourself quite easy on that point. Mr. M'Leod's extra
thousand for what you called the 'clean bill of health' was
something toward my cousins' estate when we sold. It was my duty
as their lawyer to get it for them--at any cost to my own
feelings."

I know better than to argue when the English talk about their
duty. So I agreed with my solicitor.

"Their sister's death must have been a great blow to your
cousins," I went on. The bath-chair was behind me.

"Unspeakable," Baxter whispered. "They brooded on it day and
night. No wonder. If their theory of poor Aggie making away with
herself was correct, she was eternally lost!"

"Do you believe that she made away with herself?"

"No, thank God! Never have! And after what happened to Mary last
night, I see perfectly what happened to poor Aggie. She had the
family throat too. By the way, Mary thinks you are a doctor.
Otherwise she wouldn't like your having been in her room."

"Very good. Is she convinced now about her sister's death?"

"She'd give anything to be able to believe it, but she's a hard
woman, and brooding along certain lines makes one groovy. I have
sometimes been afraid of her reason--on the religious side, don't
you know. Elizabeth doesn't matter. Brain of a hen. Always had."

Here Arthurs summoned me to the bath-chair, and the ravaged face,
beneath its knitted Shetland wool hood, of Miss Mary Moultrie.

"I need not remind you, I hope, of the seal of secrecy--absolute
secrecy--in your profession," she began. "Thanks to my cousin's
and my sister's stupidity, you have found out " she blew her
nose.

"Please don't excite her, sir," said Arthurs at the back.

"But, my dear Miss Moultrie, I only know what I've seen, of
course, but it seems to me that what you thought was a tragedy in
your sister's case, turns out, on your own evidence, so to speak,
to have been an accident--a dreadfully sad one--but absolutely an
accident."

"Do you believe that too?" she cried. "Or are you only saying it
to comfort me?"

"I believe it from the bottom of my heart. Come down to
Holmescroft for an hour--for half an hour and satisfy yourself."

"Of what? You don't understand. I see the house every day-every
night. I am always there in spirit--waking or sleeping. I
couldn't face it in reality."

"But you must," I said. "If you go there in the spirit the
greater need for you to go there in the flesh. Go to your
sister's room once more, and see the window--I nearly fell out of
it myself. It's--it's awfully low and dangerous. That would
convince you," I pleaded.

"Yet Aggie had slept in that room for years," she interrupted.

"You've slept in your room here for a long time, haven't you? But
you nearly fell out of the window when you were choking."

"That is true. That is one thing true," she nodded. "And I might
have been killed as--perhaps Aggie was killed."

"In that case your own sister and cousin and maid would have said
you had committed suicide, Miss Moultrie. Come down to
Holmescroft, and go over the place just once."

"You are lying," she said quite quietly. "You don't want me to
come down to see a window. It is something else. I warn you we
are Evangelicals. We don't believe in prayers for the dead. 'As
the tree falls--'"

"Yes. I daresay. But you persist in thinking that your sister
committed suicide "

"No! No! I have always prayed that I might have misjudged her."

Arthurs at the bath-chair spoke up: "Oh, Miss Mary! you would
'ave it from the first that poor Miss Aggie 'ad made away with
herself; an', of course, Miss Bessie took the notion from you:
Only Master--Mister John stood out, -and--and I'd 'ave taken my
Bible oath you was making away with yourself last night."

Miss Mary leaned towards me, one finger on my sleeve.

"If going to Holmescroft kills me," she said, "you will have the
murder of a fellow-creature on your conscience for all eternity."

"I'll risk it," I answered. Remembering what torment the mere
reflection of her torments had cast on Holmescroft, and
remembering, above all, the dumb Thing that filled the house with
its desire to speak, I felt that there might be worse things.

Baxter was amazed at the proposed visit, but at a nod from that
terrible woman went off to make arrangements. Then I sent a
telegram to M'Leod bidding him and his vacate Holmescroft for
that afternoon. Miss Mary should be alone with her dead, as I had
been alone.

I expected untold trouble in transporting her, but to do her
justice, the promise given for the journey, she underwent it
without murmur, spasm, or unnecessary word. Miss Bessie, pressed
in a corner by the window, wept behind her veil, and from time to
time tried to take hold of her sister's hand. Baxter wrapped
himself in his newly found happiness as selfishly as a
bridegroom, for he sat still and smiled.

"So long as I know that Aggie didn't make away with herself," he
explained, "I tell you frankly I don't care what happened. She's
as hard as a rock--Mary. Always was. She won't die."

We led her out on to the platform like a blind woman, and so got
her into the fly. The half-hour crawl to Holmescroft was the most
racking experience of the day. M'Leod had obeyed my instructions.
There was no one visible in the house or the gardens; and the
front door stood open.

Miss Mary rose from beside her sister, stepped forth first, and
entered the hall.

"Come, Bessie," she cried.

"I daren't. Oh, I daren't."

"Come!" Her voice had altered. I felt Baxter start. "There's
nothing to be afraid of."

"Good heavens!" said Baxter. "She's running up the stairs. We'd
better follow."

"Let's wait below. She's going to the room."

We heard the door of the bedroom I knew open and shut, and we
waited in the lemon-coloured hall, heavy with the scent of
flowers.

"I've never been into it since it was sold," Baxter sighed. "What
a lovely, restful plate it is! Poor Aggie used to arrange the
flowers."

"Restful?" I began, but stopped of a sudden, for I felt all over
my bruised soul that Baxter was speaking truth. It was a light,
spacious, airy house, full of the sense of well-being and
peace--above all things, of peace. I ventured into the
dining-room where the thoughtful M'Leod's had left a small fire.
There was no terror there, present or lurking; and in the
drawing-room, which for good reasons we had never cared to enter,
the sun and the peace and the scent of the flowers worked
together as is fit in an inhabited house. When I returned to the
hall, Baxter was sweetly asleep on a couch, looking most unlike a
middle-aged solicitor who had spent a broken night with an
exacting cousin.

There was ample time for me to review it all--to felicitate
myself upon my magnificent acumen (barring some errors about
Baxter as a thief and possibly a murderer), before the door above
opened, and Baxter, evidently a light sleeper, sprang awake.

"I've had a heavenly little nap," he said, rubbing his eyes with
the backs of his hands like a child. "Good Lord! That's not their
step!"

But it was. I had never before been privileged to see the Shadow
turned backward on the dial--the years ripped bodily off poor
human shoulders--old sunken eyes filled and alight--harsh lips
moistened and human.

"John," Miss Mary called, " I know now. Aggie didn't do it!" and
"She didn't do it!" echoed Miss

"I did not think it wrong to say a prayer," Miss Mary continued.
"Not for her soul, but for our peace. Then I was convinced."

"Then we got conviction," the younger sister piped.

"We've misjudged poor Aggie, John. But I feel she knows now.
Wherever she is, she knows that we know she is guiltless."

"Yes, she knows. I felt it too," said Miss Elizabeth.,

"I never doubted," said John' Baxter, whose face was beautiful at
that hour. "Not from the first. Never have!"

"You never offered me proof, John. Now, thank God, it will not be
the same any more. I can think henceforward of Aggie without
sorrow." She tripped, absolutely tripped, across the hall. "What
ideas these Jews have of arranging furniture!" She spied me
behind a big Cloisonnee vase. "I've seen the window," she said
remotely. "You took a great risk in advising me to undertake such
a journey. However, as it turns out ... I forgive you, and I pray
you may never know what mental anguish means! Bessie! Look at
this peculiar piano! Do you suppose, Doctor, these people would
offer one tea? I miss mine."

"I will go and see," I said, and explored M'Leod's new-built
servants' wing. It was in the servants' hall that I unearthed the
M'Leod family, bursting with anxiety.

"Tea for three, quick," I said. "If you ask me any questions now,
I shall have a fit!" So Mrs. M'Leod got it, and I was butler,
amid murmured apologies from Baxter, still smiling and
self-absorbed, and the cold disapproval of Miss Mary, who thought
the pattern of the china vulgar. However, she ate well, and even
asked me whether I would not like a cup of tea for myself.

They went away in the twilight--the twilight that I had once
feared. They were going to an hotel in London to rest after the
fatigues of the day, and as their fly turned down the drive, I
capered on the door step, with the all-darkened house behind me.

Then I heard the uncertain feet of the M'Leods and bade them not
to turn on the lights, but to feel--to feel what I had done; for
the Shadow was gone, with the dumb desire in the air. They drew
short, but afterwards deeper, breaths, like bathers entering
chill water, separated one from the other, moved about the hall,
tiptoed upstairs, raced down, and then Miss M'Leod, and I believe
her mother, though she denies this, embraced me. I know M'Leod
did.

It was a disgraceful evening. To say we rioted through the house
is to put it mildly. We played a sort of Blind Man's Buff along
the darkest passages, in the unlighted drawing-room, and little
dining-room, calling cheerily to each other after each
exploration that here, and here, and here, the trouble-had
removed itself. We came up to the bedroom--mine for the night
again--and sat, the women on the bed, and we men on chairs,
drinking in blessed draughts of peace and comfort and cleanliness
of soul, while I told them my tale in full, and received fresh
praise, thanks, and blessings.

When the servants, returned from their day's outing, gave us a
supper of cold fried fish, M'Leod had sense enough to open no
wine. We had been practically drunk since nightfall, and grew
incoherent on water and milk.

"I like that Baxter," said M'Leod. "He's a sharp man. The death
wasn't in the house, but he ran it pretty close, ain't it?"

"And the joke of it is that he supposes I want to buy the place
from you," I said. "Are you selling?"

"Not for twice what I paid for it--now," said M'Leod. "I'll keep
you in furs all your life, but not our Holmescroft."

"No--never our Holmescroft," said Miss M'Leod. "We'll ask him
here on Tuesday, mamma." They squeezed each other's hands.

"Now tell me," said Mrs. M'Leod--"that tall one, I saw out of the
scullery window--did she tell you she was always here in the
spirit? I hate her. She made all this trouble. It was not her
house after she had sold it. What do you think?"

"I suppose," I answered, "she brooded over what she believed was
her sister's suicide night and day--she confessed she did--and
her thoughts being concentrated on this place, they felt like
a--like a burning glass."

"Burning glass is good," said M'Leod.

"I said it was like a light of blackness turned on us," cried the
girl, twiddling her ring. "That must have been when the tall one
thought worst about her sister and the house."

"Ah, the poor Aggie!" said Mrs. M'Leod. "The poor Aggie, trying
to tell every one it was not so! No wonder we felt Something
wished to say Something. Thea, Max, do you remember that night "

"We need not remember any more," M'Leod interrupted. "It is not
our trouble. They have told each other now."

"Do you think, then," said Miss M'Leod, "that those two, the
living ones, were actually told something--upstairs--in your in
the room?"

"I can't say. At any rate they were made happy, and they ate a
big tea afterwards. As your father says, it is not our trouble
any longer--thank God!"

"Amen!" said M'Leod. "Now, Thea, let us have some music after all
these months. 'With mirth, thou pretty bird,' ain't it? You ought
to hear that."

And in the half-lighted hall, Thea sang an old English song that
I had never heard before.

         With mirth, thou pretty bird, rejoice
         Thy Maker's praise enhanced;
         Lift up thy shrill and pleasant voice,
         Thy God is high advanced!
         Thy food before He did provide,
         And gives it in a fitting side,
         Wherewith be thou sufficed!
         Why shouldst thou now unpleasant be,
         Thy wrath against God venting,
         That He a little bird made thee,
         Thy silly head tormenting,
         Because He made thee not a man?
         Oh, Peace! He hath well thought thereon,
         Therewith be thou sufficed!



              THE RABBI'S SONG

         IF THOUGHT can reach to Heaven,
           On Heaven let it dwell,
         For fear that Thought be given
           Like power to reach to Hell.
         For fear the desolation
           And darkness of thy mind,
         Perplex an habitation
           Which thou hast left behind.

         Let nothing linger after--
           No whispering ghost remain,
         In wall, or beam, or rafter,
           Of any hate or pain:
         Cleanse and call home thy spirit,
           Deny her leave to cast,
         On aught thy heirs inherit,
           The shadow of her past.

         For think, in all thy sadness,
           What road our griefs may take;
         Whose brain reflect our madness,
           Or whom our terrors shake.
         For think, lest any languish
           By cause of thy distress
         The arrows of our anguish
           Fly farther than we guess.

          Our lives, our tears, as water,
           Are spilled upon the ground;
         God giveth no man quarter,
           Yet God a means hath found;
         Though faith and hope have vanished,
           And even love grows dim;
         A means whereby His banished
           Be not expelled from Him!




End of Project Gutenberg's Etext of Actions and Reactions by
Rudyard Kipling.

Colophon

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